Archive for british poetry

We Sleepwalk

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

We comment on this classless town
By dropping our trousers
And spilling our drinks,

We share stories
And rotate the marinated lies,

We gamble and groan at the moon,
Sing songs in dying languages
And fumble the truth.

We watch people pass through,
Pause then take flight,
We kiss their distance,

We rarely leave and rarely grieve,

We roll up our sleeves
And melt into the furniture,

We set up niche websites
Selling spent dreams and fallacies,

We catalogue rushed photographs
Into files on stolen laptops
And call them memories,

We slump into cushions
Humming hypnotic songs,

Drift into cat naps,
All necks stretched,
Mouths flapping,

Limbs with a mind
Of their own,
Roaming lost.

Sleepwalking we talk
Between doorways,

Ignorance hand in hand
With its peace,
A feast in our thoughts,

We stagger into contentment,
The stairwell, the kitchen,

A somnambulist’s frisson,
Marshmallows and
Songs from the ether,

The pan-piped fantasies
Of growing old slowly,

A Thomas Cole landscape,
An ambrosial existence;

A wizened tree on a hill,
A gentle walk with fresh fruit
Plucked from nowhere,

A white horse galloping,

A soft, looming fog,
The smell of autumn leaves,

A mountain goat,
A picnic,

And a huge concrete wall

Surrounding our breaths
As they rise.

The Mourning Rain

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on August 18, 2019 by dc

Thunder calls,
The mourning rain,

Autumn sings
Its subtle pains,

Worries sink into the ground,
Dissipating drowning sounds,

A stream of thoughts running away,
The stale smells, a passageway,

Naive and oh so cavalier,
As shadows fall you disappear

Into your borrowed dreams,
Stitched together from smithereens,

Worn out t-shirts and happenings,
Your disregard for the finer things,

You’re happiest when you roam alone,
Gliding over the cobblestones,

Staring up at the great unknown
As all those memories that died

Rise high and hook their fingers in the sky
Like fire flies electrified.

Wolf Pack

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 3, 2019 by dc

The cluttered filth
Of ravaged gutters,

Rusting raw under
The loose stampede

Of this city’s
Stray wolf pack,

The bankers and
The business creeps,

The parasites
And lads for hire,

The rotten ivy on
Brutal grey towers,

The monolithic monuments

That no-one can be arsed
To tear down,

Sickly smiling,

The littered rivers
Steady swelling,

Amidst the overwhelming forfeit
Of sacrificed justice,

Those tubthumping echoes,

A hindsight sat ripe,
All regret and insights

Into why we became.

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.

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.

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.

Last Year’s Haircut

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

He leant in with last year’s haircut,
Kissed her digital image convincingly
And relaxed into his script;

Truth is he just mouthed things,
He didn’t even bother with stagecraft,
He just ruffled his hair and smiled,

There’s a simple truth in laziness,

Improvising shame and ruthlessness,
Unapologetic foolishness,
Stumbling around all ludicrous

In another person’s dream.