All 28 entries tagged Poetry

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December 19, 2009

Man on Train

russes


THERE’S A MAN ON THE TRAIN.

HE HAS A MOLE ON HIS EYE.

IT LOOKS LIKE A TEARDROP.

his foot accidentally touched mine,

twice, and he peered around to

either adore or ignore me. I never

understand. I never understand.



Pinocchio

pin


pinocchio, apple core in hand. walking with honest john. walking to stromboli. i am, i am, i am.



smoking cyanide


birthing bleach


cumming bleach


smothering bleach


smoking bleach


bleaching cyanide


disney shouted


BLEACH BLINDS



so john throws the apple core to the floor. so i skip. so i stumble. so i bleach, bleach, i bleach.



i am a real boy


i make puppets


December 11, 2009

WAR MANIFESTO 1: Cold War Bunker

BOO


I WANT TO LIVE

IN A COLD WAR

BUNKER. I WANT

TO LIVE IN A COLD

WAR BUNKER. I

WANT TO LIVE IN

A COLD WAR

BUNKER.


and i will storm
onto that stage

and i will stage
that storm

and i will stride
through storms

and my storms
will stage

another cold
war.

But
one
man
will
change
nothing.

I
keep
telling
the
estate
agent

that
one
man
will
change
nothing.


I cannot believe that she was my dressing gown

boo saville



Madeline McCann was lying
as a pile of crumpled flannel
under the haze of the drizzle
of the morning’s curtain smog.



The fabric folded around her
face, pleating blonder hair
around the heavy hand resting
on her concave cheek.


She lay like a statue. A toppled
-don’t say fallen, she was never
fallen- statue. Don’t, there was
no sediment. There was no dust.

I did nothing.




Edit!

Follow-up to How I Spent My Summer, 2001 from THE burning boy

Here is a rewrite of 'How I Spent My Summer, 2001'

broken tree


1.
The tree startles
the clouds.

We shiver praise.

One time lovers
sheltering from the rain.

We shock no-one.

The tree gorges
on the birds.

2.
My brother fled over the river.
I saw his shadow wain soft
Through the mottled glaze of my window.

Patches of Iron heather
strangled my attention away
from his garroted gait.

Only tree. My brother fled.
The stench of age hung
strange on its matted branches.

3.
The river and the bark
mould love on the bank.
We cull romance.

My brother fled, and I followed.
The tree stretched my
blue dungarees.

The branch twists me.
Still. The branch twists.
Oh, and I fled

over the river, to
the hovering rope swing.
To the spindled branch,

swinging soft on the pink
rope. It rests, taut, around
my view of the stars.

4.
The clouds fled, and I followed.

I cannot taste the moon.


December 10, 2009

Decade

robot


1.

Dog politics
make diabetic
greed aesthetic

and we were made
to feel angry
that the soldiers

did not have
ample equipment
to create

more
disability.

2.

It’s like Men and Men
didn’t breathe
anywhere else

but behind hedgerows
in dark parks.
And priests didn’t

understand that
Jesus was more
than a paycheck.

Ribbon schism,
scamming holes
over religion.

3.

No. There is
nothing grand

in making
pain rhyme.

(But now,
but now,
we celebrate.)

4.

The point is
that time
can only
accommodate

cupboard married
emotions.
It makes nothing
, additions,

and this is
the same year
that Hitler-PE
was the greatest

fear of the swollen,
pregnant,
drunken
youth.

5.

I cannot remember
much about Tony Blair,
but he had a big
cartoon smile

and lovely big
hands in those
pictures in the back

of the Guardian.
And there was a war
in a desert,
but nothing in Ireland.

He made nothing.

6.
.Cat (and) Dogma

,photo ideology,

WE ARE IDIOTS.

Lube Protest
at the May march
for more rights
or something

Tears float.
Water ruptures
the ocean’s shiny
floor dry

.WE ARE IDIOTS

,poster philosophy,

Steak (and) Religion.

7.
Vomit marriage
shocks no-one.
Crystal smack

of 1950s love.
Nostalgia died.
We are modern.

For the family!
I got married
to someone I

barely knew
(because I
could and

because we
were already
pregnant

with food babies)
But I never
divorced.

Unlike most people,
I am ancient
without my divorce.

8.
Everyone
died
from
taking
too
many
bad
bad
bad
drugs.
Not
(andIsnortedchocolatefornotthelasttimeandwrotewhilstundertheinfluence

butIwouldn’tchangeanythingaboutmycomingfrombeingachildtoashitstirring

sychopantwithacneboytothiswhichcannotbenamedIamontologicalIamnothing

morethanarandomassortmentofletters)
me
though
because
I
won.

9.

And you’ve already

forgotten about
Ice Cancer.
You lose.

10.

ten dead men.

ten dead men.

you choose who.

ten dead men.


December 08, 2009

Things they never told me when I was young

Illustrated by Juliette Aristides' 'And It's...(Boy in Room)'

boy


When Strawberries rot they taste
like the eyes of an orphaned calf.

Love is dogs. 

The moon sparks change around the
world, but everyone still drinks milk.

Dogs kill babies.

Cocaine fucks are better than
the satisfaction of just.saying.NO.

Babies become rapists.

Adults are just children with
more skin and mortgages.

Rapists eat chocolate.

Wonder rusts, with age, like
pet dogs die and die.

Chocolate kills dogs.

People don’t make any noise
when they die. And forgotten.

Dogs aren't love.


December 03, 2009

Earthworm

earthworm dry


There is not a lot to say about a dirty earthworm. It’s dirty. It’s an earthworm. It’s a dirty earthworm.
It squirms like it can be compressed into a single, pink ball without breaking. It is perfect. Earthworms are never starched. They cannot be confused with the mourning collar of a parish vicar. Burrowing through their mud-pit, I doubt if they question why they can’t spend their lives lounging on a plush armchair reading Dostoyevsky and complaining that their tea is just a little too hot and their children a little too smug.
If silver, each of its rings would gleam, gleam with each of its lazy contractions. It would curve itself around my wrist and be my super-amazing-awesome-bracelet...but it is pink. It is mushy. It is the wrong sort of supple. It would fall, fall and die to enable my indulgence. Oh, Earthworm. Oh, martyr.
No, there is not a lot to say about a dirt-sodden earthworm. Perhaps, one day, they will become extinct and nothing would change. I will miss rescuing them from pavements. I will miss saving them from the grubby mouths of seven year old boys who think that just because The Twits made worm spaghetti it’s OK-COOL to eat them. Oh, Earthworm. Oh, martyr.


Walking Home, I Saw

red riding


Walking home, I saw

a black lady
walking the street
with a CRIMEWATCH
logo emblazoned
above her left
bosom.

Walking home, I saw

the same patch of
vomit on the corner
of the street
that was there
two weeks
ago;

The vomit, not the
street.
Although, I suppose,
the street as well.
The same street
with the black lady

who walked, cross
armed, past me
with her blue,
zip-up,
CRIMEWATCH
hoodie.


November 25, 2009

Duvet number Two.

flying duvet


A
blue

coloured
duvet.

Elegantly
feathered

guardian.
Heart,

inert,
jumps.

Kiss
luring

motion,
not

our
pretty

quilt.
Rabid,

stocky,
thief

unloading
vanities.

Wanton
xeriscape,

your
zero.


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