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An Odd Pockmark

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 12, 2020 by dc

This garden’s epoch,

Odd orchids that breath,
Inflating then deflating
As the years rattle by,

Grass curling like hair,
Trimmed in the cyclical breeze,

Wildlife curdling and morphing
As decades spin in split seconds,

A melting pot of exotica,

Plants that died nameless
As they sprouted new prodigies,

Sweet symmetries shuffling
Between angular growth spurts
And distorted perfections,

Flowers competing for beauty,
A dance of nature’s supple muscles.

The Holocene absorbed and more
In an oasis of debonair verve,

Hidden as civilizations romped,
Preoccupied and diseased,

Unaware of the evidence
The Earth has an odd pockmark
Left forever unexplored,

An atmospheric scar
From an impact unexplained,

An almost utopia thriving;

Weeds shading fresh fruits,
Bushes twisted with colour,

Trees that only grow down
And stretch underground
Like a huge wooden nets,

Psychedelic floras
Kissing spores and modifying,

A soft, looping song slowly swelling
Across the lawns and vegetation
As ecosystems bubble and pop.

Ten millenniums worth of machinations
Whirring just beyond,

Technological revolutions humming,
Wars that stifled bird song,

The rapid reproduction
Of anything with a breath,

And the constant corrosion
Of that sour human touch –

All far away from this garden,

This untouched Galapagos,

An anomaly free of all anguish,

A virgin fluke left to flourish
And hush like a murmur

As everything else
Slowly burnt.

You Can Have A Fry-Up When We Get Home

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

Those quaint old days
Stuttering down church lane,

The scent of yew trees and guilt
Mingling in the breeze,

A congregation gathering,
Bustling and honing their acts,

Parading their families
And perfecting their walks,

Cocksure strolling and small talk,
Piquant smiles and faint praise;

I’m playing with stones in my pocket,
Thinking about a late breakfast,

The fluffy well-cooked beans,
The hot pops of sizzling bacon,
The snap of a perfect sausage
And the dawn yellow egg yolks.

Then into the hall,

It’s all scuffled shoes and whispers,
Everything smells of buffed leather
Melted wax and the weekend perfumes
Of gliding wives and grandmothers,

Hushing and shh-ing for England,
As they shuffle to their seats,

Huddled quiet all waiting
For the vicar’s tales of death

and transcendence –

They stare at him intently
Like someone’s watching

And taking notes,

It’s one big interactive theatre
But the show’s so dull it hurts

And I’m shivering in a void
Of sleep-deprived echoes,

All distant excitations
Banded tight, impatiently waiting,

Rubbing dirt from my shoes
And itching my legs,

Rattling like collection coins
And questioning the penance,

Staring at a plastic Jesus
And dreaming about my breakfast.

Cat Battles

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

A dark, curdled alleyway
Melts out a yowled doom,

Tiny crying fireworks spinning,

Wild banshee gurgles,
Like Neanderthal tykes

Whining hellish laments,

A gnarled and broken aria,
All synthesised stabs

And flicked claws;

A snarling wind circling,
Blustered and fraught,

As a passing plane hums between battles.

The Dumb Down

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 8, 2020 by dc

After the PR sound-bites
Had bled their way
Into the listener’s skulls,

Just before the new single
From a clean shaven Mormon from Utah

And half an hour prior
To the scripted kisses and press shots,

We found out it’s been
The perfect week to eat seafood
On the promenade in Whitby

And that coffee after 4pm
Can lead to a sleepless night,

Rock music has a time and a place,
Skinny jeans are uncomfortable

And bananas are the perfect
Breakfast on the go;

Then a serious moment,

It’s abundantly clear that
We all want what’s best for anyone
Who believes in making things better,

There are no instant solutions
But there are a wide range of options
Right across the board,

And the fact of the matter is
•It’s going to take time
To truly examine and gauge

•The dire situation we all inherited
From the previous administration.

Let’s be absolutely open and honest
The message is very clear and simple

•There are no easy answers,

We want to clamp down on violence
And make our streets safe again,

We want to create opportunity
And improve the lives
Of millions of people,

We want to see this nation thrive,

But it’s really,
Really hard.

First Impressions

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on March 1, 2020 by dc

On his first day
He came in through
The wrong entrance,

Many of them never
Forgave him for that.

Had he turned out to be
Some kind of maverick,
Loose cannon or rebel,

Maybe his clumsy mistake
Could’ve been overlooked.

Unfortunately for Graham,
He worked in logistics
For a large biscuit distributor,

And sometimes
Wore sandals.

That Déjà Vu Residue

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 29, 2020 by dc

No one knows,

No one cares,

No one’s underneath your stairs

And no one’s in your kitchen either,

It’s time you took a breather;

It’s time to take things down

A notch or two,

It’s time to wipe away

That déjà vu residue.

Asleep On Shiva’s Forehead

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 16, 2020 by dc

A half-finished
Glass of Rioja
And the remains of
Some crackers,

A creased book
On ‘Gods’,

The lines scatter
Then fade,

Just a single thought pops,

There are no temples
Free from snakes
In the netherworld.

Lost in calm around this time,

In the sweet post-dinner lull,

His head lolls,
Bobbing for apples,

Sat in his cloud,
Above his crumb chested kingdom,

Ten minutes ridding evil,
A slouched enlightenment

Dozing but gently wired
To all movements,

His relaxed collapse
Is in touch with the room,

The news drifts a whisper,
He groans,

A voice calls him,
He burbles;

Half-deaf and humming transmissions,
He uses his whole body as an ear,

Before mumbling out
One last rummaged thought,

The snakes were always there.