Poetry
Check out some of my poetry below
Failure
There is a wolf inside of me.
It is the Alpha Wolf
striving to look after his mate:
his pack.
He fights for their freedom
and the right to be Alpha.
With his thick fur and blood
clotted wounds.
He must protect. Must survive.
He will have to find food,
but the deer are dead
and the farmers have guns.
My wolf howls at the moon.
To warn off other packs,
To tell his own all is well.
There is a wolf inside of me.
It is the Alpha Wolf
striving to look after his mate:
his pack.
He fights for their freedom
and the right to be Alpha.
With his thick fur and blood
clotted wounds.
He must protect. Must survive.
He will have to find food,
but the deer are dead
and the farmers have guns.
My wolf howls at the moon.
To warn off other packs,
To tell his own all is well.
Prostitute
The PVC skirt is a fucking joke,
It gets the Johnny’s noticing though.
I got some fish nets too but that
Won’t keep out any chill.
Another shot of stolen jack,
That’ll make the ride sweeter.
And it’s better than the bottle
Of white lightning on the floor.
This is my corner. Close enough to Soho
But far enough away not to get caught.
I got it ‘cause I knew the girl who had it last.
She disappeared so I took it.
There’s a car pulling up at last.
There goes the window, 156 I shout.
I recognise his face from somewhere,
One of those wankers off TV.
Frustration
Frustration is a burning fire:
an inevitable release of energy
from chemicals reacting.
It smells of burning tar
and it tastes of copper and vodka.
Black
Black is quiet and simmering,
he’s tall: over six foot,
displaying rope after rope of muscle.
He is a warrior, a vigilante
protecting the weak. He eats
his steak raw and bloody.
He wears leather pants and black shirts.
Alone. Alone. Alone.
He never breaks from his work
never rests when he is ill.
Black will always fight.
He has a motorbike
the only thing he adores.
He rides as a shooting star
streaking across the celestial oil spill.
Blue Belt
As they strike to distract,
it is sharp, accurate.
They throw with precision,
arm lock, and then finish.
Every movement is calculated:
fluid as water.
Lake
He met her on his weekly visit to the lake.
They sat and talked about nothing.
They were about to drive away
but she rolled down her window and leant out.
Thinking she had forgotten something
he opened his window.
She kissed him.
Leaning back in the car she drove away.
Sarah Knitting
I am ageless,
but I am grey.
My lines are rough,
messy and sketched out.
I knit endlessly:
loop one, drop one.
Another set of coal
scarves and jumpers
made for my men.
And I always hear coughing.
I don't know if it's my husband, my son,
or just another onlooker.
Snow
'It began to snow at midnight. And certainly
The kitchen is the best place to sit, even the
Kitchen of the sleepless.'
– 'Snow' Vladimir Holan
It is cold here in the kitchen
As if the snow has permeated
The walls. It began to snow at midnight.
So I poured myself tea
And sat listening to the soft sound
Of snow, and certainly the kitchen is the best place to sit.
I have my view of the garden
As the snow steadily turns it all white
Even the kitchen of the sleepless.
Sun Rising
‘Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?’
– ‘the Sun Rising’ John Donne
Sun you creep over the world
Slivering in through my window.
Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Kissing me awake for the day.
Every morning it is the same,
Why dost thou thus?
Go back and let me sleep.
Take back your rays that through windows,
And through curtains, call on us.
Atom
I hear your colours and
I can see your atoms, dizzy dizzy electrons.
Spin for me beautiful atoms spin your
silvery web over the dusty world. I can feel
your hearts. Buzz away miniature fireflies
glowing with sound.
Starfish
Starfish lying on the beach
and catching a tan. Who wants to be just
orange? He wants to be burnt umber.
He smells the waves bounce him.
Time to go home for tea he thinks.
For more poetry check out 'Tea and Tales'
The PVC skirt is a fucking joke,
It gets the Johnny’s noticing though.
I got some fish nets too but that
Won’t keep out any chill.
Another shot of stolen jack,
That’ll make the ride sweeter.
And it’s better than the bottle
Of white lightning on the floor.
This is my corner. Close enough to Soho
But far enough away not to get caught.
I got it ‘cause I knew the girl who had it last.
She disappeared so I took it.
There’s a car pulling up at last.
There goes the window, 156 I shout.
I recognise his face from somewhere,
One of those wankers off TV.
Frustration
Frustration is a burning fire:
an inevitable release of energy
from chemicals reacting.
It smells of burning tar
and it tastes of copper and vodka.
Black
Black is quiet and simmering,
he’s tall: over six foot,
displaying rope after rope of muscle.
He is a warrior, a vigilante
protecting the weak. He eats
his steak raw and bloody.
He wears leather pants and black shirts.
Alone. Alone. Alone.
He never breaks from his work
never rests when he is ill.
Black will always fight.
He has a motorbike
the only thing he adores.
He rides as a shooting star
streaking across the celestial oil spill.
Blue Belt
As they strike to distract,
it is sharp, accurate.
They throw with precision,
arm lock, and then finish.
Every movement is calculated:
fluid as water.
Lake
He met her on his weekly visit to the lake.
They sat and talked about nothing.
They were about to drive away
but she rolled down her window and leant out.
Thinking she had forgotten something
he opened his window.
She kissed him.
Leaning back in the car she drove away.
Sarah Knitting
I am ageless,
but I am grey.
My lines are rough,
messy and sketched out.
I knit endlessly:
loop one, drop one.
Another set of coal
scarves and jumpers
made for my men.
And I always hear coughing.
I don't know if it's my husband, my son,
or just another onlooker.
Snow
'It began to snow at midnight. And certainly
The kitchen is the best place to sit, even the
Kitchen of the sleepless.'
– 'Snow' Vladimir Holan
It is cold here in the kitchen
As if the snow has permeated
The walls. It began to snow at midnight.
So I poured myself tea
And sat listening to the soft sound
Of snow, and certainly the kitchen is the best place to sit.
I have my view of the garden
As the snow steadily turns it all white
Even the kitchen of the sleepless.
Sun Rising
‘Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?’
– ‘the Sun Rising’ John Donne
Sun you creep over the world
Slivering in through my window.
Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Kissing me awake for the day.
Every morning it is the same,
Why dost thou thus?
Go back and let me sleep.
Take back your rays that through windows,
And through curtains, call on us.
Atom
I hear your colours and
I can see your atoms, dizzy dizzy electrons.
Spin for me beautiful atoms spin your
silvery web over the dusty world. I can feel
your hearts. Buzz away miniature fireflies
glowing with sound.
Starfish
Starfish lying on the beach
and catching a tan. Who wants to be just
orange? He wants to be burnt umber.
He smells the waves bounce him.
Time to go home for tea he thinks.
For more poetry check out 'Tea and Tales'