How the Truth Got Out.
Truth? Do they still make that?
Bagged up and sold the last
of mine. Long time gone. Lost
value. To be fair, bag's worth
more empty. Easier to carry.
Bags? Do they stil make bags?
Unravelled mine. Picked the last
one apart. Long time gone.
Lost value to be fair. Thread's
worth more. More versatile.
Threads? No point following
threads. Not now. It's fibre
you want. To be fair, 'following'
is old hat. Fibres are worth
much more. Multi-directional.
Hats? More hats than I know
what to do with, more hats
than I can shake a stick at.
Sure, take one - thinking
about it - take a stick too.
Stick? Not really a stick,
more a needle. Here, help
me thread it. I gotta darn
this worn-out sack -
that's how the truth got out.
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Thursday, 12 April 2012
12.04.12
The Value of Things
I read someone else's poems
instead of writing my own.
Except for these three lines.
I read someone else's poems
instead of writing my own.
Except for these three lines.
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
11.04.12
Panic Attack on Platform
The guard whispers into his collar mike.
(Fuck this city wide conspiracy. Really?)
Youth dem point from bridge. The puppet
man is shittin' it - gettin' fast outta dodge.
Sloppy chicken skin fattens my tongue,
silences the blurt. I never f'kin blurt.
Add more grease to dark stained shirt,
clean palm-heels in upward spurt of energy.
This is not behaviour, is not normal,
microspastic words splurge in skull,
wriggles and jiggles and trickles, inbred
ear bounce keeps the nonsense locked in.
Rushower drenches me in sweat. Staccatto
actors hit marks, do lines, improv, needle.
I click and tick, a nervous geiger counter,
chew the gnaws off a bloody gum and lip.
Bag it up, cling filmed, colour coded.
Number parts. Dead weight comic books.
My entire heftable life sinks like a flag
on a corkboard, even while the world crumbles.
The guard whispers into his collar mike.
(Fuck this city wide conspiracy. Really?)
Youth dem point from bridge. The puppet
man is shittin' it - gettin' fast outta dodge.
Sloppy chicken skin fattens my tongue,
silences the blurt. I never f'kin blurt.
Add more grease to dark stained shirt,
clean palm-heels in upward spurt of energy.
This is not behaviour, is not normal,
microspastic words splurge in skull,
wriggles and jiggles and trickles, inbred
ear bounce keeps the nonsense locked in.
Rushower drenches me in sweat. Staccatto
actors hit marks, do lines, improv, needle.
I click and tick, a nervous geiger counter,
chew the gnaws off a bloody gum and lip.
Bag it up, cling filmed, colour coded.
Number parts. Dead weight comic books.
My entire heftable life sinks like a flag
on a corkboard, even while the world crumbles.
11.04.12 re-write
Weekend Dad / Sudden Downpour
Hot in the car, driving towards Peartree Services,
my two girls argue in the backseat. Tangled up
in Blue starts on the radio. It gets me misty,
overlays childish bickering and the tyres' roll,
speeding along at eighty, cutting from light to heavy.
The rain hits: Big splats kamikaze the windscreen, arriving en-masse
like an out-of-the-blue crescendo. I say, Here Comes The Rain!
complete with punctuation, before drowning in my mundanity.
It falls faster than the wipers wave. I get glimpses of spray
and brake lights. The kids sing, Rain, Rain, Go Away,
giggle between themselves.
I see sun, up ahead, white glare
where light hits the washed road like forgiveness.
Hot in the car, driving towards Peartree Services,
my two girls argue in the backseat. Tangled up
in Blue starts on the radio. It gets me misty,
overlays childish bickering and the tyres' roll,
speeding along at eighty, cutting from light to heavy.
The rain hits: Big splats kamikaze the windscreen, arriving en-masse
like an out-of-the-blue crescendo. I say, Here Comes The Rain!
complete with punctuation, before drowning in my mundanity.
It falls faster than the wipers wave. I get glimpses of spray
and brake lights. The kids sing, Rain, Rain, Go Away,
giggle between themselves.
I see sun, up ahead, white glare
where light hits the washed road like forgiveness.
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
10.04.12
Weekend Dad / Sudden Downpour
Hot in the car, driving back to Peartree Services,
my two wee spuds bake in the back. Tangled up
in Blue starts on the radio. Its chesty guitar slide
gets me all misty eyed, mixing chatter and poetry,
speeding along at eighty. We cut from light to heavy.
The rain hits: Big splats strike the window, arriving en-masse
like an out-of-the-blue crescendo. I say, Here Comes The Rain!
complete with punctuation, before drowning in my mundanity.
It falls faster than the wipers wave. I get glimpses
of spray. The kids singing, Rain, Rain, Go Away,
gigling between themselves.
Up ahead I see white glare
where sun hits rainslick road like forgiveness.
Hot in the car, driving back to Peartree Services,
my two wee spuds bake in the back. Tangled up
in Blue starts on the radio. Its chesty guitar slide
gets me all misty eyed, mixing chatter and poetry,
speeding along at eighty. We cut from light to heavy.
The rain hits: Big splats strike the window, arriving en-masse
like an out-of-the-blue crescendo. I say, Here Comes The Rain!
complete with punctuation, before drowning in my mundanity.
It falls faster than the wipers wave. I get glimpses
of spray. The kids singing, Rain, Rain, Go Away,
gigling between themselves.
Up ahead I see white glare
where sun hits rainslick road like forgiveness.
Monday, 9 April 2012
09.04.12
Noodle Doodle
Noodle Doodle, cast about,
twist one way then another -
hanging from a leather belt
there's little to discover.
Noodle Doodle contemplate:
Is there nothing takes your fancy?
Noodle Doodle it's too late -
look how your feet are dancing.
Noodle Doodle, cast about,
twist one way then another -
hanging from a leather belt
there's little to discover.
Noodle Doodle contemplate:
Is there nothing takes your fancy?
Noodle Doodle it's too late -
look how your feet are dancing.
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