Poetry Blog by Laura Taylor
He sticks the blinkers on
and blindfold, counts out the sorrows
of no one he knows.
Puts them in a drawer,
locked with a careless key,
kicking doors shut
on notions of equality.
His side of the seesaw hangs heavy,
unbalanced, biased towards
the full and sated belly.
Wallet and tongue keep close company.
Sees with one eye only one vision:
Friday 16th March 2018 10:52 am
Remember to look up at the stars
Not the kind who whine about their first world problems on a million different channels
always me me me
to look up at the stars and not down at your feet
and reach out to the universe with all your tiny fingertips
and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see
in a world where reality TV isn't real
Wednesday 14th March 2018 1:42 pm
You won't see Celia in silhouette on rebel chests,
marching over coffee cups,
diminished to an image on a tiny little badge,
on a backpack, khaki cap or six foot flag.
And you won't see Celia on key rings,
magnets, belt buckles, armbands,
black berets, red berets, playing cards or calendars,
bumper stickers, kitchen clocks,
acrylic blocks or lithographs,
Thursday 8th March 2018 11:17 am
It's such a happy homely brand,
such a loving hand to hold.
Nothing says "forced adoration" quite the same
as an overpriced printed bit of Hallmark card.
Though I came in drunk last night
and all we've done is fight,
and we haven't actually spoken for a week,
this greeting card's designed to wipe out
all the battle lines and it's guaranteed
an armistice today....
Wednesday 14th February 2018 11:08 am
I'm in my prime.
I swapped my firm and tight-fit skin
for confidence and knowledge
that within this ageing frame
lies a body of experience,
a warrior of thought
who brings her wisdom to the table,
leaves her ego at the door,
and won't descend to bitter ends.
I'm not exactly Miss Jean Brodie.
I'm in my prime
and looking back at how it felt
to live withi...
Tuesday 6th February 2018 12:48 pm
The i-museum's empty now.
Orphans walk the hallways.
Curtains that were always drawn
are opened onto photos ripped and wrinkled
and exhausted of their rage.
Hatred hits the bricks, takes a breath,
then tries to dig itself a grave,
knowing that it's naked and unnecessary now,
but the ground isn't ready yet to take it.
Stunned air murmurs songs of fr...
Monday 15th January 2018 12:42 pm
Sod wearing purple,
I’m gonna fake dementia.
Sup single malt in Tesco aisles
and Jose Cuervo Gold.
Steal Thornton’s biggest fuck-off box
of truffles, milk and dark.
Then stuff my face with Krispy Kremes,
leave fingermarks on magazines.
I’ll ride the roads in off-peak times,
rob Asdas far and wide.
A North West quest to shoplift shite
Friday 12th January 2018 10:14 am