My new sitting room

I am going to edit my emotions
From now, only plain colours are allowed –
No ambiguous or disruptive tones
Nothing too strident, or loud.
I will prohibit cadmium yellow
And splashes of tantrum-spilled wine
No manic crows will peck at my skull
There will be no burgundy, or carmine.
My moods will be rationed to five-a-day
I’ll allow magnolia or hopeful blue
I’ll move through a hum of beige and grey
No burnt sienna – I’ll ban that too.
No sabre dances or bouts of Slavic gloom
Tranquility will reign in my new room

Just not right

I am not certain that I am right
I bear no scars from a righteous fight
There’s nothing provincial in my diction
I lack political conviction
Don’t have a greased quiff, or tattoos
I shop in Sports Direct for shoes
I don’t have a lisp or a funny name
I’m just not right for the poetry game

I don’t wear a scarf or a funny hat
I don’t have a cute name for my cat
I’ve never wowed a trendy club
With a fusion of reggae, folk and dub
Perhaps I’m lacking in ambition
I’m not recovering from addiction
I don’t have a lisp or a funny name
I’m just not right for the poetry game

I don’t have artist's hands, or feet
I live in a suburban street
My house does not have Persian rugs
I do not take exotic drugs
I don't write with a golden pen
On sheets of vellum in my den
I don’t have a lisp or a funny name
I’m just not right for the poetry game

Etcetera

No such colour

Now black, now bright, now in shadow

Changing her face to suit the time

She displays herself in the sky’s window

She haunts our dream life like a floating mime.

I have seen her stippled beauty laid bare

I does not appear at night, but she

Darts into cloud cover like a hare

And rides through the heavens wantonly.

Ethereal, she always come back

Sometimes veiled to cover her innocence.

Now in shadow, now bright, now black

She cannot outdo me in brilliance

For she is merely a reflection of my light

And there is no such colour as white.

Bulbophillum Nocturnum

How they oppress the prisons of the hills

They are so easy to overrate

We have opened up the satanic mills

In all honesty, I have come to hate

William Wordsworth’s f....ing daffodils

There is no poetry in my poetry

And there is nothing romantic. My skills

Are in describing the ordinary

In our corrupted universe

They are deluded who turn to the light

Merely in their predictable verse

Let us praise flowers that bloom at night

And celebrate strangeness not beauty

There is no poetry in my poetry

They were like us

For Kate

In warm caves their homes were concealed

From the east, they watched the light rise

Around small mysteries their lives congealed

They carefully marked anniversaries

They gathered plenty when times were good

Preoccupied by gossip and enmities

They went out, to hunt or to gather food

And listened for news of hostilities.

Amused by children and animals

They dressed their bodies in fur and skins

They marked their calendar with festivals

Prayed to the sky, did penance for their sins.

They were like us. Their sun was our sun.

They had no need for television

Speeding

The minor tragedy of a father and his son

Those bloody cops, they were always stopping me.

I had nine points, I couldn’t risk another one.

And those grubby hacks on my back – it’s jealousy.

They were going to give me a driving ban

That’s why I said it was your mum.

By the way, she won’t be going to Holloway!

You left her. I hate you. You stupid man

Those years of rushing, they were no holiday.

I love you. Hope you know that. It was all for you, son.

I despise you. My anger grows more each day.

I could never stop. I had to push, on and on.

Remember mum's birthday. Good luck in you exam.

Don’t text me again. You don't know who I am.