Archive for UK poet

It’s Only Wednesday

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on December 1, 2021 by dc

When your homemade ceramics
Are just creative cries for help
And all the chips they collect
Sit like a scars on your body,

When your mudslide mind
Shifts a crevasse to your mouth
And then chatters like hoodlums
Sat in gangs around potholes,

When your toddlers name their fingers
After pigs from petting zoos
And find themselves crying
After trying to milk a cat,

When the mantle-piece antlers start swelling
And the fake polar bear rug begins bleeding,

Close your eyes and inhale all the rainfall,
Exhale demons and then pat-a-cake stress;

Let your wig wander west,
Pick words up off the floor,
Let your tongue loll post-screaming
And let those dolls stay undressed,

Flop yourself back to bliss
Somewhere soundproofed and dark,
Bend your dreams back together
And lick your slate clean.

You are not one hour ago,
You are the simple inhalations
And exhalations of now,
You are only this moment,

No one can find you
And you’ve got the biscuits,

They’re safe.


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

Walking through the ruins
Of the past’s imagined future,
Echoes vie for vanishing air
And colours leak across lifetimes,

A luminous fog descends,
The sky dissolves into patterns,
And a landscape warped by erosive epochs
Slowly sucks on the sweet fallen debris.

Across a time-lapsed history
Cut and pasted by scholars,
Brows wrought like volcanoes,
Forever altered by every rumble,

I stand lost between a sulk and smile,
As I vanish into an endless sunset,
Left giddy by transitions
As every then becomes now.

Lost Child

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 23, 2021 by dc

There’s a man that looks like Jesus
Rubbing beeswax on the mausoleum doors,

A huge obelisk has uprooted a yew tree
And a skull has rolled under a bush.

Worms dance in the damp, disturbed soil
And birds flock for a feast,

As a lost child with stolen chocolate in his pockets,
Clasps it nervously till it slowly melts,

His raven black pupils dilating,
Soaking in the scene,

As his parents hunt the graveyard,
And all the ghosts wonder what happens next.

New Surname

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on October 10, 2021 by dc

I wasn’t sure, I simply vanished,

The air splashed wildly
And I was camouflaged by carpet,

As the truth slipped under the sofa
And rolled into a gyre of nothing.

Everything was snaking, colours morphed,

Radio chatter danced like shards of light
In dense morning forests,

The boiler hummed deep in thought,
Igniting odd monologues strickened by doubt,

The room breathed questions
And shrank on every inhalation,

Yuka plant leaves reached out for the window;

And you sat in the corner like a Hallmark card
Repeating the same old platitude,

Teetering on the edge of the mantlepiece,
With a new surname and a son that likes poetry.

Anxiety’s Buds

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

Anxiety’s buds
Ripe and sticky as they bloom
Viscous and timid

That Alien Throb

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 20, 2020 by dc

The waves pulse,
Those salty tears,

The neon maps
Of lands and veins,

That alien throb,
Jaw softly locked;

Late night incantations,
Heightened through haunting,

A yesterday clutched,
A soon bled with colour,

The thrill of stuttered yawns,
And those great, wild intentions

That just rested asleep.

Big Machine

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 6, 2020 by dc

Skin creased all bitter and citric,
Pity painted to the soles of their feet,
Chewed fingers and a lurch as they walk,
Unsteady and ignorant,

Faces sculpted from mashed potato,
Words mushed into one long sound,
Tobacco tans and eyes like the holes
In punched walls;

Someone gave them a voice,
Someone said we should listen,

And now the idiots are oiling the big machine,
Greasing its wheels and buffing its bonnet,
Adding spoilers and flags and freestyling,

The acid reflux of racism revs,
The manual gears of science and fact
Are now automatic lies and distractions,

The truth got so boring it fell off
To sit and rust at the side of a road,

And now we’re here giving time to the fumes
Of greed and hate fogged up to look like
A floating green aurora offering hope,

A beautiful mirage that echoes their anger,
Whispering excuses and offering answers
To the weak and paranoid questions
Rotting at the base of their souls;

They don’t really have goals anymore,
Just a hungry desire to burn things
And have a huge barbecue in the aftermath,

Then after that one long wrestling match
And an anthem that celebrates death.

If only they could take a breath and a look,
Read a book and cuddle up to something other than fear,

Maybe then we wouldn’t be here
And that big machine could just disappear.

Another Life, Another Man

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

Lost in a doppelganger’s daze,

Painting yourself into the corner
Of another empty room,
The fumes nuzzle your sweat,

Confused nursery rhymes sing
Through the bristles as night falls
And bubbles pop on the ceiling,

A back splash of petrified joy
Dancing like sparks through the dark.

Flashbacks scuttle like rats,
Rust creeps into happiness,
Wearing away your ambition
And all the sweet things that glistened
As your reveries unravelled,

The magic garden and the innocence,
The twisted fairy tales and feedback
Melting in the psychotropic lights,
Detuning till your strings became slack,
Freezing as the TV cameras rolled –

And it’s all too much and ‘very noisy’,
Another life, another man.

You were the colours of an orchard
As the sun cuts through a storm,
A magnificent Icarus dandy dressed,
A handsome charm all glints and sparkle,
Tumbling words and jumbled laughs;

A fame lopped short and left to walk home,
A mind filled with dust and fading guitars,
A sun flicked off with a switch.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 17, 2020 by dc

Spinning in
Our monologues,

Pretending we’re
An epilogue,

Everyone’s an

These days.

This Island

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

I do not know
Where all these
Memories go
When we turn
Into dust,

I like to think
Our footprints
Are cyclical,

And this island
Is echoing.