Poetry Blogs (Homelessness)

The peasants have gatecrashed the reception

And made a beeline for the buffet plates,

The guests are appalled

Saying “Let’s get them hauled

To the dungeons before it’s too late”.

There’s a tramp hiding under the table,

A pheasant leg clamped in his teeth.

He’ll gnaw to the bone

While the table guests groan

About the smell that wafts up from beneath.

There’s ...

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Been working on this for a while... not sure about it really, but see what you think..

Stu of the Steps

This is my pitch, here’s where I sit

Cardboard and cushion to keep cold at bay

Down steps from the station, just half way

Gives em time to see me, reflect a bit.

Not all the way down, hanging in there

Holding my own, keeping my space

Forgotten detritus of t...

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They pretend not to see me

as I lay here cold, drenched, dying

coughing up blood from the chill to my lungs

my clothes tattered....torn

sleeping bag drenched not only through exposure

but the bloody minded ignorance of someone

who has never known desperation

using my only source of warmth and comfort

as a urinal

Lips cracked through dehydration

pernio bringing ag...

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So many are falling from the skies, of comfortable lives

Until between the clouds, we can see me and you

Drinking in the bar one minute

Then outside Tesco

Mouths ajar

So many are breaking up inside

Falling from the skies,

Of comfortable lives

Passing the credit cards

Trying to grasp Universal Credit

Fingertips touching their children

On the way down

La...

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Bag Of Bones

Please let me introduce myself -

my name is Billy Jones.

You might know me better

as that useless bag of bones

that gets under your feet

when you’re staring at your phones,

planning all your creature comforts

on extortionate pay day loans.

Well I was once like you my friend,

I haven’t always been alone

huddled up in corners

where the autumn lea...

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Forsaking Auld Lang Syne

The city centre puddles

reflect fireworks in the sky

whilst stripped

Christmas wrapping paper

soaks up the deluge

like a homeless sleeping bag.

Dustbins overflow with leftovers

oiled with greasy greed.

A bottle of wine splatters against

the multi-storey car park wall,

vomited from the throat

of opulence at midnight.

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This Is England

the empty cardboard

coffee cup groans with hunger

eyes to eyes to anything

that isn’t eyes

clothes that itch with dirt

the taste of yesterdays soup

settles against teeth

sleep is the enemy

dulling your hopes of escape

if the spiteful arrive

with mean intentions

and brown leather boots

head bowed against the world

not looking ...

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It’s the final burial ground –

the place where they go to die;

lapping dirt-brown waves;

tourist couples bidding goodbye.

Ships slicing through soundlessly,

as smog adorns the sky.

A pigeon hobbles by on its stump,

while a gull lets out a mournful cry;

beside benches, an old man holds out his cup;

on the cobblestones stands a solitary bride.

A homeless girl leans agai...

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Arroyo

The rain has fallen down for twenty hours
from a dead sky of slate and granite hews,
dampening the walls of urban towers.

Cobbled streets the colour of an old bruise,
tyres rattle over pothole dark drains,
counterpoint to some distant splashing shoes.

The day cast in monochromatic stains
as water forms itself into a lake
that eddies into inner city lanes.

A passing car cre...

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Adopt

Saint Stephen's tale

It's Friday, sweets from Mrs Smith

Degeneration X and anarchy

Frankie's words: two tables, four chairs, suspension.

Discovered passing the buck, and thus passed it.

Stole the show with Twenty-one Questions, four dancers, and a singer.

First girlfriend changed everything, "You're young, she has baggage - get rid..." … did...

A place...

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