Archive for poetry sites

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 a 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.

The Perfect Time to Talk

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

There’s no such thing
As the perfect time to talk,

Perfect words
Don’t need watches or clothes,

Sometimes they turn up drunk
And don’t even make sense;

Ideal moments
Don’t arrive when we decide,

Sometimes they miss the bus
And rust a bit

While they’re waiting
For the next one,

It’s ironic really.

Except you’re not listening
And the moment’s not right
For that kind of talking,

There’s a broken glass
In the dishwasher

And the post’s just arrived.

That New Kind of Lunatic

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 6, 2021 by dc

Gorging on conspiracies
Like a wide-eyed fox in a bin,

He’s shrieking his fights at the moon
Like a gout ridden Nostradamus,

The sky will burn at forty-five degrees!
Fire approaches this great new city!

He’s that new kind of lunatic,
Spent in the smoke of a burnt hippy dream,

Kabbalistic gibberish
Drugging all his wayward thoughts,

Living in the holes where the news once sat
And ploughing through the rubble.

Unseen

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on December 21, 2020 by dc

Mothers look away
As their babies coo floras
Unseen and absurd

The Pinks

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on December 18, 2020 by dc

A bloom hushed the lawn
A truly beautiful death
All shivered in pinks

The Smiling Husks

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on December 3, 2020 by dc

Quiet graveyards looking down
On this hushed and windswept town

All pink and orange dusked,

The smiling husks of yesterdays,
Soft and sweet to eat,

Wet round our mouths,

A fleet of fishing boats floating
Then sloping over the horizon,

Salt in our smiles,

A late sun shining silence
Before the night starts its roll,

We kiss under whale bones
And dream of the squall.

His Thumbs

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on November 28, 2020 by dc

All we can remember
Were his thumbs,

They looked like

Two huge
Chewed teats
On a cow’s
Ageing udder,

Accidents
Lost at the sides
Of his hands,

Two disfigured
Batons,

Waggling
Vibrations
Whenever he spoke;

His words
We can never recall.