Tag: poetry

  • The Woman Wants Me Shot Down

    The woman with the radiance of nuclear spillage waggles an ear at a bothering fly and tags shut the envelope of a day with a dry out-pointing tongue. Her eyes are inefficient sentinels harried with orders, grim as cardinals facing ordure. She has windows in her backside, sits sharply, sees everything. Her loneliness once owned…

  • In my pub over my Guinness

    In my pub over my Guinness plugged into Clover Over Dover on my white-skinned i-pod to out-hear the music turned loud and public over the pub speakers, bugged at its max vol. It’s Blur for me now, but it was Bird apple-scrappling, sax tootling scales at melodic speed and grappling to catch on the tonic.…

  • A Drinking Couple’s Love Lament

    I must ask you what you think love is, when love is not what love was when first we quenched thirst with drink both drinking finding just what love was. Since we’d never found what love was seeking love through normal means like campuses and offices, or chip-shops, parks, in staff canteens, in garages we…

  • Now we’re at least talking once again

    Now we’re at least talking once again, or, at least, sitting in the same room – well, at least for more than a moment. The Guns of Navorone have boomed and now there’s quiet. Krakatoa’s sleeping for a while, and almost purrs. There’s been, of course, silence like this before. An armistice, a shift in…

  • Random Writing Thoughts

    I stare around my room At all the books And think of author’s scribbling out the years And of their family’s dark looks. You could not live the way I do And I could not live your way Some doors are meant to be walked through And some are not to be knocked on Up…

  • Except I Probably Don’t

    I should be dead. The best I can do at anything is no good. I wake up eagerly every day and every day I’m me. Useless, useless, useless. I was better off just being alone, Rather than being as I now am, consistently lied to and hectored by needy, using people. I don’t even know…

  • Food Trade Culture Disgust

    The last laugh be on the gulag-corporate cronies who stifle their years turning bigger men’s trade in hope to engrave a pension by smashing each joyous, consensual village into a dreck of sizzle-fat glitz-drab like-logo bars and cuisineries. May their kids, their laughter, their photos rot In the gap between the gunge-crusted grill and the…

  • Netbook

    I couldn’t get served the barmaid was at the other end of the bar playing on her pink netbook i coughed and she came so to speak and i had an ale turned out i knew her ma and her ma ma later she married and sold me the pink netbook for £50 it was…

  • Relax

    40 years ago was ‘84 and I Relaxed cos I was 17 not knowing I knew nothing about war or love or hate or anything between, presuming things would work out as they should presuming should was something that was standard. The world was all before me, like a door. I chose the windows, gazed…

  • I’m sick of being true to love

    I’m sick of being true to love – I’ve seen it all before, I love her, she kisses me, goes gallivanting out the door Barely a bye of her hand she’s off, she says, to meet her friends, always a colleague, she has, in town, and that’s how my evening ends I’m not being true…