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.

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

 

2017: January Pre-Mourning

The night before the work starts
Our streets echo with lone travellers
This night of cold clear dread
As the new year shakes free
Of it’s champagne and fireworks
A mighty muted still
Fills up the dark

And in the raging dreams
Of all these people in their beds
Uncertain and alone in today’s cold sleep
Questions of fragility
Feed our hunger for dread
Spoiling this last bedtime
With what tomorrow brings

Outside in some dark corner
Of a Southern London home
I ponder how few deaths make many mourn
The slaps of conflict beat
Fresh tears from more bored eyes
Yet each hour too much life
Is bled and crushed in horror

For one more year has come on us
And forseers contort with doom
Such angry rhetoric, such mounting gloom
Yet this new year is not foretold
And harbours chances new
There’s not time to conjure lies
Just time to start the world.

The end of the world news, Ankakay via Flickr

The end of the world news, Ankakay via Flickr

The Uprisen

Stańczyk by Jan Matejko (1862)

Stańczyk by Jan Matejko (1862)

I’m revolting in our kitchen
I will not wash another cup
Nary the bins are emptied
And I care not who’s turning up

In the toilet I’m revolting
You can guess the seat stays raised
A growing ring of gloomy grey
Entombs the tub in waves

The floor of our thru-diner
Is an irksome furry muck
For I’ve revolted against the oppressive regime
That bids I vacuum up

Window’s streak with weeks of grime
The laundry mountain hums
Shadows stretch from coves
– such as spiders hide –
Yet I’m sticking to my guns

Once in a while love stands the test
Resists worldly weights and… sails
Yet sometimes – oft noticed far too late –
Once in a while love fails

So leave me to my misery
Let this dirt I foster bloom
You Watch your ‘Bake Off’ finally
I’ll sulk, revolting,
in some dark room

4:20

A return to attempting to find my poetic voice. We have come to the end of a string of Beck’ Beat Poetry events, which have been a series of fantastical occasions! Enabling me and others to meet and hear top-class poets from across south London (and Hackney)!

Here is the 420

 

Bon Fire

Sparks which light up this sky so bright,
to light the hearts of youth tonight.
Those that whistle, whirr and ping:
showers that usher the winter in.
Loud bright claps
and whooshes of firepower
launched from the dark,
glowing, burning…then embers.
For this sharp date
when kids stay up late,
steals breath from all lips
frozen, open and baited.
Tonight the sky is blistered light
and caught in brains
and smoked so bright.

Flit

Words (c) Adam Bujons. Image (c) Vincent Van Gogh

Words (c) Adam Bujons. Image (c) Vincent Van Gogh