Moare Older Poems (1984-2002ish)

 

Deep

If you are agonising
Over which designer egg cups to buy
Then your life may be
Too full
Of vanity
And frivolity 

Smokin'!

I am a professor of social engineering
My cigs are my social toolbox
"Would you like a fag?" to a room of strangers =
"I come in peace"
Embarrassed, awkward?
Anxious, cracked a bad joke?
Light up a fag!
Want to look generous? 
Offer everyone a cigarette
I'm never alone
With my 20 Strands
Trying to look sophisticated?
Want to meet more people?
START SMOKING!
Want Rebel Legend Mystique?
Smoke Marlboro Reds
Want to be a supermodel?
Smoke Bro Golds
Want to be a true player?
Smoke Camels
 

Well

I did not play myself in
But I made three appointments at the dentist
On the off chance 
That I would

Down Memory Lane

Some of the windows
Have a rose tint
The road is cobbled with millstones
Down short-term memory lane
There is a pothole


Manners

I was quietly picking my nose
And got a bad reaction
Do they react so strongly
When they see things that are really disgusting?

(Her) Presents

If I was a poet
I would say that the only thing that you can change is the present
Not the future or past
But that is not true
There is no receipt or proof of purchase as
All presents are given 
And we receive the present
But that is not the same thing as fate
The hardest thing in the world
Is sometimes the music stops
You get excited
And you have to pass the parcel
No one forces you to
You just have to let go
It is harder if it is your birthday 
Or it feels like it is 
It is difficult when it is a mystery prize
Or a ribboned riddle
I think proper poets call it passing by
There are a lot of presents in the future
But a lot less in the past
And the only way to find a good present is to
Get stuck in to the lucky dip of life and
Help yourself

Port

In a port things come and go
In a port some things never return
In a port you feel the rain more
In a port some people are cold
In a port there are dark cocoa mills
In a port there are betting shops
In Portakabins by the docks
In a port there are many boats and faces
In a port there is always something fishy
In a port things can't stay the same
 
Choonz

Cars go by
Hissing with the sound of amplified hi-hats
Some slide by like rattle snakes
Others sound like dodgy kettles


V.S.O.P 

I'd like to be the writer type
With a click click typewriter
I would have to smoke a pipe
And relight it with a lighter
I would drink black coffee
Pondering , scratching my beard
I'd get brandy from the offy
And people would say " He's weird! "

Centre of the Universe

I can see the love glowing in your eyes
Or is it the Starburger sign I see?
Doner kebab is in the air
Or is it love?
This is Frimley
Noise  and smell
I want to give all this to you
Lets hit the traffic island ( as in town)
Please do not give me the cold , hard shoulder
Roads, motorway and dual carriageways
You are the quiet above the drone
My focus in this blur
You are a daylight smile
Underneath the withering neon glare
You are the music above the electric hum
A reference point in this featureless town
In streets of monoxide and lead
Your oxygen goes to my head
You are strobe animation among grey suits
Are you real virtuality or Vanessa Parody?
You seem to fluoresce in that dress
You masturb my disturbation
Dilute my concentration
You are some stillness in the swarm

The Closed Circuit Teardrops

In this takeaway town 
No one gives a fuck
Everything has a short shelf-life:
Jobs, marriages and friendships
Modern life seems to be made of many Velcro relationships
Pushed together
Torn apart
Please don't crush my Styrofoam heart
It will not decompose
It can not be recycled 
You smoulder like a cigarette
Not extinguished by this ashtray town
It is not the cigarette that counts
It is the packet that matters
The electric light in this room is so strong 
It feels like it is bleaching my head and hands
In this town there is no scenic route
Nothing is in black and white
Just grey 


Rowhill

I like to play on words 
Like they are blades of grass
In a field on a sunny day
I do not use artificial fertiliser on my words
Just pure bull shit 


Just Words

She is one hell of a woman
She only calls me on payday
She is a harpy 
In Harpic
One flutter of her eyelashes
Can cause a tornado on the other side of the world
She is a siren 
Blaring in my ear
She gives me the best evils that I have ever seen
She gets me in hot water
Then hauls me over the coals
She glares daggers at me
Then throws knives at me
She bleeds me astray
She has snake hips on the dance floor
She is not allergic to caviar or champagne
She likes to piss on my bonfires (literally)
She likes to grill me about everything that I do and say
Over a low flame 
Slowly

Provisional Poetic Licence

I have passed the theory
But not the practical
I tend to look in the rear view mirror too much
I am not good at reading the signs and signals
The fast lane is sometimes too fast for me
I have blindspots in my windscreen as well
I am not good at indicating
Giving way or racing
Music distracts my concentration
I wear a seatbelt
I seem to drive better on my own

Eyes

Her eyes are one big question
In them I think I can see my future family tree
Her eyes flash like a lighthouse 
That drags me towards the rocks
She is my pupil dilator
She makes me want to die later
I am neurotransmitten
 
Pubzzz

In the Wheatsheaf
I can (pick my nose)
Burp 
Fart and spit
In a snoozers boozer
I can only talk 
Drink and sit
 
Valentine

Roses are red 
Violets are blue
Daffodils are yellow
And chrysanthemums are difficult to spell

Home (written aged 13 years)

They handed me a bag 
I unzipped it
I black suit
2 white shirts
2 white vests
2 pairs of underpants
2 pairs of socks
1 tube of toothpaste
1 toothbrush
1 five pound note
One train ticket
All in a black plastic holdall
I sighed
The records officer called me
"Sign this form Sir"
That sheet
Fourty years in the slammer
What a contrast
I drew my 1950 Parker pen
From my top left hand jacket pocket
The scratchy nib failing to make an impression on the sheet
I hesitantly asked
"Erm can I borrow a pen?"
The officer yawned and threw me a biro  
I signed my liberation
The warder drew a large
Bunch of keys from his pocket
He strolled up to the main door
The key slid into the slot
As the warder heaved open the giant door
The joints groaned under the strain
"Well then Sir. Let's not be seeing you again!"
I walked out
I was free
The door slammed behind me
My bag at my feet
I looked around
My, how the world had changed
Half of my life wasted
By some man's lie
The sun shone through the electric fence
I could see the shadow of the barbed wire 
On the concrete road before me
What did I have to back to?
Nothing
My parents died 20 years ago
A cool wind blew on my face
I turned up my collar
And sunk my hands deep into my pockets
I picked up my bag from my feet
I felt like rifling a telephone box
So I could go home 

Pinned

I am pinned to this place
I am pinned to this face
I am pinned to this race
I am pinned to disgrace

I have sinned
I am pinned

I am pinned to your door
While I am pinned to the floor
I am pinned by my fame
I am pinned to my name

I am pinned to my flaws
I've been pinned here by the laws
I am pinned by my pain
I am pinned to the game

My eyes are pinning
The world is not spinning 
For me

Radude

I'm in extreme sports gear
To go down the pub
In combat trousers
To play Nintendo
I'm wearing running shoes
To walk down the road
And in cyber undies
To do the washing up

Statement

I do not write urban hymns
But provincial poems

Statement 2

I am glad that
I do not write war poems
Whether commissioned by The Guardian
Or not
Many war poets
Are real
Poets on the underground

Simple Pleasures Are Free?

Does he regularly eat chocolate?
Get to watch the silver screen?
Does he regularly eat chocolate?
Show his face on the club scene?

Has he checked out the Tate Modern?
With the same passion he checks Tesco's waste? 
London for all your leisure
You may repent at haste.

Does he like to browse in Waterstone's?
Check out the latest (chocolate) bar?
Does he regularly eat food?
He has no home, job or car.

Apart

There is a man 
Up in the sky
Head in the clouds
In that crane

He has friends at work
But he don't know 
Their surnames

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Comments

Cynthia Buell Thomas

Profile image

Mon 23rd May 2011 16:15

Posting like this will not endear you to readers, C Byrne, which is too bad because much of this work is quite interesting. Perhaps you meant to put this collection in the Samples part of your Profile, and you just got mixed up. They would be excellent there. Readers often go to that section to follow up a writer if a poem or two has really interested them. In this arena it is 'socially' understood that only one poem goes in at a time, especially if you would enjoy some feedback. You can catch me on my Profile if you have any questions, or annoyances.

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