Archive for poetry writing

The Pitch

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 20, 2019 by dc

The mould was broken
An asterism collapsed
And now it’s just you

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Sound Bitten

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 13, 2019 by dc

Set thick
And then slowly
Chiselled from malice,

High on the nutrition
Of curdled histories
And afflictions,

There’s a will in the minds
Of these heathens.

Knocked down,
They get up

They kick out and bring rage
Like wild dogs fighting shadows,

Ravaged sallow and embattled
All leathered, feral and bedraggled,

The kind that like to
Dream of gallows.

Hear the new chants
Of these sound bitten unnaturals,

Smearing blood on their
Monogrammed handkerchiefs,

Presents from grandparents
Who spent their lives growling
And then died in a huff,

Pulled from pockets
Stained with promises fished
From dirty rivers weaving
Through lost towns,

They sup excuses like zoo goats on bottles,
Gloved hands smearing their lips clean,

They make audible ahhs,
They meet up in the dark

And we still don’t know all of their names.

It’s A Car Park Now

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on October 12, 2019 by dc

Long after the surrounding fossils
Were brushed down

By archaeologists and looters

Hunting for the holy dot
Of a mighty pinworm egg,

And just after the year
They were finally forgotten for good,

Two lovers rest side by side,
Dry bones locked in comfort and hope,

Jaded skeletons sealed and unseen
Asphalt above them

Mixed thick with the dreams

Of keen workers
All protein and steam,

Just eager to get the job done.

We Sleepwalk

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

We comment on this classless town
By dropping our trousers
And spilling our drinks,

We share stories
And rotate the marinated lies,

We gamble and groan at the moon,
Sing songs in dying languages
And fumble the truth.

We watch people pass through,
Pause then take flight,
We kiss their distance,

We rarely leave and rarely grieve,

We roll up our sleeves
And melt into the furniture,

We set up niche websites
Selling spent dreams and fallacies,

We catalogue rushed photographs
Into files on stolen laptops
And call them memories,

We slump into cushions
Humming hypnotic songs,

Drift into cat naps,
All necks stretched,
Mouths flapping,

Limbs with a mind
Of their own,
Roaming lost.

Sleepwalking we talk
Between doorways,

Ignorance hand in hand
With its peace,
A feast in our thoughts,

We stagger into contentment,
The stairwell, the kitchen,

A somnambulist’s frisson,
Marshmallows and
Songs from the ether,

The pan-piped fantasies
Of growing old slowly,

A Thomas Cole landscape,
An ambrosial existence;

A wizened tree on a hill,
A gentle walk with fresh fruit
Plucked from nowhere,

A white horse galloping,

A soft, looming fog,
The smell of autumn leaves,

A mountain goat,
A picnic,

And a huge concrete wall

Surrounding our breaths
As they rise.

The Den

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 21, 2019 by dc

Piecing together
Sombre reflections
Of a misguided weekday,

Rolling peas around a plate,
Watching colours on the telly,
Blandly groaning excuse me’s
And ignoring all puddings.

The mood trundles
So we retire
To the child’s den,

Under chairs and picnic blankets,
Sighing with iced lollies,
Wishing for more time to ourselves

And the old Monday classic,
A way to make money
But somehow do very little.

We pick wigwams from catalogues,
Sketch pictures of squids
And guess songs from whistles,

We sprawl and reminsce,
Enhance stories and smile in HD,

I improvise an eyebrow dance

And we slouch into each other’s arms
Prepared to dismantle.

The Coo And The Cardigan

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on September 18, 2019 by dc

Lolling on my back,
Repositioning the clouds,

Muttering fuss
Amongst the buttercups,

Falling asleep
And keeping the spin
To a minimum.

Kissing the periodic shadows,
A new velocity in the breeze,

Circling and coddling,
The coo and the cardigan,

Echoing arguments
Disappearing
In the firmaments,

A turbulence
Backsliding.

The End Of The Protests

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 7, 2019 by dc

Escaping that sense
Of pure instant joy,

Unbalanced on a ladder,

Gary followed his placard
Into the mincing machine,

It took his hands
And arms first,

Then his head
And every thought
That he had.

All the onlookers agreed
They’d never felt
So disturbed and aggrieved,

As the conveyer belt
Conceived
It’s new shimmering meat.