All 17 entries tagged Poetry

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March 24, 2006

To My Friends / By The Lake

In the season that hangs an inch above spring
we're waiting for it to drop a bomb of daffodils,
radiate sunshine and tingly breezes.

Of course, we live just inside the shadow of such a world,
just inching under the international date line.

And we ought to so this – to lie on grass and twigs,
freeze toes in the dew and worship the capricious sun.

We are young after all, however cynical,
always busy losing innocence we never had.

There is mystery, wisdom and freedom
in the curve of the swan, the audacity of the mallard.

We think and feel like the lake, dark and
unknowable, troubled and shimmering.

Nothing answers solitude like this. I inch
into my memories and time plays backwards –
I unmeet my friends, unsit my GCSEs.

We are languid cats now
stretching out into our equinox.

March 20, 2006

The Sick Rose

O sorry, my sick rose,
the cloudy tapeworm
that buggers your gramps
in the turbid poo

has fondled thy stead
of whurled-in nonce
and thy documents
does rumple aboot.

[Signed "to fraulien, love Willy B, Tuesday 6th January 1790"]

March 05, 2006

This year

This year
I could have
written poems.

Instead I
met girls and played computer games.

February 11, 2006

Poetry is music for the tuneless.


January 19, 2006


A turning loose of emotion.
Getting tired
of clumsy tears
and guilty masturbation.

But mostly humiliation.
The sky is grey
but does not rain.
Pathetic. Insignificant.

Poetry dot doc.
I'm Holden Caulfield
I'm Hamlet.
I'm not.

I wrote you a poem. I
wrote a poem about writing
you a poem. I have my
life in the poem.

I should get away from this.
I want epic themes
and powerful dreams –
significant emotion.


The author is bored.
The teacher is saying
“Escape from emotion.
Have no personality.”

An overcast sky
precipitates subtly.
The pavement is wet
with significant emotion.

The author has left
his chair. He has
finished his self-portrait,
which is blank.

January 14, 2006


when together, girls will
talk about fruit.
i segue into the carpet
and listen to them talk
about fruit.

the smell of pomegranate. the seeds.
a hard stone
kept in the mouth.

when together, women will –
i talk into the carpet.
a hard word
kept in the mouth.
it's eleven, and the coals
are glowing. smoke surrounds.
we lounge and spit out stones.

have we met?
it is strange
to be talking like this.

January 09, 2006


This is not writing.
It is not the heavy thing you think it is.
There's no art to it, no poetry, no technique.

This is not mine.
I cannot change your mind in any way.
The poem is yours to start and create.

It is hollow of form, like a bowl.
It is lines on paper.
It has all the use and purpose of air.

December 16, 2005

Quotes on the Wall


I agree with all of them except one… ;)

November 23, 2005

University is the place to experiment.

Two new poetical forms.


Pantoum – Canis Lupus

Teeth rest on the skin
caressing the larynx.
You seem to fall asleep
in a palimpsest of smoke.

Caressing the larynx
under a lilac haze,
a palimpsest of smoke,
distant moon beyond the lattice.

Under a lilac haze,
curled like chitin shell
in the palimpsest of smoke,
sleeping muscle breathing still.

Curled like chitin shell
we will not escape;
sleeping muscle breathing still
as the sky, the idle clouds.

We will not escape
from the poem that you read
to the sky, the idle clouds,
your breath like spirits rising

from the poem that you read.
You seem to fall asleep
your breath like spirits rising.
Teeth rest on the skin.

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