Born and raised in Liverpool. Moved to Burnley. Moved back to Liverpool. Moved to Rugby. Turned 30 Oct 09. Mid-life crisis meltdown since I was around 21. 30 sort of compounded it. A few friends but not really on my wavelength. Wish they were or that I was with theirs. The rest are just chaff: mere acquaintances. (9-5) I appear to exist but the jury's still deliberating. Bring in the petri dish and you can cultivate me into a better sort of toad. Always looking at the power of expression and how far it can reach the hearts of others, as well as how ineffective it can be. Teacher. Teach the teacher for he realises the limits of his own minature pearls of wisdom. Plato or Seneca he ain't. A composer of many diatribes. One day he will find peace. Maybe. Likely not.
I remember the blue screen
Though it was curdled with cancer, it was exotic
The first time for me was Embassy
She was thick on the lungs and full-figured
The event took place at the stairwell of the nursing home
I was not yet sixteen; she was just out of the packet
During my sissy period there was Silk Cut
And I remember the adverts, before the ASA interfered
I remember Russ Abbot and those cigars
And I remember how every cigar I’ve ever had, including Cuban
has been as foul as the one before
On the count of remembering things, I remember there used to be a time
When there was no such thing as a ‘friend request’ from somebody
a) you barely know
b) you barely like
c) is a ‘mutual friend’ of somebody you
barely know and
And I remember a time when the lines on my face weren’t so deep
And I remember a time when the lines of my face weren’t on my face
And I remember the scene where Sharon Stone crosses her legs
And inhales on the little white stick seductively
Now please, please don’t bother me with your own nostalgia
Because this is a selfish exercise for me; it is my time not yours
We may share similar experiences, or you may never have smoked
One of us may have cancer
(I don't care who)
Do not like or dislike these words I have strung together
How about ambivalence?
There is a blue screen waiting to happen
On the counter there is a cigarette
Light it, smoke it…
And stop worrying about tomorrow
Nor care about the past.
There are crumbs on the side of your mouth
You never told me your appetite was back
I thought you were sick and bedridden
Who bought the meal? Not you, I suspect.
Oh by the way, did I forget to mention?
I was going to take you to Skylon in London
Because there was an offer on
in the paper; included free champagne
Perhaps my cheapness is a novelty
Why not rub it into your gums as one does cocaine?
I guarantee the thrill will be short-lived.
When you’re ‘making love’ to another man
Do you finger count the lovers you’ve had...
then run out of hands?
Before you stick your finger up his arse
Now that happened once, but I didn’t like it
She was the thirty-four year old pervert
Who stole my virginity.
When I’m window shopping, sometimes I catch sight of
the reflection I refuse to recognise
I don’t like him
I think he’s out to get me
I think he’ll stick the knife in
Because he's sure it’s better that I die
Than to suffer for my ‘art.’
I drew her carelessly
I drew her with thought
She was my blue period, my comedown
From the high that was too short.
Is every poem wrapped up in the scent of a woman?
Is every war the cause of man?
Never mind, just remove your vicious master plan
to overthrow and leave me for dead.
And endlessly, more words are said
(like these ones you’re reading now)
Speaking into the corners of blank spaces
Whispering into strangers’ ears
Only for those same said strangers to turn away
Or to congratulate because they relate
to the sorts of words you’re reading now...
What good is that?
Once more, I doubt it matters
Whether there be crumbs or dust
Or whether there be l()ve.
The Seedling (beta version)
S/he isn't weathered yet
The blood still dashes to her lips; then blushes
Neither needs application
Like the tarts do before they entangle men;
lose a bet of who gets the best
I need no lipstick collar
I shall not utter chat-up line nor holler
like the men-slags do before they're entangled
by the roving arms of those tarts.
S/he is but a seedling
S/he is not weathered yet
S/he is freshest and s/he is sweetest
S/he is adorably naive
When the monsters play
When they drink and shag their lives away
Here sit I, as good as condemning these words to pages which decay
As soon as a real life task comes along:
Wash up, clear off, or pay.
The seedling; s/he is just a thought
A vision of something that does not wither
S/he shall not bleed
For I have instructed it to be so
then it shall be.
Here is the broken pottery
the empty vessels whose carved-out interiors allows them to echo the loudest
Here is the vomit of a chat-up line
and the seedling planted from a one night stand.
And s/he will develop
S/he will grow and follow by example.
She is as dangerous as Artemis
Do not admire her bare beauty
He is the flower named Narcissus
You think the seedling is his but how could it be?
When his sideward glance was caused only by the breeze.
He'd fuck you then leave...
only if you're lucky.
You are the seedling, child
You are above thirty but less than that barren age
When a woman loses her right
Given that men steal most of them anyway
You are the seedling, you are but the imagination
of this combination of fingers and a semi-prying mind (a subhuman kind)
You are the second thought, the youthful one
Where the first thought is birth
You are planted in the softest earth
before your roots are torn and cursed
by the breath of the close-up one
admiring your dainty spade-like leaves
He's been drinking again
He will pluck you bare, behold!
Seedling, there is no summer to sustain you
You are here but you do not grow
You are nothing more than a stagnant vision
to be dismembered with the rest.
You are brown and dotted with disease
You are worms or less than these
You are the potted plant;
the indigent pest
and I am your creator.
That red apple on the table on the stage
has somehow turned green
I wonder if they'll notice or care
Painted and glazed by a stagehand who
offered her services for free
Now that's what I call creative integrity
But even she did not note the change.
Two poor players fret their hours
as the candles burn (metaphorically?)
But despite solilquy after soliloquy
nothing is gained
No crisis resolution
and when one Poor Player forgets his lines and is fed
the topic sentence from a voice in the wings
the fourth wall loses vigor
The apple was green was not red
So to the utterances, to the dried flowers by
the headstone that will rest above your head
there need be no confession or revelation
Nor climax for those watching
who haven't had the courtesy to notice
that that apple was not red
Oh, you critics
Why must you take it so damn seriously?
When essentially, and we know it:
Art is weak; is powerless
and God is dead. (?)
Not with the C but the K
And if not, would it matter?
So the meaning is: 'to cause a change'
Do you think you can deal with that?
Has there been magick in your life?
Was there magick when you told your first lie?
The first syllable was the card trick, si?
The middle syllable was the double lift, oui?
The last syllable was their gasps...
because you successfully fooled them
But that was magic with a C not magick with a K
We must not confuse the difference
Not the C but the K
No, what you did was merely lie
Like poor Eve did; the victim
She deceived and has been paying for it ever since
I've heard it's why men beat women
I've heard it was the making of Andrea DworCin
She wrote ChiCCen Soup for the Soul
She suggested the drowning of men in hot soup
She suggested it was theraputic
Or am I misleading you?
Not the C but the K
So, you devious one
You klever one with your props
Make a change
Make time stop
Go ahead and do it
Like the red light or dot, if you will
When the fools stop
When what they should do is KrAsH
For a Krash is preferable to slow demise
Plus I prefer the onomatopoeiaK solution
Not the C but the K
You know, this language we poets use to entice
Like the way cats are drawn to mice
These linguistic toys with which we play
MuChas graCias, s'il vous plait
Not the C but the K...
I think it's all bullshit
Not magick at all
And your response, oh enigmatic one?
Ah ha, you respond with a riddle!
Like so many poets do
Just as magicians hide gimmiKKs up their sleeves
And there is no change
And there is no one who believes
And there is no truthful way.
Not the C.
Not the K.
A mountain hill top
Beware: more comparisons
Will silence not do?
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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