Archive for british poetry

It’s Only Wednesday

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on December 1, 2021 by dc

When your homemade ceramics
Are just creative cries for help
And all the chips they collect
Sit like a scars on your body,

When your mudslide mind
Shifts a crevasse to your mouth
And then chatters like hoodlums
Sat in gangs around potholes,

When your toddlers name their fingers
After pigs from petting zoos
And find themselves crying
After trying to milk a cat,

When the mantle-piece antlers start swelling
And the fake polar bear rug begins bleeding,

Close your eyes and inhale all the rainfall,
Exhale demons and then pat-a-cake stress;

Let your wig wander west,
Pick words up off the floor,
Let your tongue loll post-screaming
And let those dolls stay undressed,

Flop yourself back to bliss
Somewhere soundproofed and dark,
Bend your dreams back together
And lick your slate clean.

You are not one hour ago,
You are the simple inhalations
And exhalations of now,
You are only this moment,

No one can find you
And you’ve got the biscuits,

They’re safe.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on November 9, 2021 by dc

Walking through the ruins
Of the past’s imagined future,
Echoes vie for vanishing air
And colours leak across lifetimes,

A luminous fog descends,
The sky dissolves into patterns,
And a landscape warped by erosive epochs
Slowly sucks on the sweet fallen debris.

Across a time-lapsed history
Cut and pasted by scholars,
Brows wrought like volcanoes,
Forever altered by every rumble,

I stand lost between a sulk and smile,
As I vanish into an endless sunset,
Left giddy by transitions
As every then becomes now.

Lost Child

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 23, 2021 by dc

There’s a man that looks like Jesus
Rubbing beeswax on the mausoleum doors,

A huge obelisk has uprooted a yew tree
And a skull has rolled under a bush.

Worms dance in the damp, disturbed soil
And birds flock for a feast,

As a lost child with stolen chocolate in his pockets,
Clasps it nervously till it slowly melts,

His raven black pupils dilating,
Soaking in the scene,

As his parents hunt the graveyard,
And all the ghosts wonder what happens next.

New Surname

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on October 10, 2021 by dc

I wasn’t sure, I simply vanished,

The air splashed wildly
And I was camouflaged by carpet,

As the truth slipped under the sofa
And rolled into a gyre of nothing.

Everything was snaking, colours morphed,

Radio chatter danced like shards of light
In dense morning forests,

The boiler hummed deep in thought,
Igniting odd monologues strickened by doubt,

The room breathed questions
And shrank on every inhalation,

Yuka plant leaves reached out for the window;

And you sat in the corner like a Hallmark card
Repeating the same old platitude,

Teetering on the edge of the mantlepiece,
With a new surname and a son that likes poetry.

Meanwhile at Bushworth Hall

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on May 31, 2021 by dc

Tired and struggling to focus properly,
Godfrey put down his tacky thriller,

Took away the two remaining checkers
From the drink stained Backgammon board

And stared at his chipped art deco clock,
It’s petulant hands always running ten minutes slow;

He took his pipe from his lounge jacket pocket,
Wandered unsteadily down the hall and opened the front door.

Outside the wind blew unrehearsed smoke rings through the mist,
Autumn’s leaves glided and left whispering vapour trails,

The neighbours’ dog Jeff practised howls at the moon,
As the sheep on the adjacent field shuffled further and further away,
And an owl hooted commas and the odd question mark.

As Godfrey took incessant puffs on his pipe,
Spitting odd bits of tobacco from the wet on his lips,
He knew deep down Alastair wasn’t returning,

His Hyundai i30 Fastback was still on the drive
But the words ‘JUST HAVE IT’ were written on the bonnet in shaving foam
And the keys were hung on a bent windscreen wiper.

He’d headed three miles home barefoot,

Addled on DMT and home-brewed rhubarb gin,
Cuts across his forehead from his arguments with the deer antlers
On the walls by the back door porch,

Hair wet from Godfrey’s broken bidet
And a torn shirt sleeve from the wrestling;

Alistair also lost a toe that night,
But at least he’d gained a friend.

The Table

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on March 24, 2021 by dc

I was happy to be sat at the table,

And when I was fed I felt overjoyed.

I knew I was privileged,

I doubted my worth enough
To know there were others
Far more deserving than I

As I tucked into the pie
And the dauphinoise potatoes.

There were moments I felt guilty,
I thought of those not here
And those who never were,

All my misdeeds and wrongdoings,
The moments of shame;

Then as I finished my main I looked around,

I saw plates left half eaten,
Pie crusts and vegetables left sauntering
Around white china landscapes,
Unloved and bereft.

I was happy when I left the table,

I ate all the food
But I stopped drinking half way through,

And the cake at the end
Was just me being polite,

I was needed back home.

There were adverts to watch.

Raising the Stakes

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 15, 2021 by dc

I’m like a dirty magazine
Stuck in bush,

Beaten to a bench
By a royal flush,

Rolling to the kerb
Like I’m marble dice,

Taken by the sight
Of a broken Christ.

Turn Towards Sleep

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 22, 2021 by dc

A fruitless contemplation
Instilled with desert flowers

And thirst.

The smell of salt in the sand,
A twisted sun griping
Above the horizon,

Old faces in the canyon rocks
Looking away disgusted,

Huffing their puff in the wind
As I crawl,

As I call out a dry cough
And turn towards sleep.

Nothing circles,
Nothing rattles,
Nothing creeps.

The Perfect Time to Talk

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 9, 2021 by dc

There’s no such thing
As the perfect time to talk,

Perfect words
Don’t need watches or clothes,

Sometimes they turn up drunk
And don’t even make sense;

Ideal moments
Don’t arrive when we decide,

Sometimes they miss the bus
And rust a bit

While they’re waiting
For the next one,

It’s ironic really.

Except you’re not listening
And the moment’s not right
For that kind of talking,

There’s a broken glass
In the dishwasher

And the post’s just arrived.

A New Curved Reflection

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 13, 2020 by dc

This subtle dystopia
All tilted and warped,

A new curved reflection
With vague changes and kinks,

Yellow signs daubed on walkways,
Parks taped off and abandoned,

Curling queues outside shops
And people waving from distance,

Closed pubs and empty roads,
Classic sit-com repeats on the TV
And a strange sense of stasis,

As a stuttered breeze
Breaths though this town.

We’re leaving all our loose change in pots
And forgetting routines,

The pavement outside our house
Sits quietly soaking the monochrome rain,

The sky spills from gutters,
Flickering shades of soot grey
Like an old worn out film,

Angry sirens and bird song
Melt in a huge, oily puddle;

In the back garden
The tree reaches and sings,

The grass hurries high
And sways happy in laughter,

The worms come up to shower,
Foxes forage through bins,
Badgers coo,

And every third night
We wake hunting for breath,
Wondering what to do.