As fierce as I’m swallowed,
through momentous times,
Stunned and shunned
on a quiet sidewalk somewhere.
Reminding myself of others –
times, people, even places.
And thus, I’m left
a mushy pulp of lightness:
from this path.
In another room
An age away
Rips the night apart
We curl a tune
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,
Diverse from ours, away,
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
Retain a tenuous grip in the
Blank planes of
My particular memories.
Forging bearable apology
For having squandered
And exhausted such energy.
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)
lazily, calling for soulless repent
from a murkier past:
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 –
till they’re called from the nights.
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.
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
Where are you bound cat?
Asked a horse in dulcet tones
Why ask you?
Are you interested in my goings
The cat replied.
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.
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)
The mighty sun beat down on vacant stables
Through the dark our moon glowed on nights effluent stream.
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.
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.
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
Which tries to make it seem alright
Is now as bad
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
That’s really surely fucking up
I hardly ever knew the game
Yet know that I’m now
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
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
to just over the brink!