Archive for dark poetry

Border Town

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 9, 2009 by dc

The whisky and the punching
Left me wheezing in a ditch
As the uncouth rattle of scooters
Lay rhythms through the village,

I remember the horses
Dancing in circles,
The comments of owls
And the ice cold winds
As they wafted across
My damp and bruised body,
Singing sweet songs
Of gin and confusion.

You don’t go table dancing with farmers,
You don’t shout out welsh rebel songs
In a rough border town
Or pepper your speech with violence and phlegm
To a yard of drunk strangers
Who fight for a living,

It used to be
People like me
Died at the hands
Of these troglodytes,

But these ditches they love me like family,
These stars they guide me home
And in time I will realise
I was born for this beating,

Born for the night fields
And border town violence,
Aggression spat random,
A queer cloud at dawn.

A Darkened Birth of Fright

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 10, 2009 by dc

A sky of sheeted ravens,
A void of deathly quiet,
Tonight the sights seem grave,

The endless bend of sycamores
Down lanes that smell of spunk,
Past the houses of children
Chicken scratched and toothless,

This is the conclusion,
A full stop that stinks of whisky,
A darkened birth of fright,

We were jokers till this moment,
The dead lie to our right.

A Beacon

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on January 11, 2009 by dc

Despised like the legends of avarice,
You are tobacco in the throat of a giant,
A horse in a coat of barbed wire,
An oak tree whose roots tickle land mines,
The ecstasy of betrayal made good.

You are the result of mistakes in a storm,
The horns of wild Vikings on coastlines,
The disgust of a huge mirror broken,
The stench of fresh bones in a forest fire burning,
A beacon of bleakness and greed.

On the Edge of a Derelict Town

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 23, 2008 by dc

Just my presence it seemed
Made you sit back and slump,
New days introduced
With a groan and a sigh,

Communication lay dead
Like a rat in an old wooden shed,
No words left to probe
Just eyes slowly dying

And the love we once had
Just an overgrown plot
Where the runner beans grew
And died unattended.

To think we were once
The two unworn coats
Hanging all happy
In a cloakroom of chance,

In a dusty pub swaying,
Hit by the sunlight,
A bright perfect moment
We could summon in seconds.

It could have been forever
Or at least beyond a life,
But on the edge of a derelict town
The signs are painted over,

The roads that guided strangers
Are split by furious weeds
And daylight is a mask
That drops in times of woe.

Too soon came the dark
And the sounds of walls falling,
The world it had left us,
We were nothing but cloth,

Ripped ragged remnants
From the sounds of a town
That once buzzed like a bee hive
But now whispered conclusions.

It’s the pain that we pay for
As scars replace smiles
And the stench of dead rats
Brings the hum of lonely flies,

We could have been forever
Or at least as long as that seems,
Now we’re nothing but wasteland,
A fear inside a dream.

A Black Night Collapse

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 4, 2008 by dc

Up a tree as the storm hit,
Floods of people scuttled home,
Worried looks were everywhere,
A hundred gods groaned,

Rain dropped down in sheets,
Buildings creaked and sighed,
Litter grappled the evening
In miniature whirlwinds,

There were widows screaming questions,
Dogs howling like coyotes
And children wailing
Like banshees confused,

Siege mentalities gripped
And the streets become rivers
As I saw from up high
A black night collapse,

Dreams visiting in waves,
Beauty snatched away in moments,
Regret a moving force,
Dark clouds tarring the sky,

A way to worry forever.

The Cellar

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 17, 2008 by dc

The skeletons are rattling,
There’s blood on the walls
And the ceiling’s on fire.

Release the hounds,
Uncage the vultures,
There are strangers with photographs
And skinny children that cry,

In the cellar there lie pictures
Of what the world once was,
There are rumours and conjectures
Men in boiler suits and masks,

Politicians wait for transcripts
But the truth is more than words.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 3, 2008 by dc

The fat faced boy
With beef between his teeth
Has a cry
Like an Indian grandmother
His shoulder snapped
From an overloaded luggage rack
On the early morning train,
Blood painting his face
With sickly horror.

The skyline outside
A hovering kestrel
Is electrified by pylon wires
And drops like spit
From the top
Of a tower block,
A single feather
Floating behind
Like a death hymn.

I stay forever calm,
Always the witness
Never the victim,
A key-scratched name
On a window,
A seat cushion faded by sun,
A marker pen tag
On a heater,
A coffee stain
Alone on a table.

Gasp your first
Morning breath
As it hangs
In the crisp winter air
And you will see me
Pulling the tears
From your eyes,
A body simply living on rhythms,
A possible curse
Or a dream without sleep,

I barely exist.