I am a graduate of Liverpool John Moores University with a First in Imaginative Writing. I am a regular at open mic nights in both Liverpool and Bristol and have also had some career highlights so far, which have been: - Not Part Of Festival, The Unemployables - Liverpool Liming @ The BlueCoat - Evolving Words I am currently working on my first collection as well as writing for Untold Method Magazine, soon to be launched January 2012. I largely live off a diet of chicken nuggets, gingerbread and hot ribena. Although on a poets salary I can afford none of these.
Meat Pebble You are jam, spreading over all my thoughts. You will have my mother’s marmalade eyes, and will be good enough to eat. You’ll be made of sugar and spice and all things nice and I will have made you. I will glow from my sugar-cane core. People will say we are one in the same; a slice from the same cake. You are half baked in my oven belly with a juicy, gooey filling. Like a Victoria sponge or, or… a mouldy strawberry. Left too long in the fridge. You’re loose pipped and fuzzing Past 6 weeks. I went to the witch’s house; Candy cane drain-pipes spew out fag-ends and the gingerbread cladding looks like cement. I thought of fairy cakes, black forest gateau and iced buns; sugary comforts you eat with your mum. But they disappeared when you came out like meaty pebbles, like uncooked liver. The Lost Bones Table Monster No labels; just dusty joints. An unfinished jigsaw in a plastic, shallow grave; these bones need a home: Dodo wing, dinosaur claw, cow’s shin, parrot’s beak, elephant tusk, rhinoceros spine and fox’s jaw. These are the Lost Bones. Smelling of dry earth and moth balls their brilliant white is flicked to grey when the lights are turned off for the day. Curator Clem wishes the table a “Good night” as she leaves, stroking them once each, leaving her fingerprint. First thing and they’ll be back where they belong; slotted into hips, pelvis’s and collar bones. In the dark the last speck of dust settles; the bones have their new skin. They shiver into life, they mutate and melt into each other, transmogrified they are a superannuated fossilised monster: a Dodo’s wing for a head, a rhinoceros’s spine for a trunk, a parrot’s beak for a bum and a fox’s jaw for a tongue, the plastic tray swells into a womb, the table legs sprout arachnid limbs dust and lint shadow its torso like creeping ivy; giving the beast hair. It grows too big; the creature begins to tear. Tongue, hip and spine fall to the floor knocking against each other like chattering teeth, the bones are scattered like seeds. Table legs collapse in on themselves reducing the colossus to a crooked heap. The basement room is a mess of vagabond ossein and dust. The remains read: The Lost Bones Table - do not touch.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
|Wk 47||1 event|
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Friday 25 November 2011
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