Archive for November, 2014

Your Beard

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on November 28, 2014 by dc

People have stopped
Talking about your beard,

They’ve moved onto
Bigger things

Like business rates
And apprenticeships.

They’ve started discussing
Brownie recipes,

Mergers and acquisitions

And the time it would take to
Skin a rabbit in a jungle

With a very basic
Grasp of butchery
And zero guidance.

There’s a silence
When you start to list

All the trainers
You’ve bought since 1992

And the best
Talking Heads singles
In chronological order;

They’re more interested
In herbal teas
And the future of SEO.

There’s some heated opinion
On British graffiti
And the best bars in Berlin,

Everyone likes Mexican street food,

Everyone hates crocs,

And they’ve all tried
To flirt with the waitress;

But no-one’s
Talking about your beard now,

As feet start to shuffle,

And you’re left
All alone
With the bill.

Wild Birds

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on November 26, 2014 by dc

I don’t want
To say goodnight

Or farewell,

I’m not finished
Worrying and

The words

I’ve scattered
Across hours

And seen flutter
Like birds,

Flapping into grey skies

No longer trapped
In a thought,

Or caught in a pause

Where ancestors

For the freedom
To say
The things
Once unsaid,

Or at least
Something shocking;

Then I remember my bed,

Dizzy from thinking
Of a thousand wild birds,

A flock of noise rising
And the things left unheard.

Armchair Critic

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on November 18, 2014 by dc

In his insignificance,

A dance of oft repeated whispers
And metered diatribes

Muttered loudly
To no one,

This man has it all;

The repartee
And the put downs,

The wry grin
And the eyebrow all arched,

He is mighty alone,

A cloud wildly drizzling,

A tongue as quick as a microwave
And a brain plugged in
Gently sizzling.

Dreamer Gone

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on November 7, 2014 by dc

I hear the mock disgust
In your tone,

The spittle in the corners
Of your brain bubbling,

A tart marmalade spread
On fatigued jealousy.

You are nothing
But a wooden bench
In a run-down launderette,

The warmth left
By huge tired buttocks,

A tiny line of sweat
Gleaming as the sun sets
Through boredom

And the knobs on the old machines
Tick like tutting veterans

Peeved and all alone.

I hear your phone
Rings very rarely

Because of all
The bile you’ve blown.

Plush Hatred

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on November 4, 2014 by dc

No one ever knew
They hated each other,

It was sinister and hushed,

They whispered
Plush hatred

And danced through the dust.