Category: poetry

parts of old poems now presented as one

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dizzy sickĀ 

I drove away from city number 2 got diverted through a town where they molest children and some fly flags bigger than football pitches
false feelings of patriotism for a country that never really existed

photos on the floor of ex-couples cut in two and eaten by rabid dogs

I had to get out of that town

but all roads were blocked

all these hours travelling centrifugally

I vomited a dizzy kinda sick

people don’t like poetry

when it comes to poetry people run a mileĀ ITS JUST SENTENCES CUT INTO SHORTER SENTENCES

someone shouted at the recital

— ITS ALL METAPHORS —

— ITS ALL METAPHORS —

“I’d rather crash my car into a

wall then read poetry”, your brother said before he was taken away

and outside the library the cars pile up their fenders hanging like frowns

broken lights and hot air whooshing from tyres

I am a shit renascence man

some children lean like saplings

bent, blank and thin like sheets of A4 paper

holes in their teeth

empty black spaces

eroded

and then some children just look like scratches on a painted horizon
still and motionless

she stepped close to me

I heard her lungs rattle

a deathly black rattle from

damp lungs deep with under her skin

the petals fell off the flower

one at a time

one by one

and that cloud that floated overhead resembled Elvis

I awoke in the lost room

I had doubts about everything

emy poems were found lacking

my photographs were out of focus

the subject matter weak and trite

– someone said BLAND

– my drawings were childish scrawls

what I gained pleasure from was rejected by others
dismantled like a child’s toy

boxed up and stored away for the winter

I am a shit renascence man

post title here

after two days in the trench I put my head over the parapet and they clean shot the cigarette straight from my lips

           

                mud and grime 

                drying to cement 

 in my head 

 

          I returned home at night my wife said I’d changed 

I was beginning to fade 

to a grey facsimile of the person she fell in love with

— drained and washed of colour 

a slow death in front of spreadsheets 
I still hadn’t written that novel 

or made it to the edge of the continent 

     

     and in this new landscape

 it was so easy to get lost like the blind tourist who touches his way around the world 

    finds his way back home by following the smell of cinnamon 

    the roar of traffic won’t put him off

    the Doppler wail of the red fire engine moves around him 

easy

like flowing water 
       milky ovaries and we smoked autumn leaves in those days that failed to appear on a calendar and the lunch time barber found a secret door in the back of my head
unlocked and looking in he advised me of what he saw

500 families and forgotten memories and posters of David Bowie 

I paid and left and made an appointment to return in a month