Thursday 21 February 2013

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

Friday 15 February 2013

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

Tuesday 12 February 2013

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.

Saturday 9 February 2013

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



Wednesday 6 February 2013

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.