Friday, 28 October 2011
Thursday, 20 October 2011
Monday, 9 May 2011
The day before I started work
At my new office job.
I tried to tune the radio
And natter while we had to wait
For them to call your name
But all I got was Heart FM
And static. I just made it worse
For everybody else.
And then they sentenced you to death
And gave you leaflets you can’t read
Because of your bad eyes.
A miner’s lungs are chock with dust,
Like wrapping paper, ripped and chucked
In Argos shopping bags
The day that shadows Christmas Day.
These things we used to love, and, then,
We burn, or throw away.
There’s nothing hidden in my chest
But air, conditioned in the pumps
Of tubes and on the train
And in the softening hours spent
On chairs in meeting rooms with pens
For picks and ink for veins.
I drove you home in winter rain,
My Nissan Micra stuck behind
A truck that ferried skips.
These massive yellow coffins racked
In rows to bury working men
Who coughed themselves to death for jobs
That waved them off with fucked-up lungs
Instead of carriage clocks.
My colleagues walking outside in their bubbles; gone:
Entangled in their introspective scenes
Identity, the subtle debt, long overdrawn.
Set free from email screens and office schemes,
They’re unaware I’m clocking up the leagues
They've cast their souls out on the winds to sea
To nest improbably, like halcyons.
They wander past the verges choked with weeds.
The nettles dream of golden galleons.
Thursday, 26 August 2010
Thursday, 21 January 2010
My keyboard’s very dusty on my desk
There’s bits of fluff and specs from god knows when
All stuck between the keys where you can’t get
To with your fingertips or with your pen.
I wish I had one of those things, you know,
Those tiny hoovers that you sometimes see.
I’d run the nozzle up and down the rows
Between the numberpad and function keys.
But then, I could just turn it upside down
And slap the back and jiggle it about…
I’ve seen that done before, but then, I’ve found
The desk gets dirtied when the dust falls out,
A grey duvet of dead skin cells and hair,
The sheddings of your keystruck love affair.
Monday, 14 December 2009
Your fingers walk like numb Cornettos on
the keyboard keys, deleting spam
Viagra emails from Nigerian diplomats
and looking at the clock to see
if it's time yet for your cup of tea
and wondering who brought those biscuits in
and what a nice old tin they're in
and do you sit near her enough to ask her please?
It's half past nine and you're already bored.
Maybe the heating's broken
so you could go home?
But no, the radiator rattles at you
like a cancer patient battling on
"I'm still alive, you mother fuckers!"
but at least in hospitals the bloody heating works,
at least you get to see the nurse's smiling face,
in hospitals it's not as cold as outer space
and you can tell the living
from the dead.
Not like this place.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
I soughtest out the DVD
From shops where banners bode
For ten pounds I could freely see
The Christmas episode.
I'd gone and missed it on TV
So pounds I paid them ten
To find out whether David Brent
Would do that dance again.
O! With trembling hands I swiftly
to my home did frollick
To see that "MC Hammer shit"
But did he? Did he bollocks.
This gunk i cough up
is green and it glows;
The slime in my throat
that sprays out my nose
is thumping about
in the tubes in my head.
Fuck going to work,
I'm going to bed.
she vowled at me,this Mancunian girl:
a; and e; like a fax machine.
I consonanted in reply,
accentless myself of course.
digging in the dankness and delving in roots;
it is enticing to imagine an igloo of rice
smothered in soysauce and sautéed in ghee
or legumes with limejuice liberally applied.
to be honest, these hedgehogs are hardly as nice:
they’re chewy like cardboard and crunchy like nuts.
their prime cuts are paltry, such puny old meat
hardly befitting the butcher to bring out his knife.
yet their flesh is well-favoured in far eastern lands;
a decadent delicacy of dubious tradition.
some say that the skin is suspiciously akin
to that of a human who hunts hedgehogs by night.
(this poem is an exercise in writing alliterative AngloSaxon-style verse, in the "syzygy of dipodic hemistichs" (!) mode of epics like Beowulf and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Props to The Ode Less Travelled, where these exercises can be found)
in October the weather
sprouts waterlogged bricks;
city streets dunked in water
like naughty witches;
the sodden verge; flooded weeds
in the sky-sucking sewers
and storm drains draining rain from
soggy clouds overhead.
do you really believe all
the rain falls back up
into the sky when it dries
off my trouser leg?
(this poem is an exercise in writing syllabic "haiku"-style verse, alternating lines of 7 and 5 syllables per line, props to The Ode Less Travelled)
The voyagers with cheap-day tickets claspTheir ugly luggage, lollygagging fagsTo lips and snogging, leaning on the glassAnd killing time and toying with their bags.They watch me eating lunch. They stare like fishWith less charisma, less romance and poise.No voyeuristic thrills are ever gainedNo hello fears, no happy farewell kiss.If either witness wanted tears of joyThey’d have the decency to take the train.My office window used to give the park.It calmed me down to look and see the treesAnd see the birds inside the trees and drunksInside the pond and punching down the beers.But then the council slipped a whole new stopFor coaches right in front of where I sit.They said it’s for a year or maybe lessBut now my little view is always croppedAnd diesel fumes come through the glass and stingThe eyes that give the backside of the bus.The man who wears the day-glo yellow vestVeers up and down all day. His name is John.We mean to get his surname somehow yet.He punches holes in tickets with a wandThat makes his chest tip upwards when it clips,Denotes authority and right of way;But power waxes where love’s glory grows.I sat and watched the crippling of the hipsI sat and watched the soulless wand decayI sat and watched the endless trippers tripI sat and watched the summer roll awayIt's not the same. The puncher just clips holes.
These are just some seasonal haikus I wrote for fun. Props to my homeboy Basho.
April; a rabbit
Suddenley in the garden,
Sunburnt legs swollen, basking
Foolishly like sharks
Autumn leaf, rotting
Beneath a million brothers;
Sweet decay escapes
This December sex:
Duvets and central heating,
Moisture on glazing
These pages tasted like applause: So sharp at first but soon a mush;
They globulated into paste.This plastic pen was warm like ice
That doesn't melt; or glass with sweet Umami flavoured fingerprints.
This ink-line raced along my tongue: A moonray; quick and bitter; cold
And colourless; not even black. I'd know this without tasting them
Because I tried to eat the worldLike you (when I was your age) too.
stars turn supernova when they die; tyres pop and squeal before they blow;
candles shrink and gutter in their sticks. lovers’ letters flutter up in flakes
from her break-up pyres in kitchen sinks, while volcanoes sputter out the sky.
social workers burn out at their desks and it’s not till lunch break that you see
her go kicking pigeons round the park.
They carved my head
But now the letters
Will not let me sleep.
They keep me up
At night, the words
Of spells that spell
The names of trees
In lowercase, in
Case you want to see
Them join their hands
Like walkers in
The woods. I'm wide
Awake, at war
With runes that won't leave
Me alone to read.
One lonely boob conducting moods at sea
Dogs woof yr name but then u start 2 cool
Yr horseshoe, hoof-like face cartoons a grin
Turns thin & sideways hooks & disappears
Full of milk.
Her belly brings
The moonlit nights
She’s waxing. In
The swelling tides
Are Braxton Hicks,
The kicking tips
Of dancing toes
Waiting to go
Outside and play,
Itching to skip
Across the waves.
She’s a fat croissant,
Full of milk.
And tries to catch my ear with hissed advice
“A few are country pubs on summer days:
Beer gardens made from glue and you’ll get stuck
In there for good. But others tickle you,
Like feathers do, before they fly away,”
I have no idea what to say, so I
Ignore his words for alcoballyhoo.
“Some other girls are West End musicals,”
He gets me looking up at him at last
“You wouldn’t say you had a bad time, but
You know you’ll never want to go there twice.”
He clunks the bottle hard against his tooth,
Gets off around Kings Cross and takes the tube.