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Slam Poem

It starts with a bit of confusion at first

Maybe a question about me

And some daily occurrence

With me hoping I can work it through

 

So I pick up the rhyme

On the street of the stage

Cos in this age of poetry

Not on the page, the beats from within

sing inside of me

And now eternally,

the rhymes come internally

 

And through these rhymes

that ain’t no crim...

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Vanishing Point

When I was a man leaning against walls

and that was all I did with my day, the walls:

pebble-dashed, bricked, wood -

I was just a man that leant against walls.

 

At some point something changed and I ceased

to be a man who leant against walls and more

of a man that salted cucumbers.

 

The cucumbers would arrive in packs of ten

and, with method, I would apply the salt,

...

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Animal Cruelty

Here is an elephant.

 

He knows not of what is going on

or how he got here. Neither do we.

 

He divides opinion, like the foul stench

of an onion in a warm room.

Some chant of its values,

smell only what they want.

Some simply cry.

 

The elephant fixes his tiny eye

on a mate.

“I’m gonna grab that cow by the pussy

with my tusks,” he thinks.

 

Followin...

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donald trump

Selected YouTube Comments from Mark Ronson’s Uptown Funk, Ft. Bruno Mars

Why is it under Mark Ronson's name?

Bruno Mars sang almost the entire song.

 

It will be realised I am the one billionth.

It made me happy so you are wrong.

How quickly they forget....

 

Am I the only who heard Stalin?

 

I love Bruno Mars/Peter Hernandez!

(My friend's dad is cousins with Peter)

 

It should be Bruno Mars - Uptown Funk ft. Mark Ronson.

 

Bru...

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The Lines

I stand and admire the lines,

not always so straight.

The concrete veins through the places of old

we once walked,

through to the quagmire paths

where you first found my arm after stumbling.

The burrows, dark and secret, where lips pressed

against the soft feel of ripe naked fruit.

Canals, rivers, brooks, streams we have strolled along,

flowing the only way the valleys a...

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richpix

Everything Is Documented

A damp light from a table candle flickers,

revealing tomorrow’s faeces

– braised red cabbage, filet of beef

and a quarter glass of red wine.

Everything is documented.

 

The pout, strained through the rush of alcohol

at a flash that shows lifelessness

behind heavily mascaraed eyes.

All for show, an image portrayed

to those that follow, but how hollow

the bones that ...

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To A Lover, Overcome

To a lover, overcome with panic and lust,

think back to that summer and that first song.

 

Sinew inside the mind, a singing black slug, snug,

leaving lines in the cortex, a tune of dementia.

 

The ticks, tremors and sounds of envious children.

A wilting, sad cluster of flowers, dropped.

 

Crescent half-thoughts into action as the song ends

and steer vitri...

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Supercilium

She had that arched eyebrow,

a black eagle’s wing.

 

This eyebrow asked

what you are worth to her.

 

I liked that.

 

She said she was from the dark end of town,

that place where thievery smoulders

and street corners are plagued by crows.

 

None of that mattered.

 

I imagined that moment

after our first time in bed.

 

The weight...

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Caroline

Caroline talked in her sleep last night.

She told a story about a cat.

“The cat sits amongst the flowers,” she said.

“The cat is happy.” And that

was the end of the story.

 

She sometimes sings in her sleep, too.

Murmurings of lullabies,

sugared lips slightly parting

mouthing the words to forgotten songs.

 

As she sleeps, tells stories and sings,

...

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Growing Flowers By Candlelight

Ambition expressed in the raise of an eyebrow.

History yet to be formed in the eyes.

The lifting of a neck and turn of a head

following a Mother’s voice.

 

The tiniest grip on an oversized finger,

an instinctive need for security.

 

Filling a mind with nonsense words,

hoping something sticks.

 

The wonder at disappearing, appearing faces.

A reacti...

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A Ghost-Boned Wet Dream

 

There’s a woman who thinks she can

Have a wet dream about a vague man

She's ghost-boned with an ear to the floor

She hears whispers from the room below

 

But you can’t have a wet dream over vague men

 

There’s a baby crying for a mother

There’s an old man screaming out for another

Another daydream of times gone by

Another nightmare of a long goodbye

...

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Charles Loves Julie

 

Charles stares at Julie through the window,

sees the flick of blonde hair framing her face.

He strokes his chin as she points at something in the room.

A friend she is with laughs and waves.

 

Charles needs a plan.

Something to grab her attention.

So with all his focus, he defecates where he is sat.

 

He stares at his waste, picks it up

and with his...

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Keeping The Scent Of Insignificance From The Door

The apple scent throws me back to my childhood

picking apples from the family tree

in a grandparent’s garden with a sister.

Her up the ladder; me, holding it steady.

 

My gaze follows the upward flow

of her arched white socks as she balances,

straining to reach higher.

I see straight up her skirt, up to her cotton-white

knickers and the smooth dark creases th...

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Spitting at Bus Stops

 

Graffiti under a bridge: a cock; kev luvs liz.

Bodies half developed, tufts of pubic hair,

and they need to check if their penis is still there.

 

A fast food job to top up their EMA.

Getting away with as little as they can,

taking the fight, on the streets, to the man.

 

A cap on a head, not worn backwards anymore,

an ASBO sewn violently on a sleeve

...

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john togherspitting at bus stops

Memory Sketch of Adolescence Part One

 

Expectations of a life to live

Blow jobs in back alleys

An elfin girl lost to a car wreck

A father to believe in

A cigarette stolen from an auntie’s purse

Ambitions to be realised

Bad advice from a  counsellor

A career in the army

The bad corner of a lane

A secret kiss under cotton covers

Ambitions yet to appear

Warm your hands in mine

The s...

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john togher

A Man Walked Into A Room

A man and a room.

A man walks into a room.

He's a man, definitely a man.

Not a lady, or a unicorn,

or an urchin.

 

Does he seek out virgins?

Not that I'm aware of.

Was he at any time a lady?

A man walks into a room.

 

The definite article of a man.

Walking into a room.

Is he Our man?

Our man walks into a room.

 

Tense?

Our man ...

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The Psychology of Doodles

You curl up with the phone,

favourite pillow on your lap,

coffee on a settee’s arm,

ready for conversation.

 

As you dial you pick up a pen,

doodle on the back of a bill

the face of a clown with stars in his eyes,

 

You tell me of your empty day;

soup and ham sandwich,

a queue at the bank,

and I groan and console

in all the right places.

...

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How To Fix A Broken Man

Today is thoroughly sad-sick.

She is in the garden picking peas,

I’m in our wardrobe, masturbating, slow.

 

Sandalwood sneaks around the house,

Frank revolves from another room

as we prepare for tonight’s repair.

 

I am a lover in her reality

but a liar in her dreams,

a big pumping heart on legs

that beats to the sound of love’s drum.

 

Where...

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Pandora's Box (Blind At The Root)

He stands with his back to the world,

teetering on the edge of a cliff,

trapped in the twilight hours of day and night.

 

His laughter is nervous,

sends waves of fear up his spine.

He doesn't speak a word.

Everything we need to know is buried in the dark pitch of his eyes,

where the shadow of the moon hides.

 

The waves, more than two hundred feet b...

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The Search

Sink into the bible’s words

Tales on a page as old as the wind

 

Crash into the rocks of knowing

Hear the alarm call of birds

 

Taste aniseed and coal

Dream of big bangs, atoms evolving

 

Greet the stranger, take his hand

Feel your body begin to rust

 

Look for the warning signs of death

Let your feet sink into the sand

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Paper

[Original version]

 

Monday, I played with her clitoris

Thumbed the little bump of her bliss

Asked politely for a certain type of kiss


Tuesday, told her everything was fine

Watched her dance through the fug of red wine

Hung clothes up outside on the line


Wednesday, cut her hair with a knife

Said I would make her my wife

Not thinking it wou...

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A Short Meeting With My One True Love


Emily shook my hand, 
a smile on her face.

She told me that there is a part 
of everyone that remains unexplored.

I dug her philosophy;
imagined atoms exploding,
then tried to force my penis 
down her ear canal. 

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The Waiting


I steal a pen from a stationery shop
Stroll the dark corridors of memory
Become jealous of a friend’s laughter
Think about a soap star's armpit
Smash a window in anger
Watch a dog lick his bollocks
Kill a slug

I sleep on the edge of a cloud
See pink fuzz on a clover
Burn a bed behind a house
Offer a girl her first cigarette
Ejaculate on a piano
Make fun of God-fearing people
Walk the nine circles
Throw ink at t...

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Conversations About Miles Davis


It comes around again, the night,
the promise of chance encounters.

I see her by the end of the bar, alone.
Her face in profile looks like an Italian coastline.

I wander over and begin the dance
between two foreign winds.

We have conversations about Miles Davis,
mutual satisfactions
of each other's thoughts.
We share a love of Polish cinema
and smoke the same brand;
a gentle lean into each other
to light the ...

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Oh, To Live In Chechnya (thoughts on an afternoon)

The dogs, the dogs are barking,
aiming their frustrations at the sky,
unable to verbalise their wishes,
asking the universe to open
a little on their behalf.

And the boys, the boys are shovelling stones
a futile process of training 
to keep off the streets.
I watch and smirk at their labour.

Radio Four tells me the time, again,
its three pips of intelligent authority
allow a moment to take in the afternoon,
b...

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The Point

Try to unearth, explore
the water-clock secrets of the moths.
If really, they recreate the womb
or merely, they masquerade their amusement.

Like the cruellest home video
there is deadness behind the laughter,
and it was Beckett who
wrote that nothing is funnier than
man’s unhappiness. It grows on us like moss,
this search for secrets.

Unending shelves of spines,
and a Shakespeare folio, employed as makeshift...

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Sunday Afternoon

A radio plays forgotten people to lost people.
Grandpa sits and chews his pipe.
Sister chews and sits her hair.
I watch from the corner, my mouth closed.
Mother’s in the kitchen cackling with Auntie.
Football on the TV inspires and deflates Dad.
Overcooked chicken fills the air of the house
and paints a hole in my stomach.
I stand for attention but get in the way.

The sun is out and we’re inside.
Where’s Gr...

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The Fool Who Ate The Gruel

Last night I slept like a log.
Like a log taken from the arse
of the corpse of Marilyn Monroe,
and kept on a satin pillow
in a shiny glass display case
in a museum of Fetish Bazaars.

This morning I awoke and felt like a dog.
I felt like the Greek dog Cerberus,
with three swaying heads,
a serpent’s tail of menace,
a lion’s claw of words,
and a mangled mane of snakes.
I felt like Cerberus, guarding
the Haides Ga...

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What Salvador Dali Said One Time

“Beauty will be edible or there will be no such thing at all.”

Ok, so yes, I do refer to you as that Welsh girl
in the pink dress with the catcurl eyes and the Elvis lip.
But what have you got against the Welsh my dear?

I call you pig nosed too but you don’t seem to care
about all that when I stroke your back,
tickle your nape and flick my tongue.
That silent glitter on your cheek does wonders.

Everyday y...

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Dave's Bird

She seemed to hold the weight

of a hummingbird

and had the flutter

of an owl in her eyes.


Carrying fragile arms

like sparrow wings,

she reached out

and touched my lips.


She told me,

not with a squawk

but in a whisper,

that the Devil


is an optimist

if he thinks

he can make people

worse than they are.



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The Importance Of Magic In The Void

 

 

The ironblack eyebrow of Hughes

raises an inch as I arrive

and like a sad A Minor Chord

Kundera sits in his corner

as I walk through this place, the void.

 

I’m offered a whiskey tumbler;

taste my soul in its afterbreath.

Virginia Woolf, the curve of her

intelligent nose running through

her prose, gives a toasts to the void.

 

JD Salinger pours red w...

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Stop The Clocks

Time, by now, surely needs a rest,

To deservedly put up its feet.

After working long, hard and fast,

Without relative pomposity or frown,

It’s due some sort of treat.

 

A sugary, savouring pause,

While the rest of us stop

And give much praise and applause

For Time’s endless countdown.

                        Its tick-tock clip-clop

 

That has completed our...

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