Parallel

In another room
An age away
Another us
Rips the night apart
We curl a tune
And drag
A line of thought
Limping like a broken dream
To drown, face down
In our puddles of beer and tea
Washed ashore in perpetuity
on our islands of cakes
In those valleys of skunks

Through a portent,
Unfathomable universes,
Diverse from ours, away,
Another us
Reaps the rewards of climbing the stars
Of sacrifices moody and unwholesome
Compromising breath of the soul itself,
Each in reward for renown
For compensation so vast and improbable that
merely reaching the heart of others,
Has immeasurably enhanced
The quality as well as status
Each of us – in this other world – enjoy.

Some blurred echo of those thoughts
Expressed above
Retain a tenuous grip in the
Blank planes of
My particular memories.
Forging bearable apology
For having squandered
Such time
And exhausted such energy.

1706

Slow delight,
accompanies the blissful trite –
expressionless bile –
that is here present.

Along the way
the slag of a light known as day
(though it’s furthest away
from his mind)
is spent
lazily, calling for soulless repent
from a murkier past:
Not uncommon.

There, our municipal pit
All thoughts and feelings enter
is full, brimming
with nameless creations!
No claimers and nobody looks for,
or asks for, their namers –
remaining silent
till they’re called from the nights.

Beakonomics

So… Swallows are migrating
Along with Redwing, Terns – it’s shocking
Have baby-kissers not voted!?
To curtail this selfish flocking?

Out in our channel: The Basking Shark
(Perhaps a hundred more)
Are sodding off to warmer climes
Having trawled our sacred shore

Here come those bastard Butterflies
Of course! As others cleared their way
Billions pilfering our pollen
Where are our heroes, brave, today?

Some say the U.S. has it worse
Mobbed by bands of bloody Bison
And don’t mention rotten Humpbacks
Crowding their coasts another season

How damned divisive all these beasts
Descending in their swarms
To our little land of plenty
Seeking food or warmer homes

Where are our visionary leaders?
Where are our lines of demarcation?
How are we supposed to flourish?
Under such fecund infestation?

Because… when just One of us needs refuge
Or seek succour in new lands
How speedily the world locks down
How swift we cage the humans

Beakonomics

The Keeper of the In…

Remember when you were lightening,
in the dark so wholly frightening.
You were the free one, so fantastic,
Wise as Thales, deep with magic

You escaped the demon slaying:
You escaped the holy, praying:
And you escaped a mind,
lost fraying.

I followed footsteps in the twilight:
I called to others to save your limelight.
Yet in the morn’ you’d lost the sunlight!
I summoned voices to save your last night…

I knew you could, you would, return –
Your name would once again
The throats of others burn.

We could’ve lived on forever
Although I pleaded, you claimed never,
Days would come when I’d know fever
Bear this heat (with you, survivor).

Our web of lies will not be forgotten
Another fable of the truly rotten
This high-hyped-pyre, this treaty written
Large of sound, yet lite on wisdom

Echoes of your grand lightening
Once in the dark, so wholly frightening.
You seemed the free one:
Pulsing magic.
Was just my minds burst –
thoughts fantastic.

  • this is an edited version of poem originally posted in summer of 2015.

Back From the West

On the 1st of October.
Back thru’ the back streets and roads I once knew.
Honest: they spot me,
And point and shout over…
But these aren’t the places or people I knew.

Soon seas of grey skies
Roll in and roll over!
Soon loud street parties, of glam, roll in view.
Leaving me breathless –
Just like I remember –
Still trying to banish the old,
With the new.

I feel the difference:
Like I’m not a member.
Like my place out here, is now up for review.
The sun will soon burn up
These clouds of the winter.
Yes, I’m waiting here for the great sky to blue!

Blackfriars Vocal – open mic poetry

Friday 29 September 2017 – what are you doing?
Loitering South London?

Bankside

Scuffing your boots just south of the Bankside… Near Southwark tube, or the beautiful Blackfriars train station?

Well… here’s something exciting to do:

29 Sept PosterSee you soon!

50 Ways in Which I love Her

Those fingers and toes – that’s twenty
Her neck and her nose – There’s 2
Her belly
Her hair
Her smile
Her flair
And of course how she shares
I love you.

In my mind the tally’s now 30
Plus I argue her ‘Love You’s’ worth double
Then here is one more
I assure you, worth four
How she know’s
Every time
When there’s trouble.

From 50, we’re down to 16 (ish)
As my lovers
Hot love
Makes the chart
Some might find me smutty
To point out the putty
My mens-rea, tho’s to
Illume
Love’s dark art!

My ways carry on
Thru this dubious song
Which reminds me
My love birds warm trill
Humming when she finds happiness
When life is less a mess
Her’s the voice of the angels
A pill

Her giggle
Her get up
Her phobias
Like drinking and smoking
And shops
The way she finds worry
In the doe eyes of love
And that peak that she rides
And how quickly she
Stops.

Welcome to love life’s top 5!
Though I’d happily drone till you’re bored.
From the arch of her brow
To the grace in her swing
And her lips,
bitten tender in thought

The second spot’s filled by her breasts
And you might think that bawdily stark, but…
The point of this poem
The top of the chart
Is her forever surprise that she’s stolen my heart.

Local Cafe

This bubbling hubbub of babies and boobies
This packed rack of scooters, of trikes and of buggies
Steaming hot flat-whites and freezing cold smoothies
And tapas treats, chocolate sweets, all kinds of lovelies.

Here where the roads cross, facing the old cross
Where crosswords fill time or just buoy the headline’s dross
Where pizza gets eaten by Saturday dads
Where Friday lunch mums dish the news good and sad.

This raucous in calm, our oasis of mania
Awaits you in plain sight down Beckenham high street
The pit at the back for your kids to go batty in
Entices the spectrum of lively South London in.

 

 

 

about: Deli nene

Beckenham Open Mic Poetry 1 Sept

@beckbeatpoetry 1 September 2017

Who know’s where I’m going with this? Is there a need to poeticise now, so far between grand decisions? Who know’s? Anyhoo… The first Friday of September 2017 will see the return of Beck’ Beat Poetry to the excellent Beckenham. We’ll be skulking about in the local church hall – one of the rooms upstairs – and are on for just a short hour… Yet it’s still the finest open-mic poetry event in Beckenham!

Take a look down Albermarle Road on Friday 1 September and listen out for the ranting and romanticising of South East London’s wordsmith populace. We can’t sell you any beer/wine here, but recommend you take some before and during your performance. 5 min mic time for one English pound.poetry

Check out http://www.facebook.com/beckbeatpoetry for pics, verse and other.

The Horse and the Cat

Where are you bound cat?
Asked a horse in dulcet tones
Why ask you?
Are you interested in my goings
or comings?
The cat replied.
You, puss,
the horse whinnied.
are too impertinent for my liking!
You – dear horse – are too ignorant for a horse.

This said, the cat rubbed it’s body about the great calves of the equine!
And you, generous feline, are too
bold for a creature of your minority.
Shall we walk?
The cat moved off,
the horse followed.

What a glorious day!
Remarked the cat as they wandered
out to rolling landscapes.
I agree.
Was the horses only exclamation.
Now shall we not continue?
The cat seemed restless.
No; you are correct!

A cloud enveloped them
and the horse,
(in its giant monstrosity)
and the cat,
(in its sly minority)
became one.

The mighty sun beat down on vacant stables
Through the dark our moon glowed on nights effluent stream.

March

This balmy March night
is sweetly delicious
A purple-filled, cloud-coloured sky
saturated in pollen
Licks at my face
Caressing and exciting me
a carefree jubilant love, warm
enticing and gorgeously fresh!

How about this night
so lithe and fascinating
Spectral whirs of light
and smells fill my head
as the sky whirs on.
Sweet sweet March.
Yum.

2511

I’m out on my own
with my dancing –
romancing!
All soulish and lonesome;
all jumpy
and live.
In front?
Maybe once – but now
mostly behind!

It’s a frightening
awakening,
unabashed assault,
on my brain
every day
and it’s sending me old!

Blackfriars Vocal 25 August

Dear poets and Southbankers! The excellent world of Blackfriars Settlement poetry will once again be cuddling your ears and strumming your heart strings on Friday 25 August 2017. We start at 7pm and you’ll get 5 minutes at the mike.

It’s open to all performers and styles, and you are welcome to simply enjoy the event from the safety of ‘audience’. Take a look at some of our previous performers, as well as a selection of their work, on our Facebook page. Alternatively; turn up and check it out yourself.

I Love Shopping (for Coffee)

Hot morning, must want eggs to milk your bacon good.
Do we hug what delicious get-up the bad wireless need?

Cook a sugar dad meal like lunch
we cool to mum and tea
My cable butter
today calls me;

Stop paying more, yes?
Want bad lunch hug and,
need to get hot butter to it.

 

  • a poem written using magnets on a friends fridge, some time ago… A lone survivor of many magnetic poems – perhaps this was the best?
  • nb – this was written when wireless used to mean radio!

The Last Word

These fucking fuckers
Fucking up our lives
For their personal stake
In our political state
Sucking our lives dry
Leading fates awry
Leaving fears to dry

And this comment’ry
That comedy
Which tries to make it seem alright
Is now as bad
And ignorant
As the fuckers so merrily fucking us
So shame on me
for plugging in
For staying tuned and trying
How sorely fucked the feeling is
As wit washes over this fucking
It’s us,
it’s you,
it’s me
That’s really surely fucking up
I hardly ever knew the game
Yet know that I’m now
Royally f**ked

 

Lazy Boy

Busy days
Ain’t got the strength
To blow these blues away
Worth no money
Got no food
This mind state set
With no wants but you.

Smoked Out Slow

Bored with work ‘cause there’s too much to do
Wasting my time instead listening to music
Writing words to fill my head
Filling my soul with the takers of pain
Drinking some smoking then writing again

And imbibing
Deep breathing
To scribble again

Slow music better than no music
Quiet music better than loud
Hot tunes hold my mind in line
This night goes so slow – so unkind
The shakes once again start me shaking
It’s the fault of quick thinking whilst sitting

The tongues through my head
Keep me waking

Drastic action has me waiting
So long that eyes close under eyelids
Strange thoughts prop my psyche
Weird music and thinking
Sad slow – stoppage drinking
pushes time
to just over the brink!

 

301

Just before he sleeps abed
He sings the tunes played in his head
These minute rhymes and dainty songs
Are his to sing, to hum alone

As noises all about are blocked
The sounds heard here are safely locked
Within the passages of his mind
And so they stay: Regressed in time.

clouds 2007

Lautaro

The Gods have awoken
and they are smiling!
Not at you
but – for sakes scream – with you!
And you Whoop!
For now is the real time
of recompense.

Beck Beat Poets online

David Pape is a regular poet at our Blackfriars Vocal events in Southwark. He’s an awesome orator, and as you can see from this – a talented writer.

I hope you enjoy Squirrel on Cocaine, any comments / feedback will get back to him.

Squirrel on Cocaine

This is the story of a squirrel who failed,
not so bright or bushy-tailed.
A regular rogue with hardened eyes –
a squirrel who cheats and drinks and lies.

Beat up a hare and mugged a rabbit,
all because he’d got the habit.
Lost his friends, became a stealer;
his only mate’s a cocaine dealer.

The crime rate’s up around the park;
he only comes out after dark.
“Are you looking at me? Are you a voyeur?”
he shouts in induced paranoia.

“It’s these ‘greys’ – they’re all the same;
sendem back to whence they came!
They’ve got no morals, they’re aggrevating
they’ll steal your nuts while you’re hibernating.”

He ‘round those half-empty lager cans,
making deals and dodgy plans.
Asking for trouble if he don’t mend his ways –
a fox’ll get him one of these days!

“Fell out of a tree, or so I’ve heard;
had a fight with some big old bird.”
A crook, a thief, a scoundrel, a rotter
it’s not at all like Beatrix Potter!

David Pape

© davidpape 2005