Archive for August, 2015

For Sale

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on August 24, 2015 by dc

Upside down sofa for sale,

An artist’s impression
Of a Polaroid photo,

A serious joke,

Owned by a weird couple
Who live in a strange house,

A smoke and pet strewn home
Haunted by furniture.

Collection only.

My Fridge

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on August 22, 2015 by dc

Late at night
My fridge talks to me,

It’s afraid
Of the future,

We’ve been through
So much together

And it’s heard whispers
I’m on the look out

For new comrades
And affiliates,

New confidants,
Fresh stock.

It gently gurgles tears,
Shudders sadly and gripes

As I sit drinking tea,
Shopping online;

It knows things,
Things I’ve done,

People I’ve wronged
And the lies that I’ve leaked,

It’s got dirt,
It knows what I get up to

Late at night
When I’m feeling low,

And it’s a tittle-tattler,
It never stays quiet,

It keeps the truth fresh,
Cold on the tongue,

It’s a witness in waiting,
A caged bird with songs.

Collars Up

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on August 6, 2015 by dc

Everyone’s making cheese
Freckled with fiction
And stolen personalities,

Collars are up for the weekend,
There’s a songbook for idiots
And a handshake for the poor,

Bitter aspirations are popping
Like filched Prosecco bubbles
Fizzing wildly as the sun sets,

Cheap labour smiles all crooked
Serving fillet steaks and fries
In broken English

And en masse on the lawns,
All banter and mythology
The chosen circle themselves and feast.

Everyone’s wearing chinos,
There’s a tide of vermillion,
Great Britain’s red and rustling,

There are silver spoons rattling,
Hoorays to the hillsides
And to yacht shoes well buffed,

There’s enough gush
You could drown here
Or curl up and slowly die,

We were led here by sycophants
And their whistled songs
Now cry.

From Next Door

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on August 1, 2015 by dc

A dog whinnies
And the sad laughter
From next door
Wafts humiliation,

All stark
In the darkness
And broken,

In the background
A grandmother
Walks in circles,
The stereo grinds to a halt;

Their patio doors
Slide like an autopsy blade
And all that’s left

Is a muffled collapse,
A rhythm of steps
And the mightiest sound
Still unnamed.