Archive for free verse poem

Remember When We Were All Fresh?

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 18, 2011 by dc

They took the toy out the box,
The jeep from the car lot,

They woke up with bed hair,
Chipped nails and pale skin,

The salon was a distant memory.

And now we’re here
With a filing cabinet
No-one will ever use,

And dirty palms,

A nasty taste
In the back
Of our mouths,

Sniffing on optimism
Like the desperate
And sweaty,

Alone with our
Crossed fingers
And daydreams.

We are briefly ghosts
Let loose on dead shipyards,
The scent of sea salt heightened
And the knots of something hollow,

Were it not for the hope
We breed in our nightmares,
We could easily just drift away

And laugh
Across the waves,

And never grave


The Fop

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on November 10, 2011 by dc

There was always
Something sweet
About your doggerel,

The pancake flatulence
Shaping words in a pan,

The hand
Of a 17th century fop,
Lost on a battlefield
Squirting perfume
On corpses.

A never planned
Guessing game,
A bad wallpaper smile,

You had style,
A thousand words,
Scissors and glue,
The curdled hope
Of a poet
And fool.

Too soon
Second guessed,
But with eyes
Diamond mined,

And your cufflinks,


To see them shine
Was a rhyme forgotten,
A million glimmering angels
Tracing jewels into hillsides
And spitting out
Silver clouds.

You are the long gone
One sun

And the irony
Was never lost
On me,

Your story
Is the sunlight
Through curtains
That dance.

Number 42

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 26, 2011 by dc

She always had
A teabag
In her ashtray,
By cigarette stubs,

She made love to chaos,

She had a tattoo
On her kneecap
And a birth-marked

In her scorched hands
Lay comedy’s tricks
And she played them
One by one,
Dry as bones;

A life of grim times
In a three minute song,

A history of woe
In a wink.

In a cathedral nearby
They prayed for her type

But her type
Had no real need for prayers,

Watch her rest
After tales
And she’d tell you,

A loose copper pipe
In her chinked tickled brain

And if the price
Rises higher she’s selling.

Vikings and Witches

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 6, 2011 by dc

Blood lust in their hot breath
Like Canute all twisted,
They come with their crow bars,
A donkey-eyed coldness
And bull nostrilled swagger,

Businessmen shiver,
Bright lights are dimmed,
Brakes screech and whistle,
Tempers and smoke rise,

For the moment,
Terrorist threats
Distance themselves
And the ants that remained
From the poured boiling water
Rise up like sick smells
From bin bags and gutters,
Antennae uplifted
By the rot of a city.

Rumours spread
Like salted dust on the wind,
Invading in pockets
Like Vikings in sportswear,
They blend with the neon,
Arriving as fear falls.

It’s a new twisted culture,
Like a gypsy’s sweet fingers
Floating through pockets
In a sweet coastal town
Where the lively bats gather
Before the midnight church bells
Swing their clanging alarms
And the night moves its darkness
With decaying aromas.

It’s a problem they’ve spoke of
For centuries now
And maybe it’s time we changed
How we see things.

The witches who died here
Long after floating
Like everyone does
Had no chance to argue,
No words they could air
That might inspire us right now,

We are ruined by gossip,
The magnified chatter
Of tabloid expression
And the piss wet digressions
Of old angry men
Leant on crumbling bars,

Far away from the real world,
Piece feeding hysteria.

It’s a shame that those witches
Weren’t left to just shine,
They weren’t even witches
Most of the time.

Head High

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 8, 2011 by dc

Head high to the stars
And the rooftops will hold you
Closer than never before,

Let the black cloud your eyes,
Knock on the door,
Jump in and before
Someone speaks

Shout your name,
Call for rain
And proclaim
You have dreams

That could
Cover the sky.

Perpetual Yawning

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 6, 2010 by dc

With faces
Of perpetual yawning
You will see them,
Gathered at mediocre sporting events,
Behind the grey railings
In high-waisted trousers,
With bed hair
Cloaking their frowns,

Sat with less charisma
Than a reflection ignored
On a broken TV,

Wetter than a dish-cloth,
Hollow like a beach ball
Lost in the rain,

Just like you on a Tuesday.

A Monument

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 28, 2010 by dc

As yesteryear echoes
And the mouths of fat infants
Scream fashionable cries,
A cuddly granny
Throws seeds at the gulls,
A war veteran tuts
And a dog causes mayhem.

It’s an old seaside town,
Scummy round the edges,
A postcard found behind a cooker,
Piss puddled tunnels
Feeding withering pubs,
Cracked B&B’s
That stink of stale loathing.

It’s a monument
To letting it go,
As ageing strippers
Eat chips on the beachfront
And shiver,
Dark holes instead of eyes,
Teenagers spitting slang
At their feet,
Butchers grumbling nearby.

They said it would never fade,
A jewel in the crown of the south,
Now it just growls at the waves,
Moans at the sky
And sinks under chipped paint,
Beach balls long since deflated,
Bulldozers dreaming.