Archive for new poetry

Powder Blue

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 23, 2019 by dc

Light cracks
And the stars
Glimmer through,

Motion fizzles
And skips,
Morning wonders.

Peripheries catch
Stippled specs
Distant dancing,

Odd sounds
Elongate
And smear echoes,

Reality pops,
Delusions quiver,
Balance rocks.

In a fading
Corner of the room
Beliefs recede,

Worries tingle,
As insomnia hovers
Like a gull lost at sea,

Weary mantras retreat
In serenity’s
Stolen shadows

And the dawn whispers
Clues powder blue,
As the sky catches breath.

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Tapas Night

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 22, 2019 by dc

Next to a pot where the pickled entrails sat,
All Pollock flicked splatters and ripe gluttony,

Where tentacles lolled over the sides of chipped bowls
Like drunken snooker players stretching for shots,

Shrill laughter descending from rattling lampshades
As another cranked joke split its guts,

We shuffled wry smiles and raised eyebrows.

Bent urban songs winced into liquor for loners,
Cutlery cut shards of light flecked with spittle,

A cacophony of conversations and scuffed, shuffled furniture
Melted into mutual memories and newly mangled mistakes,

The joy of shared chaos holding hands with hot screaming,
Maimed dreams wrapped around a new entropy,

We left before the first glass was thrown.

It Was A Sunday

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 17, 2019 by dc

Flickering
Like an odd,
Dirty fleck
On misty specs,

A castle slowly
Crumbled
In the distance.

All frail and forlorn,

It swayed and then
Sank in stages,

Grumbling final moans
And then sighing,

Lost in a hope
Long forgot.

The waves swept
Incessant and carefree,

Nothing grieved,

The shoreline bent
Like a crooked wince

Until the sand
Disappeared from sight,

And we walked hand in hand
As the sun started setting;

Flocks of hungry gulls
Feasted on the waste
Left in stray,
Washed-up netting,

Clouds danced,
All duplicated rhythms
And digressions
Loosely spreading,

We headed home
Without messing,

It was a Sunday.

We’re Done Here

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 9, 2019 by dc

That incessant itch,

Photographs shredded,
Letters burnt,
A new start.

The blurring wounds,

Disappearing voices,
Stammered belief
And the cold sweats.

Those weeping assistants,

Incantations of innocence,
Body language coached
Two times a week,

And we’re done here.

Jittery Quiver

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 8, 2019 by dc

A restlessness glazed
Then propped up to dry,

A mirror image
Gently warped in dense silence,

That slow, drawn out second
Before the stuttering,

Caught by a jittery quiver,
A misguided thought,

That 3am flutter,
The brief blurring of sense,

A melting aurora
In a pixelated pinch,

A quick knuckle crunch,
A miswired spark,

As stars start dancing
Through the skylight

And the frivolous
Moments all blink,

Things sink
And then rise,

A deep breath
Then a sigh

Elongated.

Insects

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 6, 2019 by dc

A docile menagerie
Of tropical insects and fools,

Coping without intrigue,

Just lollygagging their way
Through each day
Then repeating.

A handful of dazed workers
Stuck in routines,

Moseying through blurred rooms,
Dusty cages and hallways,

Orbiting life,

Numb with the thought
Nearly everything’s gone,

Nearly everyone was wrong.

Stroking the half dead plants,
Coughing thoughts and
Crusty mantras,

Lost in the wild buzzing drone,

Reading sun-stained books,
And eating daydreams for lunch;

Lofty foreigners
And freakish lords loitering
Around vases and sculptures,

Sipping on tear-tickled champagne,
Gobbling olives,

And feasting on sautéed chunks of flesh
Torn from freshly endangered mammals,

There is an audible harmony
Of lip smacks.

Heaven’s choir is polluting the garden
With angelic melodies,

Butterflies speed across fizzing lawns
Like hope was a banquet
And morning was her future.

Its enough to make you choke
On your sandwiche,

And they did.

Every last worker choked on their sandwiche,

And no one ever found them.

They had no families or friends.

Even their dreams are now dead.

Only the insects remain.

Professor Strange Times

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 2, 2019 by dc

There’s no doubting the fact

I’ve been documenting the behaviour
Of these idiots for quite some time now,

So long I’ve become almost immune to their fatuity,

But something seems broken of late,
All glitched and cock-eyed,

Their vocabulary keeps resetting,

They stand all triangular and rigid
At formal functions sweating,

And there’s no real betting
Which way they’ll head next

But I’d guess it’s most likely obtuse.