Archive for new poem

Mistigris

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on November 9, 2021 by dc

Walking through the ruins
Of the past’s imagined future,
Echoes vie for vanishing air
And colours leak across lifetimes,

A luminous fog descends,
The sky dissolves into patterns,
And a landscape warped by erosive epochs
Slowly sucks on the sweet fallen debris.

Across a time-lapsed history
Cut and pasted by scholars,
Brows wrought like volcanoes,
Forever altered by every rumble,

I stand lost between a sulk and smile,
As I vanish into an endless sunset,
Left giddy by transitions
As every then becomes now.

Lost Child

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 23, 2021 by dc

There’s a man that looks like Jesus
Rubbing beeswax on the mausoleum doors,

A huge obelisk has uprooted a yew tree
And a skull has rolled under a bush.

Worms dance in the damp, disturbed soil
And birds flock for a feast,

As a lost child with stolen chocolate in his pockets,
Clasps it nervously till it slowly melts,

His raven black pupils dilating,
Soaking in the scene,

As his parents hunt the graveyard,
And all the ghosts wonder what happens next.

New Surname

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on October 10, 2021 by dc

I wasn’t sure, I simply vanished,

The air splashed wildly
And I was camouflaged by carpet,

As the truth slipped under the sofa
And rolled into a gyre of nothing.

Everything was snaking, colours morphed,

Radio chatter danced like shards of light
In dense morning forests,

The boiler hummed deep in thought,
Igniting odd monologues strickened by doubt,

The room breathed questions
And shrank on every inhalation,

Yuka plant leaves reached out for the window;

And you sat in the corner like a Hallmark card
Repeating the same old platitude,

Teetering on the edge of the mantlepiece,
With a new surname and a son that likes poetry.

The Illusory Truth Effect

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 17, 2021 by dc

You’re a pub band with fuzz pedals,
You’re a Goth ostrich with a lisp,

Your bass player looks like a suicidal Morman
And half the crowd’s made up of work colleagues
Looking for something to laugh about on Monday;

Your guitarist writes manic-depressive haikus
Late at night in a candlelit room after every gig,
Some are smeared with tears,

And he’s just finished a debut solo album
Filled with songs you know nothing about,
With guest spots from six of your mates.

All your stage moves are improvised,
Like confused gestures powered by heartburn,
Channeled from a nursing home step class,

Your drummer’s got an NVQ in plumbing
And you start every set with a song
About a threesome that’s totally fictional,

But you’ve sung it so many times
You’re convinced that it’s real.

The hand-drawn Robert Smith
You’ve badly inked on your pale grey t-shirt
Looks more like a white Diana Ross,

One of your two groupies is your dentist,
Your hand claps are arrhythmic,

And you’re unasked for encore
Has twelve notes you can’t hit
And a bit where you snap a kazoo.

But you’ve got ‘something’.

A Supermarket Trolley

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 25, 2021 by dc

A supermarket trolley sits
Half inside a holly bush,

Sat like bad art
Waiting to be rescued
Or upcycled into a quirky purgatory
All of its own;

Inside a square of bricks,
And the dream of a hipster’s barbeque,

Raw meat on it’s back
Catching the sizzling flames,

Surrounded by laughter and beer,
The hustle of people and music,

Wheels off through the sigh of late summer,
Twisted in smoke all serene.

Three Geese

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on June 24, 2021 by dc

The sky’s on fire
And the road is empty,

The climbing weeds
Dance in a broken breeze
Beside the dog piss tears,

And the crooked kerb
Is a twisted smile
With a gutter moustache,

Whispering ghost traffic
In the quizzical humidity.

Three geese land
On the barren street,

And parade, chests puffed,
New leaders strutting proud,

Honking cockily,
Planning nests and hang out spots,

Angry and objectionable,
Hissing in patterns,

Without any kind of manifesto
Or ideology,

Whiter than flags
Left undyed in a box,

Unlikeable lilies in bloom.

Meanwhile at Bushworth Hall

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on May 31, 2021 by dc

Tired and struggling to focus properly,
Godfrey put down his tacky thriller,

Took away the two remaining checkers
From the drink stained Backgammon board

And stared at his chipped art deco clock,
It’s petulant hands always running ten minutes slow;

He took his pipe from his lounge jacket pocket,
Wandered unsteadily down the hall and opened the front door.

Outside the wind blew unrehearsed smoke rings through the mist,
Autumn’s leaves glided and left whispering vapour trails,

The neighbours’ dog Jeff practised howls at the moon,
As the sheep on the adjacent field shuffled further and further away,
And an owl hooted commas and the odd question mark.

As Godfrey took incessant puffs on his pipe,
Spitting odd bits of tobacco from the wet on his lips,
He knew deep down Alastair wasn’t returning,

His Hyundai i30 Fastback was still on the drive
But the words ‘JUST HAVE IT’ were written on the bonnet in shaving foam
And the keys were hung on a bent windscreen wiper.

He’d headed three miles home barefoot,

Addled on DMT and home-brewed rhubarb gin,
Cuts across his forehead from his arguments with the deer antlers
On the walls by the back door porch,

Hair wet from Godfrey’s broken bidet
And a torn shirt sleeve from the wrestling;

Alistair also lost a toe that night,
But at least he’d gained a friend.

Cooked

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on May 24, 2021 by dc

My roasted chicken rests,
As a war veteran four doors up
Falls down his stairs
And pops his collarbone alone.

The greens sigh steam in a sieve,
As a high school reunion
Turns into a fist fight
In the De Vere hotel beer garden.

A tabbouleh salad glistens,
And in the rain hit park nearby
A lost mandarin duckling wanders
Under an ice cream van to shelter.

Garlic roast potatoes crispen,
And a Renault Megane careers
Into a old man’s front garden,
Hissing steam across his water feature.

24 hours ago a freedom reigned,
Hope flapped like a flag,
Proud in the wind,
A sweet aroma filled the air,

Children sang made-up songs in the street,
The news stations were beacons of positivity,
The sun danced for 14 hours,
Nothing bad happened;

Then they fucked it all up.

Skeleton Burrito

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on April 30, 2021 by dc

Under a sky mouth wet,

Dipping into earth,

An invisible hand
Slowly lowers
The skeleton burrito
With a sigh.

A sweat forms and rains,

A silence pickles
And a summer steam rises
Like moist ghosts ascending
From a hot, painted plate,

Saintly and sweet
With sour songs;

An appetite gifted.

The Table

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on March 24, 2021 by dc

I was happy to be sat at the table,

And when I was fed I felt overjoyed.

I knew I was privileged,

I doubted my worth enough
To know there were others
Far more deserving than I

As I tucked into the pie
And the dauphinoise potatoes.

There were moments I felt guilty,
I thought of those not here
And those who never were,

All my misdeeds and wrongdoings,
The moments of shame;

Then as I finished my main I looked around,

I saw plates left half eaten,
Pie crusts and vegetables left sauntering
Around white china landscapes,
Unloved and bereft.

I was happy when I left the table,

I ate all the food
But I stopped drinking half way through,

And the cake at the end
Was just me being polite,

I was needed back home.

There were adverts to watch.