Monday, 1 August 2016

The Empath


You're scared of the dark
You love the night
You easily empathise with another in pain
For yours you pay little mind
Your ghosts awaken
As you fitfully sleep
You have self respect save the self esteem..

The things you feel
The steel you no longer feel
The healer healed only with the hurt so sealed..



Tuesday, 28 June 2016

An Extreme Case Of Pareidolia


A friend of mine said this to me once
It was quite a while ago
So I'm paraphrasing..

Here's what he said..

Oh I wrote this poem once too
It was a long time ago

He brandished a piece of air
And I asked at the air 

Only once


He nodded sagely

Only once
It didn't do anything for me..no offence but
it just wasn't me..
A bit pointless poems..
Although to be fair..it got me laid.. funnily enough..yeah yeah
She loved me for what I read out to her
I genuinely felt all of that..
all of that stuff for her..
And all those feelings just gushed right out
Almost like it wasn't me
I still think of her
You would have loved her too if you met her..
I hope wherever she is she is having a great life..
Those few weeks we spent together
They were just bliss
And the thing was
I'm sure at the time I knew it..

He trailed off wistfully
And I probably nodded
And replied

Yeah


And he probably affirmed

Yeah she really loved me for what I read out to her that day
Now..looking back..I wish..maybe..
Oh I know I can't now..
Long time ago..

His memories seemed to drift around us
Like a let-go balloon
Waiting for someone
To clutch its string
And pull it through golden fields..

But as I say poetry is like a time-waste for me..

So I tried to lightly console him

Oh but it got you a lovely girlfriend..

Yeah you're right you know
And it got me a holiday too
She invited me to stay at her dad's place in Saint Tropez
He had a casino and a yacht..
It was a bit embarrassing..

How so

Well she made me read my poem out to her dad
And I remember I said to him but I don't really write poems
And he said no don't worry I don't really either..He was a really cool guy..

He gazed at the window
Or maybe out the window
And I'm trying to recall for you which
But so sorry I can't remember
So I gaze at my mobile phone
Where this poem is gazing back at me
And it doesn't seem to know either..

So I read my poem out
And he shouted bravo in some
French words
And we all laughed
Just all laughed
And he gave me three-hundred euro-quid
to bet down at his casino
Where I won my year's travelling money
And I bought that evil motorbike..
Never again..
I'll never write a poem again..
Not sure what you see in it all..

He looked again at his empty hand of poem
So did I probably
And then
He said

The nineteen-nineties were mad weren't they
Looking back now they feel so..so destined..
I dunno..

Probably a few moments of silence..

And they were so pre-9/11 in every way..

I probably nodded an hmmn yeah I think I know what you mean
Before asking

In the past did any of your paintings ever land you a girlfriend


And he replied

..Hmm that's a good one..
Oh I suppose so
But only in an indirect free kick kind of way..
But painting
It's just me..
I just love it
You should try it sometime..

And I probably said something like

I know what you mean
Poetry for me is painting
I paint through my thought-shapes pictures of words.
.
It's also something I just have to do sometimes
It isn't for anything..
He concluded..

And that's our problem
There's no hope for either of us then mate
We should have grown up by now
The fact that we don't do this for anything is the scary bit..

And I'm sure we both laughed
And one of us probably looked out the window
While the other probably gazed at their empty hand of poem
And I can't recall which one of us did which..

And we lost touch with each other shortly afterwards..







Tuesday, 21 June 2016

Poets Should Be Teachers Like Submariners Should Be Bricklayers


Izny the Zepoleene
Wasn't very good rhyming words
But was very good rhyming clouds
Now how many poets can beat that

Mimzy the Triximeme
Wasn't too au fait tilling fields
But was very good tilling cows
So how many farmers have seeded that
                                                          ahem

Please note
Mizmy could also tile cows
And the cows graciously enjoyed grazing mosaically
 their untilled fields
Mooing gentle shimmering chessboards..
                  
    ..Only to be check-mated later
      By the abattoir gentleman
His first pre-dawn task
Happy-finishing the milkmaid
 Clasping her buttocks 
  with his clammy
       thrumming tactical bingo-numbed mugwump fingers
beneath the Ben-Day Dot reversing twilight..

Morphing now rapidly into a kinetic
Hulk killing-machine post-Heathcliff

 Deployed James Blunt secrets still echo-throe her
inside her post-coital ears

A delicate sunrise
       A circular-saw screeching

      Cow eyes silently beseeching
         Squares polka-dot Pollocked

                Stun-punched and Picasso'd 
 Curated into Cubist frozen fractal Guernica-
smorgasbord
 by Evensong..

                                                                      
Cixxy the Nipineem
Wasn't very good with the ladeez
But was great at pulling daisies
Now how many Alan Titchmarshes can do that



Please note
Cixxy also once allegedly pulled Alan Titchmarsh

Observe
I said allegedly

And that allegedly is a VERY big ALLEGEDLY indeed
So please note that dear litigious post-rock poetry haters

                                          Thank you so very much

Now the question remains
Where did Cixxy allegedly pull Titchmarsh to
This being a matter of some fierce and dissonant discourse and debate..


You know
   the Alan Titchmarsh fan community 
       is a frighteningly fractious and recalcitrant place..

One theory has it
Cixxy pulled Titchmarsh into a hedgerow
The other
Cixxy threw Titchmarsh over a windmill
Which makes much more sense to me
As
Nipineems often throw objects of their desire over windmills

In Nipineem culture you see
Throwing someone over a windmill
Is a sure-fire gentle-hearted method of breaking the ice
Especially when you throw someone over a windmill
And they smack side-on into a frozen pond

And as we all must acknowledge 

Titchmarsh is the uber alpha male
Thus likely to excite and trigger
       bursting Nipineem hormone bubbles
Small allegedly this time
But big allergy
Especially if you suffer from hay fever
And don't do elegy poetry..
  
   sad swans
pill-popping pylons swaying in corn circles d
esultory ducks

      the thwack of leather on willowy nun  the pissed parson pressing grapes at the fete

a flying screaming
to-be sneezer
smashing into a frozen pond..
                                                        Typical phoned-in imagery
                          of countryside idyll-dystopia twenty-first century wonder-porn...

     Okay     Now    
That's a Hank Kingsley Hey now
Post-rock poetry groupies
Imagine being thrown over a windmill
And smashing yourself through a frozen pond
And having a sneezing fit
After breaking above the marbled glass waves of shattered ice..


                                  Now
Does this second scenario make much more sense to you too
Let us have a fierce debate
But no violence please
We all know how these
Titchmarsh-thrown-over-a-windmill

                                   head-breaks-pond
                                           sneezing-fit debates can escalate

You've been there
Yeah I can tell
Me too oh me too
incidentally,,

For
Nipineems
The windmill
Came before the chicken and egg
Windmills and
Nipineems both being lacto-vegetarian

                                                                                                                  random thought..
..for there are no rules to invoking romantic rainbows..
end of random thought..

                                  Now
May I ask you one question please
Okay thanks
                                  Hey now
                            Here is another
Has the legend that is Titchmarsh
Mentioned this controversial biopic episode in his sneering
And perhaps seething
No-holds-barred
Warts-and-all
But generous-to-a-fault-that's-me 

                       I-can't-help-myself autobiography

Frankly
I haven't yet invested in his ghost-written autobiography
I mean how on earth do ghosts manage to even hold a pen..



I wish this poem had an end
But where does that begin..
Now here you go ladies
Gird your loins
Ugh
Isn't loins the most horrible poetry-word
Probably in any English language
Gird your lions
Yes
That is much better
Ladies
Gird your lions..mooo
That lion roared moo because it has mad cow disease
Bee Tea Double You


So
Ready yourselves
Seamless post-rock poem-gear-shift in..
T-minus 5
4
3
2
1
..
Blast off..

An alien crash-landed in
Taplow
His crease-free silver space suit
      hung from his saucer's back window
Creased

By the busted furry robot
Bouncing off the helium-3 air-bags
And so luckily for him that visible interior vacuum-atmos-ambience

        fit right into the
              Taplow sales rep groove

The sales reps racing to
Taplow singing
Squeeze My Baby Aubergine

Noted the crash-landing saucer
And almost stopped to watch this strange tableaux
But they didn't
I admire that

They didn't travel all the way to
Taplow
From as far away as
Langley
Only to witness a typical alien sales rep saucer-crash-land tableaux
Even though the alien wasn't a typical sales rep at all
No
He was actually an archetypal atypical alien area sales MANAGER
Who was once subtly depicted in a tapestry
Bayeux
Back in the day when archetypal atypical alien area sales MANAGERS

                                               rodeo-rode around in Agarthan chariots
                                              And made their go-faster-striped ass-racers 
                                               piss in plastic bags made of parchment-reeds
                                              to be thrown carelessly outside the
                                             Dinky Donkey drive-in amphitheatres                                              Nothing changes eh

This is the end
As Jim Morrison famously once sang

This is the beginning
His admiral father less famously might have conspiratorially whispered
In the
Gulf of Tonkin

And that's a very speculative musing there
            my post-rock poetry haters..



https://youtu.be/CIrvSJwwJUE
The End



Friday, 10 June 2016

Sunday, 5 June 2016

I'm Going To Write A Poem About You


Childish I'm sure
But the way that pavement cyclist 
Pedestrian-pranged me his signature 
I became his press-ganged human speed-bump
Suffering concrete-kissing discomfiture
Well he certainly deserved nothing less
than the back hand of my pierian
So as the pebble-assed smurf pelted away
Revolving dalek camera on his pompous high viz head
I brushed myself down
Bracing myself for what I am called here to do
So of course I shouted after the piston-peddle ghoul
I'm going to write a poem about you
            Yeah you
                          You


Cab drivers waved and saluted
A high street nun ran from across the street
Just to kiss my hand
A police officer nodded then walked on by
We reached a mafia code-silent understanding
She even threw me her pen

Immature I know
But my annual performance review left a taste bitter
Yet again informed I wasn't short-list-quality promotional candidature
Apparently singularly undermining the rise of the firm's added-value line curvature
And somewhat fazed by another HR ninja
Her reptilian wax-line grin 
              all herbal teabag voodoo reasoning
Gifted me the spiritual cue as of a dream
So as I turned and strolled out the room
I'm going to write a poem about you
Boom

The shop steward hooted 

Offered me exclusive black label vodka undiluted
Two babes at the tea point blinked me the sauciest of winks
A glimpse of nocturnal promise 
Probably no methinks
But perhaps a lingering warm embrace
An admiring sloppy kiss
Do earnest-brow rhymes emit such subtle pheromone
Is poetry actually for this
If only at sixteen I had known this
      If only I had known this
             at thirty-six


On a distant parallel earth I've known
Conflicts are always fought with verse
The only distant shock waves emanate from startling sonic couplets
The only missiles flying are sirens' missives mystic
We listen
They listen
No bullying
No murder
Just rhymes
Or blank verse
Should nothing else work
Not sure whether blank verse or violent death is worse
I pray for the semi-innocent witnesses of performance poetry sometimes
We all know performance poetry isn't always a victimless crime..

The crime scene cordoned off with police tape
The body tagged under the sheets 
And that's just the poet
The emcee in the corner pleads with the detectives
A smoked-glass stretch limo snakes slowly by outside
A poetry agent in the back snuffs out his cigar
Observing the aftermath sits back
Whispers something enigmatic to the chauffeur
Who then races away into the feral and starless night..

And once upon a time I said
I'm going to write a poem about you
It was while she tipped tinned spaghetti all over my head
Before magically brandishing
                          and then smashing my new laptop                                            repeatedly over the bedstead
                                                      But it was okay for her to do this she said
                                                                             As it was her bedstead


Case for the prosecution closed
I was tried and convicted and living dead
I should have fled but instead
I raised with her this terrifying prospect
I'm...going...to...write...TWO...poems...about....you now
All pregnant pause in italics for emphasis 

                                                      with the TWO capitalised for added dramatic effect
Harold Pinter on the decks
She laughed then
I doubt that she's laughing now..



Friday, 20 May 2016

You Should Have Been Here Yesterday (Copenhagen Unicorns And Stockholm Starfish)


You should have been here yesterday
Ten thousand flamingos danced all over the square
A bouquet of jasmine blooms filled the air
Golden geese spiralled a mid-air fanfare
Peace doves gently dropped ribbon boxes of chocolate eclairs

You should have been here yesterday
Billionaires gave away their mansions and wares
Rare paintings
             and rare cars 

                       with free aftercare
The wise wizards granted wishes 

                       striking snowy lightening air
And bushy-tailed genies offered magic carpet rides free to anywhere

You should have been here yesterday
Fireworks reaching the stars 

                                    stunned an amazed crimson dream sky
Airships spiralled lasers of dazzling dancing blue fire
Dolphins rodeo-rode zookeepers through hoops of spinning tyres
Snowboarders flew upside mountains gravity-defying them
                                                                                   and never tiring

You should have been here yesterday
Guitar-playing hyenas serenaded peacocks under ice cream trees
Rabbits on table mats sold honey for sun-bathing bees
A circus of acrobats juggled three ballet-performing fleas
Tortoises ran hundred metre races under ten seconds with ease

You should have been here yesterday
Pandapenguinparrots danced the samba on ice
Polar bear waiters
                 with chop stick carrots
                                    served lemony rice
Jam-hamsters razzing chariots 
        baked strawberry pizzas and pies
And meerkats whisked chips well mushy
        and deep-fizzy-fried

Albatrosses jammed on ukuleles
Stockholm Starfish skydived with parachutes of bay leaves
     delivering azaleas 
          dahlias 
                 capercaillies
Nightingales swooped above a swooning
               Pygmalion and Aphrodite


As alien shaman
         Whirled to mermaids' songs

                        Copenhagen Unicorns 
                                   On golden orbs soaring
                                           Were airborne

                                            
Raucous minotaurs joined in warbling
From the dinosaur superstore we were all cheering applauding
I'll shut up now I'm getting boring



Friday, 13 May 2016

How I Defeated A Buy-To-Let Landlord




Oh I didn't
I didn't defeat a buy-to-let landlord
Not one so much as once


Yet
Lo
I have this poem
So we can call it a draw


I didn't defeat a buy-to-let landlord
Not so much as once so..


So I have this poem
A low-fi kind of poetry Lo
For a lo-fi kind of draw

Now indulge me for moments and ponder this
If every poet were able to defeat buy-to-let landlords
Where would poetry be
Nowhere near poetry


With quality kitchen units of Atlantian crystal
Colour coded en-suite lapis lazuli bathrooms
A delightful cacophony of blue hue iridescence

Studded rhinestones blaze
Amaze the child-minders

And
 what about.. 
A heart-shaped swimming pool with Icelandic steam sauna 
A triple-aspect air-conditioned jade balcony towering above 
your cavernous multi-level sprawling basement 
Such subterranea-fracking de-rigueur
                                                     in Kensington and Chelsea



Italian marble decking for the dodo birdcage..


Luxury Persian carpets and cats 
Luxury cats 
Their fur 
Like satin Venusian clouds 
The textured weave of orchids' gossamer petals 
Shimmery Arctic summer
Oenomel nectar dewy

Subdued chandeliers lightly dot the mezzanine 
Tear drop spotlights hang
                              outside your offspring's garden ziggurat
 
Quartz snooker table 
Conch-shaped rabbit hutches 
Elgin Marbles 
Koh-i-Noor 
Faberge

Well you must know where I am going with this 
You surely must 
As some of you have known me through poetry since 2009 
International soul-minds now meshed
                                                                 intricately aligned

                                                                        oftentimes

Seven years is longer than most buy-to-let tenancies 
Indeed longer than most intimate relationships  
Most jobs most friendships 
Most government inquiries 
Most 
Syrian children's lifespans.. 

2009  
There will never quite be another 
Unless a new messiah arrives 
Then we will have another 2009 
2010 years after he is crucified
  
Crucified by the media this time 
That is unless the new messiah is media-manufactured 
A media-manufactured messiah 
Won't be crucified 
Certainly not by the media 
Until the appointed time and hour.. 
Then shall be 
And we will join in the deeming
Because we won't want to feel outside of things 
As we are social animals


One manifestation of the social animal in the early 21st century 
Chickens and eggs atavism
Gonzo tabula rasa
The shapeless mandate 
The flesh-on-pixel drones lock-and-load
             copulate
                         the hand-me-down copy-and-paste



We throw the stones 
As the quarrymen blast rocks from thrones
The ghostly reflections of the unchosen
Rippling fall
Often opaque outside our glassed-in knolls


He turns water into wine 
So encourages irresponsible drinking 
He gives away free loaves of bread 
Knowing carbohydrates trigger obesity 
He forgives all sinners
But will he cure their diabetes
He is politically correct gone mad 
He hangs out with a prostitute 
So I ask you 
What more needs to be said 
                                            The feminist

And 2009 years' or so ago 
There would have been a poet 
Musing similarly
Holding a quill wearing a toga 
Although I have no idea  how a quill is able to wear a toga 
One of those lost arts
                                       did I just spill my poem inside your champagne.. 

A poet living in affordable opulence 
Would look around themselves askance 
And muse 
I really must let go of this childish versifying thing 
It no longer seems.. 
                          It no longer seems...

Leaning there 
Against your quartz snooker table 
Poetry not very fitting 
For a distinguished human being  
Of your economically elevated status and bearing 

Once in a lifetime..
 My God what have I done..* 
                                                                                     
Lo 
Buy-to-let landlords 
This is my poem dedicated to you 
And 
To whatever religion or spirituality you belong 
An infinite shower of blessings 

You are the divine unicorn incarnate 
You stoke us wild with creativity
               The embittered poets sated 
                           Such as me myself and me 
You embody and personify the rarest nobility 

You are both spiritual and religious And that must not be easy
Buy-to-let landlords 
You really humble this poet  
              with your sure-footed power shower benefaction action
      
Buy-to-let landlords 
You only rip us off to inspire 
You are all from head-to-toe soaked drenched 
Stumbling out the bedazzled dairy
The very dairy of human kindness 
The very goats 
The very camels 
The very cows..
Milk 
Asses milk
Old Testament asses milk 
The best kind 
The only kind.. 
Forget high street asses milk 
This asses milk puts high street asses milk in the shade 
Asses don't make asses milk like they used to 
Although their goats milk 
is perfectly reasonable
  
 
Honey dew melons 
Fig trees 
Baby dolphins squeak splashing inside their pools
Your Emperor penguins playfully frolick 
                inside your walk-in fridge/freezers

Buy-to-let landlords 
Your property ours for an unreasonable fee 
And perhaps more unreasonably 
I encourage you all to please charge ever more unreasonably 
For it would inspire us poets more I'm sure 
Although I concede that's only me being greedy
Greedy for your gifts of melancholy
 
And yes
For this greed 

This strange gluttony
I feel ashamed

Buy-to-let landlords
Forgive me.. 
  
 


 

* "Once in a Lifetime" by Talking Heads