Forward Slash: "the weekend"

I want neon \  I want chrome  

I want car headlights, streetlights, puddles

I want loud music, I want it  louder//

I want chrome //      I want fluorescent pink         // I want inner city foxes and 3am

There’s a riot in my ribcage matches my feet pounding pavement

This city is mine.

 I want anarchy         I want a signal           

I want last orders

I am the ...

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Mill Music

The loom is a stave that cotton falls on,
sometimes looks like music notes to the whimsical.

We lie with our backs flat to the cold stone-
never take our eyes off it. Every so often
there is a hiss of movement as one of us skims
from our bottom G, climbs a note or two,
picks a semi-quaver, and falls fast.
All for a tuppence. Not even enough for fruit.
Sometimes one of us is s...

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It was dead, what they shared,
and he realized it as much as she.

With love like a coelacanth, gone
was the small butterfly that once nestled in their breast pocket,
occasionally fluttering its wings in a dizzy dance.
The fossil of their relationship was
far more easily located than the living specimen nowadays.
Now, loud nights spent tearing into each other’s ego
as a lion d...

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Somewhere, the 9 till 5 office worker stops me with a deadpan stare,
Fixes me with the times of timetables passed, the graph paper squares
Of tomorrow’s schedule. The high-rise offices never bother to look down.

I never liked the city.

Never really cared
for the city’s callousness, its daily suicide,
the shadow at the top of each building that watches with certainty.


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poetrypoempoemsGreek Mythmedusacitydespair

Winter, Blinded

Woke to the 
kiss of winter's ache and the
thud double dip and dance
of some kind of animal outside.
A fire burning somewhere. 

To you, the blind lady,
winter was just a series
of sensations –
the scratch of a naked branch,
the rain (only colder).

The utter embrace of silence.



This was for a contest on deviantART in which contesta...

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Something is Coming


Beneath the biscuit-bitten moon of dawn

Something’s coming.

There’s a hint of something unknown,

unprecedented enough that even the howling wind has flaked

To something spider-thin;

To the bare wire frames of lyricism.



Since then, the sky has darkened.



And static has started to  skitter across asphalt and window-frames.




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-as yet untitled-


outside the window,

an ocean of poppies,

red like denial.


she watched them day-in-day-out,

from sunset to the first shards of sunlight

which crept through their stems

and reflected the underside of their petals.

from this she saw veins, a tiny network of

lines like join-up-the-dots,

a motorway map

thin like emotion.


dadd went to war ...

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poempoetrywarpoetworld war twoworld war 2childrenfamilysoldiers

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