Archive for british poet

You Can Have A Fry-Up When We Get Home

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 28, 2020 by dc

Those quaint old days
Stuttering down church lane,

The scent of yew trees and guilt
Mingling in the breeze,

A congregation gathering,
Bustling and honing their acts,

Parading their families
And perfecting their walks,

Cocksure strolling and small talk,
Piquant smiles and faint praise;

I’m playing with stones in my pocket,
Thinking about a late breakfast,

The fluffy well-cooked beans,
The hot pops of sizzling bacon,
The snap of a perfect sausage
And the dawn yellow egg yolks.

Then into the hall,

It’s all scuffled shoes and whispers,
Everything smells of buffed leather
Melted wax and the weekend perfumes
Of gliding wives and grandmothers,

Hushing and shh-ing for England,
As they shuffle to their seats,

Huddled quiet all waiting
For the vicar’s tales of death

and transcendence –

They stare at him intently
Like someone’s watching

And taking notes,

It’s one big interactive theatre
But the show’s so dull it hurts

And I’m shivering in a void
Of sleep-deprived echoes,

All distant excitations
Banded tight, impatiently waiting,

Rubbing dirt from my shoes
And itching my legs,

Rattling like collection coins
And questioning the penance,

Staring at a plastic Jesus
And dreaming about my breakfast.

Cat Battles

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

A dark, curdled alleyway
Melts out a yowled doom,

Tiny crying fireworks spinning,

Wild banshee gurgles,
Like Neanderthal tykes

Whining hellish laments,

A gnarled and broken aria,
All synthesised stabs

And flicked claws;

A snarling wind circling,
Blustered and fraught,

As a passing plane hums between battles.

The Dumb Down

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 8, 2020 by dc

After the PR sound-bites
Had bled their way
Into the listener’s skulls,

Just before the new single
From a clean shaven Mormon from Utah

And half an hour prior
To the scripted kisses and press shots,

We found out it’s been
The perfect week to eat seafood
On the promenade in Whitby

And that coffee after 4pm
Can lead to a sleepless night,

Rock music has a time and a place,
Skinny jeans are uncomfortable

And bananas are the perfect
Breakfast on the go;

Then a serious moment,

It’s abundantly clear that
We all want what’s best for anyone
Who believes in making things better,

There are no instant solutions
But there are a wide range of options
Right across the board,

And the fact of the matter is
•It’s going to take time
To truly examine and gauge

•The dire situation we all inherited
From the previous administration.

Let’s be absolutely open and honest
The message is very clear and simple

•There are no easy answers,

We want to clamp down on violence
And make our streets safe again,

We want to create opportunity
And improve the lives
Of millions of people,

We want to see this nation thrive,

But it’s really,
Really hard.

First Impressions

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on March 1, 2020 by dc

On his first day
He came in through
The wrong entrance,

Many of them never
Forgave him for that.

Had he turned out to be
Some kind of maverick,
Loose cannon or rebel,

Maybe his clumsy mistake
Could’ve been overlooked.

Unfortunately for Graham,
He worked in logistics
For a large biscuit distributor,

And sometimes
Wore sandals.

All Of A Quiver

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2020 by dc

There’s a tiny muscle
In my right thigh
Twitching,

It wants to take
The whole leg
With it,

Like a cult leader
Humming his mantra,

Wild eyed,
All of a quiver,

A politician
Electioneering,

An outstretched hand
Of frenzied hope,

A budding influencer,
A distraction,

Another flashlight
In the dark,

A spark that
Dreams of flames,

I sing and then
Pfft.

Asleep On Shiva’s Forehead

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 16, 2020 by dc

A half-finished
Glass of Rioja
And the remains of
Some crackers,

A creased book
On ‘Gods’,

The lines scatter
Then fade,

Just a single thought pops,

There are no temples
Free from snakes
In the netherworld.

Lost in calm around this time,

In the sweet post-dinner lull,

His head lolls,
Bobbing for apples,

Sat in his cloud,
Above his crumb chested kingdom,

Ten minutes ridding evil,
A slouched enlightenment
Unfurled,

Dozing but gently wired
To all movements,

His relaxed collapse
Is in touch with the room,

The news drifts a whisper,
He groans,

A voice calls him,
He burbles;

Half-deaf and humming transmissions,
He uses his whole body as an ear,

Before mumbling out
One last rummaged thought,

The snakes were always there.

Around The Round Table

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

Comfortably perched
On the squashed,
Breathless dreams of
Socialists and savages,

Around the round table,

Excitedly jigsawing thoughts
Into questionable sentences,

Sat with their dopplegangers,

All white slang and coke,
Blue jokes and ripe talk,

These post-free thinking individuals,
Trade wrinkled stories
Warped at source,

Morse code and multi-sided truths,
Bruised ballads composed
With blunt pencils and moans,

A twisted linguist’s
Dribbled drunk burp
And a new decree for all to hear,

Fake news – it’s fucking fake news!
Those facts are fake,
I know the score,

And in an instant
It’s come full circle
Like an old revolving door,

Around and round,
Around the round table
There’s a flaw.