Archive for the Poetry Category

Can Arachnids Worry?

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 23, 2020 by dc

A finger caught in a web,
Just gently pulsing,

A simple throb;

At the arch of the door
The spider surveys,

Curious but unsure,

It scuttles then wavers,
Retreats then hesitates,

This hasn’t happened before,
Can arachnids worry?

The next motion is a shudder
And he’s spinning towards the floor,

There’s flinch and a yelp,

Every silky strand snaps,
The hallway’s a blur,

A week’s work collapses
Into nothing but fluff.

Can arachnids feel despondent?

It must be tough in all that gloom.

Peel Away

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 22, 2020 by dc

Her dark violet eyes
Stare out the window,

There’s a fuzz on the ocean today,
Echoes are now tides,

The coastal roads wind
And they’re bumpy sometimes.

She stands in a black dress,
Hair cotton white,
Legs shaved,
Talking like a trucker,

The kind of strident that steadies;

Old acid queen dreams
From the Haight Ashbury scene,
Shotguns and drug busts
From the land of the gold rush,

Chimeric onstage provocations
With Lewis Carroll flutterings.

She can draw a white rabbit blindfolded,
The bohemian who defined a generation
Has a brush behind her ear,

Drunk wives phone for advice
As paint dries and waves lap,

Shells rattling in soft percussion,
One tap at a time,

One man, one car, one house,
One child, one job, one voice,
No more multi-tasking;

Cymbals shiver, a bass drum thumps,
Odd memories pulse

Then peel away.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on May 18, 2020 by dc

Everyone is quiet,

Hunkered down,

No-ones left
Their houses
For days,

People are blanking
The news,

No rumours,

Just sounds
And the odd thought,

What happens to
Perpetual machines
If no-one cares
When they start to fall apart?


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on May 11, 2020 by dc

Piss wet and wild
In a heavy liquid
Called ‘Kill Yourself’,

Writhing in shiny silver briefs,

He arches his back
And contorts his body,

Sweat and blood shimmering
On his sinewy torso,

Wounds sealed with gaffer tape,

Crazy eyes framed
In smudged raccoon eyeliner,

A robotic wig of foil strips
Refracting the light.

The band heave out
Heavy drones behind him,
A rhythm that taunts,

Amps pipe the din
Of hurled beer bottles
Breaking against guitar strings,

Violence fingers glory
As mayhem daubs its tag

And spit flies;

They can hear this
All the way downtown,

He’s no longer a man,
He’s a chorus.

West Hollywood, Late 1972

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 9, 2020 by dc

His hair’s thick
Like the flap
Of corduroy flares,

The back of
A black llama’s neck,

A horse’s whipped tail
Or an old velvet drape.

His smile is an ache,
A chiselled curl,

The light patch
On a leather couch,

And the warm spot
In an old saloon
Slicing dusty sun.

His voice is an interruption,
A ramble torn wild,

Cogs twisted
And splintered,

Rattling rocks and rust,
Lubricated by
Whisky and rain,

Then fermented.

Not For All The Lager In Wrexham

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 7, 2020 by dc

I will not change my mind
On all the things that I hold dear,

Not for all the lager in Wrexham,

I’ve learnt from my lessons,

I trust and love without fear,

I’m not the flotsam and jetsam
Floating and rolling like tears,

Cluttering stuttered emotions
Year after cyclical year,

Nearing nothing
But that that same old park bench,

Head stooped,

Muscles clenched;

I fizz when I need to
And keep my thirst quenched.

The New Aloof

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 18, 2020 by dc

Paranoia leaks
Into hushed rumours
And bent intrigue,

People panic buy
And keep a close eye
On their favourite things,

Social media is awash
With repetitive self-help guides,
Viral videos and the kind of

Simple horrors you’d expect
In unexpected times;

Even the futurists are running scared,

And the best developers know
There’s no true algorithm

To predict a return to
Our daily routines
And the next normal.

Kitchen cupboards strain,
Fridges swell,

Everyone’s looking for someone
Or something to blame,

Every wheeze brings a query,
Every headache a quiver,

Old folk can’t stop wandering,
Teens keep on huddling in parks,
Everybody’s jogging,

Snitches buzz the hotlines,

Neighbours mutter in bursts
As they stare across the street

Whilst clapping for the NHS,
Aggressively belting
Their pots and their pans;

There’s a voice sat
On everyone’s shoulder,

Suspicion and worry
Are the new unwelcome lodgers
In everybody’s homes.

There are songs
On Tuesday lunchtimes

Because the bar’s already open
And strange times bring early thirsts,

Old stories flow
And they’re funny at first,

Minds drift and
Reminiscing hits its peak,

There’s a rustle and then a silence
Throughout a million front rooms
Whenever politics rears its head,

No one’s talking about Brexit,
Politicians look bemused,

Sweat glistening for the cameras,
Fluffing lines and shunning boos.

By the third week
Everyone’s crying about pubs,
Gigs and restaurants,

Desperately searching
For funny videos and memes
To brighten the mood,

Pockets of love bloom,
Wildlife flourishes

And the internet coos
Over photos of dolphins
Returning to Venice,

Every screen has a cat on it,

Air pollution drops,
Blossom bursts,

Pop stars queue up
To embarrass themselves,

The super-rich turn to ghosts
And the low paid become heroes.

In the echo of post truth,

This dark comedy,
The new aloof,

Seven and a half billion people
More distant than ever before,

Everything just a number,
Without any real score,

Socially distant,
Persistent but flawed,

We’ve been here before

But this time it’s not war.