Archive for surreal poems

On The Other Side

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on January 15, 2016 by dc

On the other side
They closed the forests,
Odd ferns hit the alleyways
And the town played wander;

It was run all random,
The sides had horizons,
The high streets and car parks
Wrestled ruin without hope

And the strange whirring sounds
That came from gutters and doorways
Hypnotically battered
The sorry, crestfallen birds,

Just the odd eye recording
Their another world whistles.

Clouds assembled like soldiers
Through the mouth of a monolith,

A dark carpet unravelling
With a crumpling stutter;

Loudly I lay down
There were art things
And war wounds,

A giddy abandon
Twisted in patterns,
A flattering grumble
Lying through tatters,

There were mountainsides
Cradling rainfall
And a scatter of stars
Running wild,

On the other side of the child,

Near the branches
Of crooked abandon and loss,

The quiet street when dawn yawns,

Where the creased shirt decisions
Roll into light.

Mechanical Fires

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on December 18, 2013 by dc

They don’t want to be
Like open gutters,

The filth that washes out
In the rain,

A library of one sided stories
And regretful routines;

So they hide in their homes
And pour drinks down their sinks,

They pull out old memories
And try to colour them clearly,

Whisper mantras when they slump
And slowly tidy up their lives.

They store things in shoe boxes
And file them under their beds,

They try new foods
And flirt with strangers online,

Cry on Fridays
And wallow
All hollow

And wired,

The strange sizzle of pork fat
In mechanical fires.

Broken Dance

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on November 28, 2013 by dc

Tap hard till it cracks
And let the whispers float out
Forgotten and wild,

Leave and then scatter
The odd thoughts you left hidden
In cold dusty rooms,

Take sadness and master
Awkward instincts forgotten
A sweet broken dance.

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 Hollywood Freeway

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 8, 2013 by dc

I caught the never too truthful sycophants
Feasting on waste in the lay-bys,
The circling buzzards couldn’t get a look in.

The road let off the fizzy aroma of celebrity,
Dreams passed by like butterfly trails
And the birdsong concluded its fanfare.

Fame is fleeting and random by nature,
All multiple destinations unshackled from patterns,
As fragile as the beggars who crave it;

And here I am now in the left over dust clouds,
Choking on dirt that tastes like dead laughter,
The kind that you find on the Hollywood Freeway.

Flights Of Fancy

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 8, 2013 by dc

They sit in containers
Watching horrors on repeat,

Castigating heroes
And blaming the weak.

They take daylight in slivers
And upload their fears

With bent flash drive fingers
And anger well steered

And snarled as they glare
Into transmission lights,

Into long, endless nights,
And long running fights,

Flights of fancy.

As children they hid in hedgerows
And whispered with torches,

All fairy tale innocence
And the drive of the naive,

They climbed trees till they bent,
Top heavy and craning,

Excited smiles growling,
Electric and wild,

They were bulbs bright and buzzing,
The rise of a sun.

Now the moon slowly takes them
Till the bile starts to run,

Till it trickles,
Then drizzles,
Then done.

Handfuls Of Snapshots

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 20, 2013 by dc

I don’t really remember
Those days anymore,

At best they’re just
Handfuls of snapshots,

Slender seconds of joy,
The kind that every
Now and then
Come to you in the shower,

Whispering their echoes;

And as for the longing,
It got left on that farm,

The one with the withered chickens
And the incessant rain,

The listless geese
And the terrible sandwiches.

Don’t get me wrong,

When all this ends,
You’ll be there in the slideshow,

But there won’t be any credits
And there’ll be
Happier things to focus on,

The smiles of my parents,
The day-glow faces
Of my friends,

And those two dogs
I once saw
Locked in coitus
In a car park,

Aroused, scared and confused,
Whimpering strange limericks,

Make of that
What you will.