Archive for surreal poem

The Echo

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on January 10, 2016 by dc

I am the one
That helped pickle
Their organs,
That set fire
To their insects,
Slit cuts like a collage

And shipped questions
To the back of their minds

Without warning.

The charcoal black nightmares
Scattered like dancers
On huge open stages,

The quench of belonging
In mouths that tickle sour,

It’s all here in your bibles,
Your friendships forever,

Your quicksand emotions
And the oceans we float on,

Inbetween us the landslides,

The differences and hollows
The sinkholes that we balance
On tomorrows, yes, the basics.

I am the one
That helped pick up
The broken,
That sweetened
Their stories
To sleep sound through the night

And I took my percentage
To the dogs and I spent it,

Without warning,

Without warning,


Devious Whispers

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on July 2, 2015 by dc

Snide like frozen apple pie,
A stolen lyric burning,

Scarred moons and sleepless silence,
A wild dog in the woods.

The taste of devious whispers,
Mingled troubles in the shadows,

Weeping hillsides and worn highways,
Dead settlements and lost priests.

The scent of something wrong,
All roughshod truculence,

A liar in the darkness shamed,
A poetical evening in tatters.

The Final Whistle

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on March 11, 2014 by dc

The impudent
Stagger sleeplessly

As crowds scatter slowly
Like shipwrecks forever floating.

It’s like they’re expecting
The motion of the sea
To fly away like birds
Towards the sound of fresh thunder.

In the darkest corners
Of the dizziest eyes
In this city of any direction,

This seething night of roasting meats,
Of summer anguish and arid landscapes,

Sinks into the pith
Of its old dying factories,
The mulch of wasted trying,
An industry retired.

Now there’s nothing but
Dense flocks of moping
Where proud cries once echoed,

Desperate incarnations
All shadowy like sundials,

Lost down twilight’s strange dirt tracks,
Scattered like rotten seeds in the breeze,

Grieving for fun.

A Flaking Tongue

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on November 25, 2013 by dc

A softening voice,
A flaking tongue,

The polished repeat
Of a well echoed

A promise soon broken
Disguised as a mishap,

The glistening lips
Of tomorrow’s excuse
Mounted fresh in a memory,

On a plinth
In your throat,

So the next time you swallow
You can tenderly

Fresh And Frozen

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on November 9, 2013 by dc

I extend my arms
Till the world’s just
Scattered, listless ships
On turbulent, distant seas.

I try to stand tall
Like a funeral pyre,
Strong as sobs echo
And memories drone.

I stare into the darkness
And slowly drop to the floor,

Winds battle
And rain leaves
Fresh marks in the earth,
I breathe with the storm
And push dirt through my hair.

There’s an ushering madness
Bent across this lost skyline
And I’m nothing but sour words
And headaches.

In days to come
A gentler animal
Will wash up on these shores,
All doe-eyed and hypnotised,

A new mankind,
A preacher’s groan,
A monotone,

A dream frequently chosen,

Fresh and frozen
For realists.

The Job Is Yours

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 26, 2013 by dc

He flicked through the photo album
Like a tramp with a half eaten kebab,

The cooling meat smiled,
Left his fingers all slimy and damp,

Hot with sauce and excitement,
The new pitiful joy.

He whispered, ‘that one’
And swallowed it whole,

No need for chewing,

A greasy streak left on his chin,
A wide smile as he sighed content,

All satisfied and simply done,
Like a sweet post coital slump.

‘The job is yours.’

Breath of the Salesmen

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 3, 2013 by dc

They come like blisters
At an all night diner,

Shoes off under the table,

All biscuit smelt
And sugar rushed,

The new polluted,
Scarred and neutered,

No-one else can see them tricksters,
The smell of rising fumes and whispers,

The fag ends that dance and the leaves
That blow in from outside.

You were made to moan and sleep,
Now there’s no time for either,

A weary face that curdles menus,
Consumed by work and worry,

A hundred hurried swallows
And the dolly looking waitress

You’d lick the floor to fuck.

They come like a tap on the shoulder
That feels like the wind rushing in,

Makes you check for
Hurried heartbeats and sweating,

Upsetting memories,
Seventies decor
And the caffeine reflux

Calling your name.

Once again,
Time for bed.