Poetry Blog by Laura Taylor
Tags from last 12 months
Big Sal on The Last Shanty (Wed, 8 Aug 2018 03:34 pm)
From packet and clipper,
from Royal destroyer,
with prayer and with hymn
and a rum-drenched Amen,
goodbye to the matelot and captain;
so long to the boatswain and master.
We're chanting to ease up the passing.
The last one is sung in a million tongues.
Grief-soaked and lonesome
Friday 29th June 2018 10:28 am
Mavis had a room
that didn’t have a name.
You did not dine,
you did not live,
it was not kitchen,
was not front,
was not back or parlour.
Mavis had this furniture
that I had never seen.
It was not settee,
was not armchair,
was not pouffe,
or couch divan.
Mavis had this massive room
full of golden sunshine.
Floating motes whi...
Tuesday 26th June 2018 10:54 am
Snakes don't kiss.
I know this because I used to be one,
in a former life,
long time ago,
Snakes don’t kiss cos their hiss gets in the way,
and that long long tongue you see with the V?
Gets all tangled when two snakes frenchie.
No, snakes don't kiss.
But never take a bet on it,
especially with a snake.
'Cause apart from not kissing, ...
Monday 30th April 2018 11:55 am
Fifty seven accusations.
Fifty seven lies.
Fifty seven secret pleasures.
Fifty seven stolen lives.
Fifty seven invitations.
Fifty seven spiders waiting.
Fifty seven true intentions.
Fifty seven parlours entered.
Fifty seven aggravations.
Fifty seven silent gains.
Fifty seven violations.
Fifty seven acts of shame.
Fifty seven allegations.
Friday 27th April 2018 11:53 am
Morning water wakes and warms,
begins the dance of day.
Songs and flowers ricochet around the rays;
anticipating conversations, Sunday lunch, and lazing,
the nearly-finished novel she's been saving for today.
Musk, vanilla, ginger, mint.
'Hallelujah', smoothing fruit
across her plump and freckled
Acid iron on her tongue.
Thursday 26th April 2018 2:25 pm
I bet it's still there,
a little smash of plaster
in the nicotined ceiling,
held in my memory forty-odd years.
Dad'd blush and mutter,
ramble about "safety"
as we would tell the tale for the umpteenth time,
gleefully relishing the moment.
It must have been a present.
He couldn't have afforded one from paper round or jobs done,
Tuesday 17th April 2018 12:49 pm
(to the tune of 'The Holly and the Ivy')
There's cameras in the holly
way above the line of sight,
and a neon sign on the roundabout
"One punch can kill tonight".
Well thank you for the warning
and increased security,
I'll be double-sure not to shoplift
now you're looking out for me.
It's nice to be surrounded
by markers of your greed,
and a lack of ...
Friday 13th April 2018 1:26 pm
My hair is clean and brushed and smart.
Hers is drenched and dirty.
I am wearing cosy clothes.
She is bare and purple.
I'm inhaling bluebell air.
She is breathing fire.
I am watching pixellated subjects of denial.
I am strong and tall, unbowed.
She is weak and wailing.
I am fifty years of age.
She is but a baby.
I have biscuits on my lips.
She has frot...
Tuesday 10th April 2018 10:54 am
containing curse and origin,
alive within a Twelfth Night letter from Olivia
and Hamlet's country matters,
the Dead Sea of Ulysses,
Penguin prosecutions, unsuccessful,
and the trump cards of tender Beckett wives.
In monologues and myth making,
displayed on Venus figurines,
in Dinner Party paintings,
Courbet's fevered inspiration;
Sunday 8th April 2018 1:17 pm
(to the tune of Que sera sera)
When I was only 12 years old,
I shaved my armpits
bare as can be.
Will I be sexy?
Will I be fit?
Here's what they said to me:
'Oh the itch the itch!
Whatever possessed you, bitch,
to bulk-buy a load of Bics.
Oh the itch the itch'
When I grew up I carried on
hacking my arm pits
week after week.
Did it get better?
Did it hurt less?
Saturday 7th April 2018 12:34 pm
She keeps secrets in me.
Lifts my lid for privacy,
blows bubbles in my guts,
leaving evidence inside
with full impunity.
I am discreet
He spits bile inside me.
Hatred for his mummy
and the baby
and the way the teacher treats him
like he's soft.
I contain his scarlet ache safely.
I display names and dates,
Friday 6th April 2018 12:52 pm
Remember watching Motorhead
in Bingley Hall in Stafford?
The time that fella's ears bled?
the wall of sound,
and Philthy going mad?
Remember where we stood that night?
And how that fella, six foot three,
came and stood in front of me,
so we just moved a step along
and simply carried on?
At every single gig for years
a giant stood in...
Wednesday 4th April 2018 3:13 pm
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
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