Tag: Poetry

An Early Read

A swift shower made space.
The book’s pages turned to the past.
Springtime clouds stole sunrise.
On went the living room lights.

Through the walls, routines revolved.
Alarm clocks, flushes and showers
pulling the marchers to attention,
lining up their drills.

Niceties soundtracked kettle boils,
bag packing, coat shuffling
and the lightening bolt chords of zips,
encasing their passengers like armour.

Out to their worlds they departed
towards another broadcast starring
the same ever suspended in time
story arcs of familiar acts.

The lines of scripts were agreeable;
everyone plodding through their day
besides the bookworm who bounced,
charged with ideas from another time.

Checking Out

Everything was boringly bright.
There wasn’t a wall to paint.
Dreamer closed his eyes blank
stirring up make belief tastes.

Scenes lined his head’s roads.
Dreamer sped through wild towns.
Inventions you’d never believe
strangely made him feel at home.

He lunched on a feast of ideas,
danced with Wonder and Belief,
winked across at Second Thoughts
and saw mysteries to sit beneath.

Dreamer stood perfectly still.
Bright Land’s pedestrians frowned.
With a nod of his hat to creation
he opened his eyes to look around.

Walls, ceilings, paths and parks
felt so thought through and plain.
Adventure seemed beyond asleep.
Everything looked the same.

But Dreamer never crumbled
amongst such potent commonplace
for he knew a universe so rich
of indescribable tastes.

Summer 2007

Was it Donegal or Sovereign House
where the boys fought up the stairs?
Morgan charmed a squat next door
and fidgeting formed a toilet queue.
Only two girls arrived wearing hats
just like the party memo said.
Connolly retrieved misused cutlery
whilst a gate relentlessly buzzed.
Deliveries came, politics pursued
and reunions isolated those new.
The hosts stayed in tight control
of music so quiet nobody danced.
By midnight things had thinned
across a car park, now private flats.
The keep on crew lost Hannah,
shouting her name to come back.
The Castle’s door had bolted
marking the end of another night.
That Summer’s events just blurred
from one council notice to the next;
Impromptu ciders in Hoxton,
jumping fences into ticketed gigs,
and drive-by paranoia as Sully hid.
Those days awakened, defined,
destroyed, split and united most.
Migration, home making,
career baking and kids raising
now scatter the stories to which I toast.

Reoccurring Themes.

Hey Mister Oh So Charming
your boots don’t seem too big from here.
Chips on your shoulder are blocking our light
and we’re switching into reverse gear.
Mrs Apathy, please crack a smile.
You don’t know how lucky we are.
Digging yourself a pit of criticism
will only push solutions afar.
And to the friend that thinks he’s a best
that makes us mates, not Romeo & Juliet
so pick up the phone and dial some effort
or our chasing will fade and we’ll forget.
People, let’s not follow made up scripts
ranting in our minds at imaginary scenes.
If we pull our heads out of our behinds
we’ll start being healthier beings.
Loosen up and like what you like
not what you heard’s the trend in New York.
You’ll have less contrived, more honest fun
if you lay down that rusty Pitchfork.
Crack a smile, stretch, breathe, relax.
If we don’t look up, we’ll just fall down.
Stand up, take one step back
and hold a greater view of the town.
We’re all a-part and all alone.
Look around; life is suffering is rife.
But connect, share, support, love
and hope will start putting it right.
Beauty’s in the eyes of the beholder
but you’ll never see it with them closed.
The only truth’s in the power of now
not the regrets and fears we’ve chose.
Allow yourself to be saccharine sweet.
It can’t be any worse than their bitter tea;
round after round, sipping more of the same
leaving us anything but free.

Fogged out morning.

sometimes you just have to laugh
at the guy’s loud music on the tube
people not walking in straight lines
everyone’s phones in their palms
and palms in their face.

just swipe the card and walk through
now there’s a pile up of tuts
How efficient is self service
if you need approval to transact?

crumbs cover the kitchen floor
we rarely get to finish a sentence
there’s no weekend rest for builders
and the neighbours love to slam.

rolling around in new trainers
shivers hold off thermostat cranks
superstitious quiz show hosts myth
as oven trays rattle and hiss.

The United Error

We all got to our desktops
at around a quarter to nine.
The videos began circulating
of people waiting in line.
As the doors opened wide
men and women violently rushed.
With air conditioned importance
we shook our heads and fussed.
‘Look at them crawling around
like possessed animals unleashed.’
Oh how we tutted that day
at consumerism’s feast
before returning to our work
creating marketing campaigns
surely hoping to trigger
greater Black Friday level fame.
A month of juggling balances
and organic juice detoxes passed.
Hypocritical tuts of disdain
never tend to really last.
Within a vacuous liquid lunch
hysteria grasped our souls.
Monopolising on a website bug
became our number one goal.
A flock of holiday dreams flapped
and tapped trying to refresh
an error in the airline’s system.
Our cries resembled a creche.
Return flights to anywhere
priced at that of Friday drinks
had us scrolling and sweating.
Dignity passed in a blink.
Some were on the side of luck.
Others are heading to Kazakhstan.
Me? I kept getting error pages
but boy, I wanted Japan.
You’d be silly not giving it a go
and grabbing a bargain when you can
but let us not forget
the words of disgust we sang.
One man’s wide screen TV
is another’s trip to Belize.
Some long for mobile phones.
Others dream of the West Indies.
Whether it’s a trolly of DVDs
or a beach side coffee and croissant
we’re all deeply caught up
in an infectious spell of want.

The Pickle Jar

One of the challenges I put on my ‘Before I’m Thirty’ list was to get a poetry pamphlet together. In the run up to my birthday I compiled lots of scribbles from my notebook and put a double sided sheet of words together. The aim was to hand it out to friends during my birthday celebrations. I was too embarrassed when it came to it so planned to wait until the end of the night, but by then I was too drunk and forgot. The sheets are now making their way out via post, are all tagged here.

The First Weekend In May

The cockney Rastafarian down on the street
fought the Russians in Afghanistan(?) and if he
doesn’t stick to his word and run the bad guy
on Watney Market taking money from oldies
all the way back to Poplar, he’ll throw himself
under a double-decker bus himself, swear down.

The proud ground floor flat owner’s busy
weeding a few side road patches of flowers
in the bright morning air as bus engines hum
and the skinny jeans brigade march satchels
sunnies, rolling paper and sandals passed
abandoned crusty sofas and damp wardrobes.

A relentless blizzard of tuneless beeps
creates a supermarket symphony as tinnies
barbecues, sun screen, gum and crisps
slide into a plastic carrier bag that will wrap
around Monday lunch’s Tupperware box
as a fog of recollection and discourse lingers.

For now, minefields of eye contact
shuttle back and forth a pick n mix of
fiery youngins forming their routes
content middlemen so sure of their stance
and the elder people wrapped in scarves.
If not a myth, multiculturalism’s certainly mute.

The Hungover stare at looping news stories
gradually expanding as if a cloud of candy floss
but there’s nothing sweeter than a liberating
finger pressing down on the remote’s off button
to make way for finally showering and acting on
the eager, rallying texts of a tireless thinker.

(And Then I Was Like, Literally, Just, Like) Carry On The Love

Like the Summer we spent on a curb
doing everything for the first time.

Like persistent text and voice messages
you kid yourself you’re too busy to give a reply.

Like the accepted invitations late on a Sunday
when you need one more drink before it ends.

Like friends that pass a blind eye or join in
when it’s not even their taste in sound.

Like colleagues and flat mates that listen
to every little, tedious detail and smile.

Like discreet phone calls made to loved ones
on pretend trips to the toilet at a bar.

Like other runners looping the park
who can barely breathe but smile back.

Like that feeling a person’s right there
however rarely you get round to speaking.

Like the quick Post-it note left on a fridge door
by someone before they’ve gone away.

Like an absence of self-consciousness
because there are no filters these years on.

Like the grip and fixed stare of a commuter
worlds away inside of his book.

Like the times you’re convinced of a truth
but are shown alternatives by a reliable source.

Forced Conversations

In March they’re leaving Whitechapel
but not before a Jack The Ripper tour.
She thinks it’d be too scary for now
and he doesn’t really give a shit.

He seems to be a writer of sorts,
preoccupied with a first draft deadline.
As he daydreams and says nothing,
her questions and comments stack up.

The White Hart’s been given a revamp
of new woodwork and hoppy ales.
It’s just a shame they’re moving on
as they prefer it to over the road.

They trade spuds and carrots,
sticking to an orange juice and wine.
A darts game fills a wide screen
and another sleepy Sunday concludes.

Biting The Apple

I am a genius, come to my bar.
You’ll wait hours no matter how far
you’ve come to see my hairstyle
flop down on your phone or pad.
I am a genius. A good looking retail lad.
I’ll look at your blank screen
and say you’re out of warranty.
We’ll have to put it in quarantine
and that wont come for free.
I am a genius. My smile costs a grand.
I’ve got what you need, you sacrificial lamb.
Leave your memories with us,
we’ll need about two weeks.
Come back then and kiss our feet.
Take this adapter. Give us that note.
Be on your commute and tap out a gloat.
Pay no mind to alternatives,
this does what you need.
They won’t fulfill your vanity’s greed.
I am a genius here to sell
you preferences locked down.
I’ll leach out your confidence
whilst you stand feeling clowned.

My Perfect Boring Life

Quiet time is my weekly ponder
as to why Dimbleby didn’t get denchers
instead of that hidden away tattoo
whilst a know it all who’s rehearsed all week
to stutter out a sentence live on air
nervously shakes his forgotten cue card.

The washing up’s done by then
and perhaps weekly laundry’s been hung
before a final trip to the kettle for tea
and a cheeky slice of late evening toast,
after all I’ll have been for a run
or exhausted myself thinking about going.

By the time good old Dave is rattling through
phone numbers, locations and Twitter handles
the bed’s usually covered with crumbs,
I’ll have had my goodnight phone call
and definitely will have brushed my teeth
with full intent of getting some quiet.

You can often almost hear Friday
ticking its way to you as Andrew Neil
prattles on about this and that
whilst everyone tunes out at the distraction
of his one week beige, next week red mane
of surely sewn in, license fee bought hair.

Patience On A Long Weekend

‘Hi, can I help you?’
‘My friend said to order a chocolate McFlurry.’
‘Which one would you like?’
‘I have never had a McFlurry before.’
‘Well, there are many varieties, as pictured.’
‘Okay, I’ll have that one.’
‘Do you like chocolate?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘That’s £2 please.’
‘Oh. I don’t think I have that much.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh. I do. Here.’
‘Thank you. Enjoy your meal.’

Hold Tight

Hold tight the strangers cuddling and gassing
at five in the morning over littered coffee tables
before the first buses of the day home.

Hold tight everyone having morning meltdowns
at self-service checkouts in local supermarkets
making you seek assistance you tried avoiding.

To everyone in the bliss of a powered off TV
after fixating on a remote’s channel hopper
for a whole day of trashy shows, hold tight.

If you’re crammed into a tube journey to work
getting passive aggressive tuts from the suit
who’s paper you’ve bumped into, stand tighter.

Tightly hold on to whatever marbles you have
or can kid yourself that you have when enduring
those ‘How is it Monday already?’ loops at work.

Hold tight all the smiley people opening doors
or helping old ladies with shopping up the stairs
despite all the holding tight you’ve got going on.

And people, hold tight to mates wanting a pint
when they’ve been holding things so tightly
they could do with your hand to let things go.

Phaseolus Lunatus

I most look forward to the butter beans
lodged between complicated broccoli trees
straight to the point discs of standout carrots
and the secret mazes of intricate cauliflower.

Beneath a rising haze carrying spicy scents
they fit softly amongst the crowd of it all
holding form beside showy potato slabs
that dwarf armies of identical, spectating peas.

On a stage built with uncountable grains
the rest present a scramble of taste
where parts are dented or branch off
forming the scene of a wild, flooded woods.

Unfailingly humble, the butter beans shine
not with the stuck up presence of a pepper
or inconsistency of a leaking tomato
but with a gentleness, consistent and kind.