Vapes and milkshakes
Refreshments machines
Folded up bicycles
Sleeping bag scenes
Wheelchairs and crutches
Waiting room beeps
Coffee cup plastic
Cubicle screams
Car park altercations
Bobbies on the beat
Nurses and papers
Cola bottle sweets
Screens and swiping
Mop bucket dunks
Sniffles and pacing
A young lover’s hug
Tapping and tantrums
Yellow wet floor signs
Keypads and coins
Monster munch sighs
Runs to McDonads
Biros and forms
Night shift handovers
Yawns of the bored.
Tag: Poetry Slam
Fields Of Excess
Cliches tend to hold a truth.
Truth being the circle you choose to let loose
with on sparse occasions, once or twice a year
where the brake gear’s released
to strobe lights, cheers and tears
of euphoria
and life affirming waves
across warehouse spaces
with bonds you’ll take to the grave.
Cuddles, claps and shuffles
soundtrack rants and confessions of love.
Overwhelming crowds of people are overcome
with trusted shoulders, hands and hugs.
We double-locked our doors late morning.
Jitters fluttered around from gut to chest.
At moments it felt we were heading for battle
with the city’s very best.
But passed the front line, it’s a war of peace.
Randoms united to the sonics, the beats.
Deep conversation, away from the nine to five;
a moment of surrender and salvation,
a moment to feel alive.
Puzzle pieces of memory spark spikes of joy
back in the routine, back walking the line.
Life’s formalities, life’s templates
are easier to follow, easier to own
when you have a second family
in the rave, out of home.
From the cluster of scribbles DISPATCH19
Cat’s Tacos
Tony bought a lottery ticket today
on a hangover that by lunch time had still stayed.
A £2 dream about all the wonderful things
he’d virtue signal atop the hills and sing.
Little did he ponder how rich he already was,
clocking off then going to Cat’s on the bus
where five veggie tacos and a glass of Rosé awaited.
One thing you can say about that gem, she always caters.
And here I am sitting tapping about myself in third person.
Channel hopping from the BBC to C5, watching the muck worsen.
Tory this, Labour that; Everyone’s falling into a hole.
I’ve never got the scorn towards a microwaved Weetabix bowl.
The fuel of my 9 to 5 active listening and little faith.
There goes a week of conformity, of ethics going to waste.
I do the Sully tap atop another tin of San Miguel.
I’d prefer a craft beer of high percentage, but oh well.
Everyone waits at the crossing but nobody presses the button.
Gormlessly looking into nothing is not the kinda something
I’d have anyone teach another. I’d rather cover
my brother from another mother during a drive by
of a maniac custard cream lover.
Shouting ‘Brew me a tea! Let me dunk my biscuits within’.
The news agency’s customers stand shaking and grin.
Saying ‘literally’ or ‘awesome’ out of context isn’t a thing.
He or she who master the mundane shall be king.
Tears In The Voting Booth
There’s tears in the voting booth
after yet another long campaign
where one man suggested peace
only to be called Kim Jong-Insane.
To one side we had shallow rhetoric,
personal attacks and lots of fear.
In another corner stood consistent
costed policies and new ideas.
It was a choice for something different,
not another five years of the same
food banks, overdrawn schools,
homelessness and Saudi arms deals shame.
Or a more inclusive society,
free education and healthcare for all.
Kids dinners and music lessons in schools.
An economy for the many not the few.
We’ve bounced around our echo chambers
posting pledges, posting straight up lies.
On occasion friends have patronised,
dismissing differences with outright bile.
Respect to the short gentle man
who stayed upbeat against the wall,
never going low and personal
despite all the mud the red tops threw.
As he spoke of an inclusive nation
of community and fairness for all.
the May-bots, strong and stable
Regurgitated slander. He stood tall.
And much love to my Tory buddies
being open and fair in healthy debate,
realising we’re the more than managing
playing with other peoples’ fates.
What’s said is said, done is done.
Tomorrow’s another identical day
unless whatever our alliances,
we move forward in a different way.
Let’s convert our scroll and click power
into a tangible, offline inclusive pact.
Bring back some of the care and compassion
this country so bleakly lacks.
Stuck in our liberal elite bubbles
we yearn for our vote to mean more.
We’d do better visiting Do-It.Org.UK
and gifting a few useful chores.