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

 

Bedlam Museum of the Mind

A visit to Bethlem Hospital
Museum of the Mind this week.
Open Wednesday to Friday 10am-5pm
(unless you’re in a ‘group’).
I find myself struck by the times.

There is a wide range of art
as well as historical lunacies to enjoy
and the staff and ‘service users’
are impeccably informed and helpful.

Here are two of the few photo’s I took to remind me of the visit.

Harriet Jordan

Harriet Jordan

Harriet Jordan (after)

Harriet Jordan (after)

Beck’ Beat Southwark

Hello everybody!

As you can see, I’m aiming to make Beck’ Beat Poetry something of a ‘Thing’, ergo – we have our second event in Southwark in mid-October. The event is hosted at the fabulous Blackfriars Settlement (A community organisation near Pocock Street).

The last one we had here (in August) was an excellent opportunity for a very diverse audience to enjoy an equally dynamic spectrum of poetic voices. The newly ‘corporatised’ interior of the Settlement was transformed. It literally resonated with emotions as our small collection of Open-Mic readers broke down barriers of ignorance and let their words weave magical strands of hope and destruction. It really was that good.

You can see a flavour of some of what occurred, in August, on the Facebook page. Please check it out (obvs)!

If you can make it to this epically central location on a Friday night in the middle of October, jump in and read us a few of your poems.

Sad Tears

Tears drop hotly from cheeks
They run down
Dry before they reach the ground
A store of tears built up o’er weeks

Dressed in coats dragged fresh from the streets
Worn bare
Reveal a heart so rare
Cold golden heart mired in defeats

Through windows high in walls
Open to sky
The saddest song drifts by
On cold hearts sits the saddest song of all.

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.