Archive for manchester culture

An Awkwardness Frozen

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 4, 2011 by dc

So cold like a whisper
Through a shroud
Or the touch of a branch
As you enter a forest,
A scratch
Down the neck,
A tingle as the breeze
Tickles blood.

Ah you, yes you,
The Post-Thatcher mean streak,
The rainbow of blues
And an awkwardness frozen,
A face fattened by wealth
And dogged with spite,
A rainfall that scars,
A sweetness pretending.

Suspicions like the leaves
On slowly browning trees,
Autumnal hatred
Falling and scattered,
You are a single bead
Of sadness expanded,
But to pity you
Is senseless.

Where some have come
To plead approval,
You disband
Rays of hope,
Your head
Turned eastwards just slightly
The clichés of snobbery
Spinning.

Like a wave of heavy crows
Blanketing the sky
You are the horrors of pithy
Exploded,
Your lies are like whispers
At sparse, hollow funerals,
Your eyes are the grumbles
Of spite.

Poetry.net

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The Ritz

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 24, 2010 by dc

It was better
When all you could smell
Was smoke and spilt beer,
Wet mouths and stale clothes
Alive in the fog,

All we get now
Are a thousand spoilt thoughts,

Your hygiene’s a mess
And your arsehole’s on fire.

Poetry.net

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.

Poetry.net

The Lads From There

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 17, 2010 by dc

They invented
Speech impediments
For themselves,

Wore their jeans
Like black prisoners

And styled their hair like
1970’s ‘put a foot in’ merchants,

The kind you’d see
In a ‘Nottingham Forest Forever’
Stocking filler DVD.

I digress.

They sang in cellars
Like lyrical funfair folk,

Wrote postcards to strangers
And broke guitars with their whooping,

They carried shurikens in gym sacks
And howled at the moon,

Punched tramps for a giggle
And stole all they ate.

They were itchy with misery
And bored like the sun,

Grans called them wicked,
They were cursed some would say,

But I like to think
They were pickled,
It’s somehow sweeter that way.

Poetry.net

Nature’s Mistakes

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on November 21, 2009 by dc

Like a winter tree
Straining for the sky,
Looking for signs
Of a returning sun.

You are days
From breaking,
Hours from creaking
and minutes from rainfall.

Oh, the mistakes.

Poetry.net

They Chattered Hatred

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 30, 2009 by dc

They chattered hatred,
It wasn’t paranoia,
You could smell it in their hair,
Burnt toffee and smoke,

I stood on the periphery,
Another unexplored argument,
Awkward with shame
And dizzy with doubt,

I was one of them once.

Poetry.net

A Box of Soft Sheep’s Wool

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

My hands were stuck deep
In a box of soft sheep’s wool,

As I stood in the mill
Soaking its history
And dreaming
Of a Kendall Mint Cake
Conclusion
To my day out
Studying yesteryear.

I hoped it would be like that
Forever,

Not a worry
In the world,
A softness surrounding
Everything I touched,
A calmness
Slowly reigning supreme.

When we were children
We were told times were golden,
So we spat out and wrestled
All logic to the ground,

It was said our fresh minds
Could accomplish any dream,
The world was ours for the taking,
If we thought it all made sense,

We were benchmarked for big things,
(Well, some of us were),
We were let out of cages
And prayed for,

We were children of ego,
It mattered not if we were evil,
We were seagulls in flight,
We were capable of anything.

Look at us now,
Nothing has changed,
We kiss on the sky like it could fall any second,
We reckon this means we are still young.

Poetry.net