Archive for UK poet

The Child Born A Man

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on July 2, 2020 by dc

His grizzled throat bellowed ripe in the chaos,
A blues carnival melting through bloodshot abandon,

A screeching harmonica reaching out through the dark,
Arrhythmic stutters from the gutters of a misshapen world;

His eyes fill up with fireflies,
He floats like a falcon tracking rabbits,
Tensing his talons mid-air
And inducing his new muddled prey.

The wild dictator blows his rusty battle horn,
A twisted sage summoning mantras and kinks,

Conducting a foot stomping earthquake
And growling into the future,

Toes twitching like an old railroad track
Shaking inches before impact;

The man who slid music scores under key locked doors
And tortured bandmates into magic,

A mind itching like the scuttle of lizards
Rattling across roofs on a hot summer’s noon,

Howling to move and keep moving.

He haunts the after-show with fox fur and nonsense,
Soaked in dense sweat and coarse laughter,
Another pocket of plans and ten newly haggard melodies,

Telling fanciful tales of the child born a man,
Guessing everyone’s shoe size and speaking in riddles,

Feeding sugar to the ants,
Entranced by how they move,
Survive and dance in patterns,

Enamoured and shattered as he starts to relax,
Like an old, wizened dog in a storm of young cats.

Reillustrated

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

Even your
Tattoos
Are laughing
At you.

On The Edge Of The Town

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 13, 2020 by dc

I’m balancing on the edge of the town,
A soft breeze hushing me nowhere,

Winding through the wasteland
And kicking loose stones,

Taken with solitude
And blown with hot dirt,

Across the ruined spot where
The soldiers wandered home.

I stop and stare at the ground,

The dry earth has risen and started to peak
Into small terracotta roofs pointing upwards,

Tumbleweed detritus skips across the mounds
And a wind whips its afternoon moan.

I sit on a fridge and get lost in the nothing,
I feel the groans from the monolithic industry all around,

I hear the heartbeats of hustling mice,
The scurry of beetles and a rumbling,

Bird song processed
All bent and reshaped;

An April rain falls and I’m inside the wet,
Loosened by breath,

Pulled into the dust from the factory floors,
The rhythmic grind of machines and the hiss of freed steam,

The perpetual thud of gnarled energy quaking,
The singing pistons and greased mechanisms,

Salt slowly dancing in the sweat of the bustle,
A hundred bass lines rotating,

Spinning generators harmonising with turbines
As transformers pump discords,

Furnaces howling as metal shards melt
And their fate drips like tears trapped in chaos.

There are workers here who’ve never left and rarely paused,
An electric sense of pride in nothing but grizzled routine,

I’m not sure what gets made here
But without it we’re nothing.

The New Aloof

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

Paranoia leaks
Into hushed rumours
And bent intrigue,

People panic buy
And keep a close eye
On their favourite things,

Social media is awash
With repetitive self-help guides,
Viral videos and the kind of

Simple horrors you’d expect
In unexpected times;

Even the futurists are running scared,

And the best developers know
There’s no true algorithm

To predict a return to
Our daily routines
And the next normal.

Kitchen cupboards strain,
Fridges swell,

Everyone’s looking for someone
Or something to blame,

Every wheeze brings a query,
Every headache a quiver,

Old folk can’t stop wandering,
Teens keep on huddling in parks,
Everybody’s jogging,

Snitches buzz the hotlines,

Neighbours mutter in bursts
As they stare across the street

Whilst clapping for the NHS,
Aggressively belting
Their pots and their pans;

There’s a voice sat
On everyone’s shoulder,

Suspicion and worry
Are the new unwelcome lodgers
In everybody’s homes.

There are songs
On Tuesday lunchtimes

Because the bar’s already open
And strange times bring early thirsts,

Old stories flow
And they’re funny at first,

Minds drift and
Reminiscing hits its peak,

There’s a rustle and then a silence
Throughout a million front rooms
Whenever politics rears its head,

No one’s talking about Brexit,
Politicians look bemused,

Sweat glistening for the cameras,
Fluffing lines and shunning boos.

By the third week
Everyone’s crying about pubs,
Gigs and restaurants,

Desperately searching
For funny videos and memes
To brighten the mood,

Pockets of love bloom,
Wildlife flourishes

And the internet coos
Over photos of dolphins
Returning to Venice,

Every screen has a cat on it,

Air pollution drops,
Blossom bursts,

Pop stars queue up
To embarrass themselves,

The super-rich turn to ghosts
And the low paid become heroes.

In the echo of post truth,

This dark comedy,
The new aloof,

Seven and a half billion people
More distant than ever before,

Everything just a number,
Without any real score,

Socially distant,
Inconsistent,
Persistent but flawed,

We’ve been here before

But this time it’s not war.

Those Wandering Mammals

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 13, 2020 by dc

Those wandering mammals
That romanced around fire,
Drew past adventures on walls
And ate what they killed,

Thought the moon
Was the sun at rest
And the night sky
Was a huge sliding wall
Shuffling stars
Every time it sensed sleep;

They followed patterns
In the hope that danger
Would bow to their routines
And offer up rainfall and warmth,

They looked at new birds
Like startled deer
Caught between safety
And the sudden unknown,
They licked plants before picking
And shat into holes;

They rarely found joy
And lived their lives scared,
Hope was random and basic,
Love was merely protection,
Joy was simply survival and
Tears were the sea’s sour echoes,

Insects buzzed eternal,
Mountains joined the sky,
And their rivers never ended
When the world was built on why.

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.

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.

The Universe In X-Rays

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 24, 2019 by dc

The soft hairs of photons,

Quantum excitations,

Those elementary quivers
And phosphorescent shivers,

The universe in x-rays,

A psychedelic dance.

A wild galactic cluster
Of helical tendrills,

Suns pulsing neon,

Threads of light
Braiding chaos,

Interactions pirouetting,

Thousands of galaxies
Whirligigging attraction,

As the dust from dead stars
Drifts like seeds.