It’s Called ‘Weekend Percussion’

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 27, 2019 by dc

Bring the weekend percussion,

Kids jumping into hedgerows,

The whine of hot tyres
And their whistles of smoke,

Drunk teenage girls
Rewriting pop songs,

Wired dogs growling
As the pub sucks its struts
From the street;

The lemon-eyed gallivants
And tropical fruit cakes,

The funk of kicked bins,

Widows jukebox reminiscing,
Divorcees house-training cats,

A hurly-burly fragmentation,
A ripped chaotic sound collage

Of pumping moxie thumps,
Skunk smells and all you love

If you came not wanting much.

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The Laughing Fires

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 26, 2019 by dc

The laughing fires
And the trampled boxes,

Herculean lives
Built on stolen memoirs,

Ripe neglect
And a rustling breeze,

Freshly discarded
Pride,

The widowed clichés
Of addiction,

Fixations painted
On walls in the rain,

Tricks spent
In the gravel,

Puddles meeting
In shadows,

The veins of this city
Pulsing in flickers,

Bickering glooms
Spilling out.

Power

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 22, 2019 by dc

I used to hate
What I thought

I’d become
Back then,

Now I love it.

Ruptured

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 20, 2019 by dc

His background noise
Boomed louder and louder,

Skies bled and winds screamed,
The swaying trees deafened,

His sense was washed
Away with the rain,

And his sanity
Trickled behind;

Voices curdled
Into mischief,

Shadows itched
And colours followed,

Borrowed horrors
Spat out squalor

Mixed with sorry
Old tomorrows,

Built on shattered
Cusps of faith,

It was fate that led him here
And he never questioned why.

They’re Getting Angry At The Wrong Things

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on July 11, 2019 by dc

That corner of the pub
You always avoided,

The one where anger
Bubbled like the froth

On the pink faced workers pints
As they traded bile at lunch.

The place where the furniture
Sat at right angles,

Dirty pots piling high
As the volume increased,

All snuggled in filth
And crude banter.

It’s an antiques shop now,
Stuffed animals and trinkets

Sit where they sat,

Boxed fossils and clocks,
Dusty maps and pith helmets,

War medals and jackets,
Ornate mirrors slightly warped,

It’s a captivating place
But the carpet’s still stained.

A Butterfly Effect

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

A butterfly effect connected,

It stuck and sweated
Like a transdermal patch

Leaking its quick, sticky dose
With split seconds of laughter,

Detached from all reason,
Secreting and tweaking,

Before resting, unhinged.

Bubbles popped the world over,

An echo deafened
And crashed,

Rivers rose and seasons crumbled,
Buildings collapsed
And earthquakes rumbled,

As we fumbled for a reason,

We we’re shuddering,
A planet vibrating on its axis,

A wild reckoning;

I saw the ground come to life,

I touched my toes
For the first time in twelve years

Falling over,

Communities pulled together,
Learnt tales from each other
And sang histories shared,

There were countless deaths
But the loss became the answer,

Divisions faded in the toil,
Harmony fluttered from
The rubble and the waste,

New stories were told.

Far, far off in the distance,
In the matted stars of sleep,

Oblivious to all chaos,
Fattened by boredom,

Idly scavenging thoughts,

Sizzling eternities
And flickering flames,

Another sun burped
And a butterfly died.

An Oddity Dance

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 6, 2019 by dc

Those missing pieces
Hidden in pages
Once skimmed through,

Routines and the grind,

Succulent fruits tucked away
In the crags of the mind,

In the creases and folds.

A late night shock
Or sudden pop
Of live jigsawed beauty

Sliding into place,

Love’s grace magnified,
A mystery come to life,

An oddity dance,

A sweet serendipity

Crafted by chance.