Creek Crossing

Above the gentle rumble of 114’s motor
There’s the low holla-and-walla of
Internationals making deals and promises.

Sandy squares of Creek-side villas bob by
Shaded by grand yachts
Of the super rich.

Our 1-Dirham dinghy chugs
Slopping to moorings
Crowded with all of those faces of Earth.

Too loud and close
A colossal dhow blazes
Beaming phone-lights and faces…

In it’s wake our disembarkation
Is a hoppy affair
Scuffed sandals and ruffled kandura’s

Jamila

Dust
Grits her yawn
Her wind ruffled pool
Slaps
Fried blue concrete
This Arabian sea-side
Tires her dry eyes while
Tall shadows, bleached parasols
Blur through her
Squinted tears
Blazing her long hot days
Through mocktails
Banal tales
Airport novels
While the palm dials
Time to her
Dubai brightened
Sun

Blinsolp

Delusions of grandeur
I’m the colour blind prince
In black and white printouts
I’ve no cells to re-bleed

Watching you go
Into skies, brightly lit
There’s no tears to remind us
of what you could free

As screeching flocks fly-by
Grating and raw
Would hush if I just
If I just
If I just

Country poem / Shtrum Tikh

Strum tick
Strum tick
All sing along
Strum tick
It’s my country song
Late in fat moon
Shiny night
Strum tick
Lights a stream of bright

Strum tick
Strum tick
Soulful pace
Strum tick
Here’s a heart warmed place
Rich in history
Sweet in sound
Strum tick
Swell with hearts sweet pound

Strum tick
You’re my hearts hot fire
Strum tick
Music drawn by wire
Here in this sweet tune
So sure
Leaves the beat
For love to pour

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!

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

 

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

Love is the drug

heart-drugs

Love is the drug I hear them say
Can I get it in a tablet or a nasal spray?
Love is the drug and it’s messing with my brain
Your detox did today but I’ll backslide again

Let me get caned in your cuddles
Do a gram of wet-eye-stares?
Or maybe try some methalove;
Warm and close but not as scary?

Love is the drug, light afterglow
My shot in the arm, your ultimate dose
My sweet narcotic of nuzzling necks
A sure-fire hit for knock-out sex

Love is the drug
The balm
The pain
Our tearing loss
Our need to do it again

From the soaring highs of love’s hot fix
Where blood rushes blindly inciting my psychosis.
We lie it’s forever. I believe it’s what hurts.
An infinite comedown and it’s aching our hearts.

 

Hey Monkey Men

With your stupidity and bad omens!
It’s all a space race:
With the faceless them
still setting the pace.
Yet, don’t lose track of your place,
or what they say is the ace trace!

Really,
all us fools and bums:
To further your plans;
sit forward;
give Grace
and embrace the lace bass –
which keeps you in time –
and in tune with the brace,
of faceless (tasteless),
Monkey Men;
who insist on laying waste
to your dreams of choice,
of place,
of time, to spread your mind and race
your own race.

They’re onto you and your funny ways
Profiling you
Dociling you
Infantilising and merchandising you.
It’s clearly in your best
To get invested in their
Popularity test

News is – their not resting
Till you sign over your vest,
Release your funds,
reveal those secret places
Cash in your treasure chest
that’s in your chest
And lives apart.
Must we populate their cloud
With our heart?

Lost Girl

Worldly lonely
This girl caught sadly
Bleeds and crying
Drawn from lightness

It’s her light
She’ll quit tonight
In this quilt of night
Her last flight

So she goes
Good girl gladly
No one misses
Or asks where she goes

Dancer

There once was a dancer
a furtive entrancer

Androgyny performer
The dancer was known
Through a land empty – walking,
and fumbling and talking –
no others would dance
and no others would sing.

So singular dancer
well rounded and good,
would dance to their music
(and sing for their feet)
while our land free of movement
watched dancing the treat.

There once was a dancer
lone song in the din

A colour ambassador
flute chanting its rhyme
throughout lands of grey
by peoples dismay
and this dancing entrancer
caught up all the day

While a light shone its lightness
while the muffled birds watch
as time moved abruptly
to a well measured tune
So brightness was shared
by a dance in the noon

There once was a dancer
crowned colour through grey

A dancer still dancing
To nobodies songs.

Passing

Blue panes filter white light through
In your eyes the reflections within
And this time I’ve lost it
I’ve lost all this time…

One night which flew quick was won
Sleeping with you I tried keeping
Alas my frailty shone
All pleasantry’s gone
The night was soon morning
When it’s my time to go.

One Night Thinking

Softly ruffled; her voice
breaking like equatorial tide
against my ear, my love

Tentatively closing on a body
quietly shivering (not with cold)
with anticipation

Wracked and closing loudly
as her breath hums tunes known well
the end is close, I’ve loved

All the while I listen for her
words pour out like treacle
my mind is alive with her games.

the rain falls

a dropping constant in today’s bleak rush for tomorrows motional ideas and rewards, grasped at for the sake of change regardless. As home coughs its overused phlegm up from way deep back in time. As the race to use every last atom of life rushes ever onwards, screeching past all who ever thought they wanted it and past the next, tirelessly marking second-hand starts or bristling with excitement for the latest ‘greatest’ which often proves merely more complicated and intensive than those passed. Whilst every hour, by weight, more rain falls.

So where do all the puddles flow? Not steamed away by a sun too well concealed out in space by vast gatherings of carbon clouds, blotting all but the invisible rays of dancing ultra violets from brightening up our mornings. Deprived of heat waters fail to boil, they inch up round our lives – flooding street and town, home and farm, plants and pumps. Icily imbibing our land saturated in chemicals and yesterdays dead, stirring up the mud like so many should have done so long ago. And every hour, by weight, more rain falls.

What can we do now, but watch and wait? Listening to the stories and rhetoric of unlucky leaders flailing in time, as changes rush by them in plastic and radio waves too fast for too few to notice, far less appraise or employ. Living in the echo of our shared histories – bent only on eschewing blame – even as dark fault-lines creak and fissure under their own weight, in greed… Whilst every hour, by weight, more rain falls.

  • edited (improved?) and reposted from August 2015. Here’s a morose reflection on how things are for a Tuesday evening…
Rainfall in Venice

Rainfall

Beautiful Night

Turbulent, mindful and full of delight
Mortimer sits through day into the night.
Aware that his being here’s not wholly right,
Silent twitches and grins, though, are all that’s in sight.

When all of a sudden night falls, and all’s dark
Mortimer crawls out from under his Snark,
Pulls all his hair out which signals the start,
And wanders alone to his midnight sweetheart.

Way up a hill down the wrong end of town
The last drips of water slip onto the ground,
From a succulent body wrapped warm in a gown.
And Wanda, all fresh flesh, figures on love knocking round…

Reflected moon shimmers off Mortimer’s head,
As he passes dim bars where the punters – long dead
– argue intently of pitches that bled
From Saturday games beamed direct to their heads!

A bang and a whoop and a crunch at the door
Wakes Wanda, from slumber –
From dreams of amour.
Her shout down, like chocolate,
I’m on the 3rd floor.
Sends shivers through (thudding up stairs) Mortimer.

Lights from her face beam our man on his way
Through doorway, ajar, to a bliss where she lays.
As wonder envelopes in all of loves ways,
These lovers embrace this sweet time and for days.

_she_will_be_loved__by_larosaperlata-d3dhm2m

She Will Be Loved, Larosaperiata (Click image to jump)

Reviewed and reposted from 2011

Beck Beat Poetry

Open mic

Things need to change
Complain complain complain
Lets do something about it
Somebody already is
Well lets do it as well
It’s not going to change anything, nothing ever does
Lets do more
Nobody will come
Lets do it differently
They’re busy doing their own thing
Lets do it in the dark
Nobody will care
Lets do it with people we don’t know
There’s already too much of it out there
Lets do it in Beckenham
With a microphone
In a bookshop.


Having spent much time reading many of your words on screen, I recently got a hankering for some real, in-the-flesh poetry. A few events in London and some irregular You-Tubing later and my appetites whetted… Thankfully, the thoughtful wordsmyths at The Beckenham Bookshop agreed to support my urge to witness more of this on my own doorstep. Ergo…

Here’s your invitation to a free, Open Mic, Poetry event in Beckenham, London.
Tuesday 1 March, 6.30PM-8PM.
Sign up on the door for a 7 O’Clock start, with each artist given up to 5 minutes airtime (depending on numbers), you will enjoy a poetic reception at The Beckenham Bookshop and see the start of a regular, ‘local’, poetry event.

the first open mic poster

the first open mic poster

Failing?

A magic standard gas lover
fell tragic to your arms.
So life fled quickly gushing
so little life left – gone!

Your hazy lady caught you,
a measured catch and true.
Where once you saw times mystery –
now stood loves lady new!

Was this to be our final strut
the tired late risers failing?
A love, though strong, much lacking –
a potent force, harsh; abrupt.

To Smoke

To suck & breathe foul yellow air,
To suffocate;

With each chemically enhanced
Lungful

Each wispy grey breath
To die:

Inhale
Exhale
Mournfully golden teeth and fingers
Yearning for pungent
Rancid
Alluring fags!

Pleading for the next big toxic kick!
As cells give up and blood thins out

Just one rasping gasp
One wheezing whiff

Just one more nicotinous smoke
To smoke.

cigarette ads

Sweet short

Here she sits a lady truly blue
Sweet heart lays in her lap for you
She whispers some sweet treat in time
And blurs the lines of your afternoon

Like something is wrong
In the tune in her song
Like something has left
She has sung it so long

She’s your silent Dido – carved of stone
Living in a life you dreamed was blown
As shadows stretch and rise and die
Your night lights with her white-rose tone

[revisited from Dec 2012]

There’s My Way…

Full of tea yet low on greed
How much you query the green!

All of the money and honey you stash.
Why do you need to have all of that cash?

Here I rot topped up with pot
And dysfunctioning? Me got not!

As round this life you scream in fits
Killing time and joy – losing love in bits.

Burning up days with rants and quarrel
Smashing dreams down, leaving the rubble?

How do you righteous become so bloated
When out in this liberty, I grin easy and float on.

Theres my way

Er…