Archive for modernist

An Old Hermit’s Song

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on March 27, 2015 by dc

Pleasure to him
Is a trouble dressed up
With nowhere to go,

An unexpected
Dance of disturbance

In a world where the dead
Have lost most of their meaning,

And the living
Are tickling fools.

The wrinkled idiot
In the corner of his brain

Reckons we are dealing with
The power of tormented scorpions,

A biblical mirage gone wrong.

I like to think he’s just restless,

A changeless whisper
Returning to life
As soon as panic sets in,

A turbulent thinker,

An old hermit’s song.

Mechanical Fires

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on December 18, 2013 by dc

They don’t want to be
Like open gutters,

The filth that washes out
In the rain,

A library of one sided stories
And regretful routines;

So they hide in their homes
And pour drinks down their sinks,

They pull out old memories
And try to colour them clearly,

Whisper mantras when they slump
And slowly tidy up their lives.

They store things in shoe boxes
And file them under their beds,

They try new foods
And flirt with strangers online,

Cry on Fridays
And wallow
All hollow

And wired,

The strange sizzle of pork fat
In mechanical fires.

Flights Of Fancy

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 8, 2013 by dc

They sit in containers
Watching horrors on repeat,

Castigating heroes
And blaming the weak.

They take daylight in slivers
And upload their fears

With bent flash drive fingers
And anger well steered

And snarled as they glare
Into transmission lights,

Into long, endless nights,
And long running fights,

Flights of fancy.

As children they hid in hedgerows
And whispered with torches,

All fairy tale innocence
And the drive of the naive,

They climbed trees till they bent,
Top heavy and craning,

Excited smiles growling,
Electric and wild,

They were bulbs bright and buzzing,
The rise of a sun.

Now the moon slowly takes them
Till the bile starts to run,

Till it trickles,
Then drizzles,
Then done.

Handfuls Of Snapshots

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 20, 2013 by dc

I don’t really remember
Those days anymore,

At best they’re just
Handfuls of snapshots,

Slender seconds of joy,
The kind that every
Now and then
Come to you in the shower,

Whispering their echoes;

And as for the longing,
It got left on that farm,

The one with the withered chickens
And the incessant rain,

The listless geese
And the terrible sandwiches.

Don’t get me wrong,

When all this ends,
You’ll be there in the slideshow,

But there won’t be any credits
And there’ll be
Happier things to focus on,

The smiles of my parents,
The day-glow faces
Of my friends,

And those two dogs
I once saw
Locked in coitus
In a car park,

Aroused, scared and confused,
Whimpering strange limericks,

Make of that
What you will.