Poetry Blog by Marc Hawkins
on BLUR (Wed, 25 Jul 2018 02:20 pm)
Give me a broken mirror.
Hide the blemishes and blotches
That impairs and disfigures.
Give me renewed youth.
Re-circuit my memory
Rewrite the truth.
Give me made up days.
Turn action to fiction
Blow my mind away.
Give me turning tides.
Give me caves and crevices
In which I can hide.
Give me light, give me dark
Give me dressings to hide
Wednesday 25th July 2018 1:38 pm
Drew up and directed
Doubtlessly designed to
Dash down despair;
Down on the desperate,
Down on the destitute,
Down on the defenseless,
Down on the disabled.
Dreadful disorders and
Decrepitude to you
Death by diseased dick
Saturday 26th May 2018 3:49 pm
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.
Sunday 20th May 2018 10:29 am
This is best spoken in an Alf Garnett type voice...or any other sanctimonious, sexist, racist, prejudiced voice you can think of...
Bloody bolshy Belgians, boshing their boots
all over our bleeding bank accounts,
banning us from bent banana’s,
breaking our barriers with their
bourgeois bangings about big business.
Blighting Britain with burka wearing birds
Saturday 3rd March 2018 11:52 am
I watched a Ted Talk the other night. The speaker was the mother of Dylan Klebold, one of the columbine killers. It struck me that it must have taken a lot of courage to do this thing and gave me an insight into how it also affects the parents of killers such as this. I wrote this...
MOTHER OF A COLUMBINE MURDERER
With quaking voice the woman stood
in front of a thousand strong crowd
Wednesday 28th February 2018 12:46 am
Back in those days
you could smoke in the pubs,
we’d suck on those sticks to our finger tips
then casually, carelessly drop the stubs
and twist them into the floor with our feet,
openly, brazenly, never discreet.
The stench of burning carpet, the smell of spilt ale
would meet in a plume of noxious gas,
fetid, fusty and stale;
like a fart in a working man’s café.
Sunday 11th February 2018 8:00 pm
“Look!” said MP for Ashford, Damian Green,
“those images I have never, ever seen.
I’m respectable, important and high-falutin’,
besides, I rarely do my own computing”
“The accusations I categorically deny.”
He said, all smug grin and steely eyes,
“The constabulary are lying” he claimed with scorn,
“I mean, do I look like a man who’d be into porn?”
“Listen!” said ...
Friday 9th February 2018 4:24 pm
The mainstay of guests,
Their backs against chairs
That are backed against walls,
Readily seated and settled
Into tight knit sub communities
And discussion cells…
Thrashing out social failings
And political ineptitudes
Gleaned from broadsheets
And RT News updates,
Or gentle dissents,
Some too stoned to participate
(should have “passed the kouchie
‘pon the left ha...
Thursday 8th February 2018 6:45 pm
A naughty boy
He stole away their
Fun and joy
It was not him
But we know where
Bad Marshall been
With hands of red
They think to quilt
His unmade bed
By witness four
And from the woodwork
Came four more
Before the court
In there was sought
He soon to serv...
Thursday 8th February 2018 6:41 pm
I was challenged by a member of the writers group I was part of to write a poem from a woman's perspective. I had recently watched a documentary on genital mutilation which inspired me to write this, Type 3 being the harshest of the practice -
Colonial history will still dictate how the men around here
Practice love through hate
For aesthetic purposes; an ethnic marker
Gender controlled ...
Thursday 8th February 2018 4:52 pm
picture perfect Pamela
poses for porno photos
in a seedy studio south of the river.
Purring and pouting and protruding
her pumping breasts,
bending for a plump posterior moon shot,
parting her legs for a pussy close up,
panting and puffing, providing
point of view pics procured by
self proclaimed perverts on the internet
pulling on their p...
Thursday 8th February 2018 6:43 am
Trip and tumble,
Every act a
Raised on roasts
And apple crumble,
His wispy hair
And sees him out
Of the family lair,
“Go get ‘em tiger
My son and heir
Mumsy loves her Boris”
He sits his arse
In high position,
Unlike his shady
Thursday 8th February 2018 6:40 am
A univocal poem using only the vowel of A
Sap man Dan stands at bar,
happy man Sam sat at back.
Sam acts badly,
scans and rags Dan.
Dan’s stand sags.
Sam has an ally, Mary, (what a lady)
Sat at Sam’s lap…awks.
Dan was Mary’s fan,
Mary was Dan’s gal,
Mary had Dan’s baby;
Dan always drank, vast,
Wednesday 7th February 2018 5:55 pm