Archive for manchester poet

The Possibilities Of Defeat

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on April 5, 2015 by dc

The spotlight fell,

He had a chance
To say something different,

An opportunity to sing
And hear others sing along;

It seemed like one of those
‘Just add water and stir’ moments,

Sweat glistened on his forehead
Like the promise of fame

Was lighting it’s hearth
And sidling in for the kill,

Hiding cackles
In the crackles
Of the fire,

Raising hackles,
Rattling shackles,
He was wired.

The crowd drew in breaths
And sat hungry,

But his first words were forced
And he choked,

His lips looked dry
And his eyes twitched,

He had the greatest speech
The crowd had ever heard,

But his tie sat all wonky
And his hair was absurd.

(It looked like a half destroyed ship
Rocking itself back to life
In a storm).

It was gone,
That one moment,
That sweet chance to shine.

He even asked for a re- take
As the live cameras climbed

Higher and higher
Till there was nothing but ceiling,

The old paintwork peeling
Above this new death.

Twisted

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on November 2, 2013 by dc

Thick autumn leaves
On the ground,

A crisp wayward carpet
Leading nowhere;

I stand under a street light
And count the ways
I’ve kidded myself,

Eased into simple fantasies
And joked with the truth,

I’ve sat in her arms,
Tickled insecurities
And whispered
To her till dawn.

I’ve been here before,

I’ve walked these
Cloned streets
And dreamt
That the rain
Was writing stories
At my feet,

Riddles to lead me
To your opening arms,

The place I feel peaceful
When thoughts
Just dissolve,

Far away from
The suited salesmen
Gathered round corners
Smoking bravado,

The hurried
Bustle and clatter
Of bar staff and waiters
Longing for quiet,

Miles from
The rumbling city buses
Transporting the unsteady
Home safe to their beds,

To their husbands
And wives,

To their lives
Sometimes twisted.

How I wish I was
Twisted with you.

Waiting For Brick Walls

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on September 30, 2013 by dc

We’re all just
Different definitions
Of the same thing,

Of the same words,

Of the same
Electric moments
Replicated.

We breath unsure,
Waiting for
The sky to fall
In pieces.

We don’t
Make up our minds
We just travel,

Waiting for brick walls,

Until we’re justified
We’re not the only ones,

Until we’re truly wrong,

Then the whispers multiply
And we’re gone.

Glade Plug-In

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 23, 2012 by dc

Her life was like
A glade plug-in,

A smell masking
All her paranoia
And doubt,

A flowery bloom
Cloaking all fears,

A breezy invasion
Of faked joy
And wonder.

2011

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 31, 2011 by dc

Dark clouds hung low,
Handles fell off
Fatigued briefcases
And brogues
Were torn from their soles.

The despot bogeymen
Who once saw their faces
In cafes and palaces,
Became the dried blood graffiti
On huge fallen walls.

We held onto anger
Like loose change
And past wounds,
Taking in excuses
With saline
Through tubes.

Worry not.

In a pub somewhere now
There’s a genius lurking
With a plan
To save all of our souls.

Bleating Sheep

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 14, 2011 by dc

The boiler
And the persistent winds
Tell us,
Speak,
Speak!

The boiler
And the persistent winds
They tell us,
Sleep.

Memories Are Smoke

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

Memories are smoke
The soft looping dance of lost
A drift never caught

Bleak Tea Party Faux-Pas

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

And so it came to pass
That we were the fools,

For we thought
There was a reason,

A set of guidelines,
Standard rules.

But when the oceans
Start to burn

And the clouds
Turn into fists,

The only thing
Worth Knowing

Is that these biscuits
Taste of piss.

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,

Explanations
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,

Spared
And never grave

Again.

Number 42

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

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

She made love to chaos,

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

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,

There’s
A loose copper pipe
In her chinked tickled brain

And if the price
Rises higher she’s selling.