Archive for December, 2019

That Pen

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on December 28, 2019 by dc

Trapped on a chair,

Staring at a square of nothing,

That pen you keep
Is the spark of madness,

The dust on your sideboard
An abstract plain where

The white takes to shapes
And the shapes turn to colours,

The quiet of night coalescing
In the back of your mind

As ideas run wet
And feed rivers –

How it works doesn’t matter
As much as the need that it must;

Voices and patterns,
Swaying and cooing,

Twisted stories and songs,
Fragile glory and hope,

A golden scatter unmined
As rhymes hook and bend,

Swathes of rich trickery
And hues shone electric,

An abundance all slathered,
Ripe and alive.

A New Christmas

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 25, 2019 by dc

A tiny proclamation,

A blink wrinkled in a pocket,

A cosmological oddity
Born in a collapsing star,

Spun through a facsimile
Of shining abstractions,

Drifting with zero friction,
Thinking without a thought.

A spontaneous hollow
Spawning raw

Tickling inwards
Then looping,

All casual chaos
And purled gravity.

A membrane floating
Through the cracks
Of dimensional shifts,

A meandering fervour
Falling through darkness,

Into the sweet spot where space
Wraps in on itself with a sigh;

Every single new boom
Has now started.

Based On A True Story

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on December 13, 2019 by dc

In the corner of an old
Dilapidated mansion,
Two dusty mammals
Farted a thought into a jar,

They added spittle and pubes,
Skin cells and
Sunday roast meat cuts,
Then screwed the lid shut.

Nine months later,
Ripe with mould and strange spores
It was ready to wobble
And coagulate,

The large dirty jar
Could hold it no more,
It was born on a table,
Laid out for just one,

It wriggled and winked,
Fumbled and strayed,
It stained all the linen
And roamed round the fruit bowl,

It emanated
Stuttered grumbles,
Guttural pops and loosened burps,
Squelching as it evolved.

Keepers came to watch it,
They whispered ideas
And trained it to move
And gesticulate,

They rolled the pink blob
Through a mound of fine cloth,
Whispered mantras in Latin
And taught it to talk,

They gave it anything it desired,
They plumped all its pillows
And said they loved all
Its drawings and endless random questions.

Its childhood was a painting,
Its adolescence was a film,
Its twenties spawned a dozen kids
And its thirties spoke of doom,

By its forties it was destined
To shuffle to the top,
And now its fifties sing the hollowed croon
Of a mistake we cannot stop;

And it’s only now we ruminate,
Sat underneath a painting
Of that old nameless mansion
And the creations it used to house,

Powerless by request,
Confused and all full of regret,
Fretting over the future
As we shift like silhouettes,

We connect and rhyme in shifts,
Drift then slowly moan,
Waiting for the next jar
To steal the old blob’s throne.

The New Righteous Lesson

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on December 7, 2019 by dc

Binoculars shiver,
Breath fogs,

A mess of nature
Scrawls disorder,

The landscape weaves

And hillsides
Career into night.

Alien visions
Tiptoe on chaos,

The sky wavers
And shapes shift,

We count voices,
Measure the mood

And relax into turmoil.

Tree trunks drip with piss
As birds nest,

Fear clasps adrenaline,

Sweat steams
It’s silent bravado

And a hush creaks
Mist whispers;

We breath in then swallow,

Humming like dowsing forks
To the rain,

The new righteous lesson,

A message from those
Far more mighty,

A swan song
For troublesome teens.