Tag Archives: poetry from Bootle.

Lesions.

The Aqueous Cream has been poured on

with liberal effect to the scales that protrude

and cluster like some jagged rock formation

on a distant alien planet, dead, the atmosphere silent

save for the cosmic winds that ravage the surface

still further, slowly eroding it away, the dust

of a billion years dying a second time and settling

into comfortable oblivion.

 

I remember watching The Singing Detective as a child,

I felt sympathy for Marlowe’s plight and the embarrassment

of a nurse in helping an old man out, but secretly loving

Lesions. full post

(400 words, estimated 1:36 mins reading time)

I Am Lost.

I couldn’t find my way back home.

Lost in the myriad of same looking streets,

strapped of cash, not enough for a small bowl

of porridge, I ran back to where you were, but

you had left, I heard the disembodied voice

of a past smote dragon lingering but why was it your face

now, here in this lost frightening present

in which I focused and the same streets, all semi detached

houses, nothing unique about them at all,

I had never been lost before

and I couldn’t find my way back home.

I Am Lost. full post

(302 words, estimated 1:12 mins reading time)

Dry Toast.

There was a time when being ill

as a child was no fun at all,

shut up inside your room,

the curtains drawn, snapped shut,

the 1970s flowered patterns

almost falling off with a startled,

frightened look upon their stems

and a quiver of desperation as they shook

themselves to the floor.

 

The woe betide stare of,

“If I catch you peeking out through

the now flowerless curtains,

then there will be no soup, just dry,

throat grating, pain inducing, rasping,

Dry Toast. full post

(391 words, estimated 1:34 mins reading time)

The Forever Fly.

Shall I compare thee to the Forever fly

whose sole purpose in life is to annoy

and spread disgruntled feeling and false rumour and lie

as if swirling around puppets, pulling strings on toys.

 

The Forever fly sits and waits, sniffing the air,

not waiting for the afterthought of humanity

but going after the pure and with creepy stare

demands that you serve him first because as a fly he is too busy.

 

The Forever fly, a mutated bluebottle with a decomposed smell

harbours deep resentment because he knows deep down

The Forever Fly. full post

(145 words, estimated 35 secs reading time)

Narrowing Of The Spinal Column.

It’s not until you wake up on the floor,

nose bleeding and the hard-hitting sober headache,

not caused by where you landed, the skull too hard

to damage the wooden flooring

to any great extent,

but from the lack of

 

your

 

own

 

blood

 

pulsing,

 

writhing and wriggling

slowly through the veins and capillaries,

slowly, the snail’s trail dripping, slowly

to get to the head, to keep imagery alive

and to not look drunk,

Narrowing Of The Spinal Column. full post

(121 words, estimated 29 secs reading time)

Thirty Years On And Nothing Has Changed But The Map.

The television had been reluctantly

placed back in my bedroom,

although hardly watched, only for three or four

programmes that I truly wanted

to see,

Doctor Who, Match of the Day, Top of the Pops

or the late night horror film which

took me through teenage years and the sound of the

Vampire scream as he burned to ash, smoke rising,

enough to stoke the fires of the imagination,

so no great loss in the scheme of things,

but I was desperate to watch the event

Thirty Years On And Nothing Has Changed But The Map. full post

(522 words, estimated 2:05 mins reading time)

The Cruelty Of Dreams.

Dreams are too cruel,

they either wake you after the chase,

when short

of breathe and the object of your anguish

slides into the shadows, the laughter of a thousand

screaming nightmares rebounding billiard ball like

against the empty echo that the cushion

over the mouth to stop your own petrified scream

is happy to assist with, even going as far

to enjoy the muffled choke of terror

that the dreams provide it, like food,

sustenance, the pork chop in gravy

to keep its own part in the play fresh and required…

The Cruelty Of Dreams. full post

(214 words, estimated 51 secs reading time)

Catching A Cold In St. Malo.

The St. Malo air was crisp on the July morning

that I heard down the crackling line

of the only phone

box in the towering vicinity

that my

Grand Mother had

suffered

a heart attack.

 

I had been walking for weeks, the chance to stop

for a while and take stock,

take the map out of the bag

and contemplate my next move, one that

unlike my time in America,

I was determined

was not going to end in a premature way

Catching A Cold In St. Malo. full post

(543 words, estimated 2:10 mins reading time)

On The Subject Of Ageing.

On the subject of ageing,

I fear it’s not for me,

I just like wallowing in memories far too much

to have them snatched or slowly corroded, decayed

or fading into the golden sun-sleight of

half forgotten anecdotes and blistered self-denial

to not remember you, your brushed long hair, and trembling

smooth skin as you leant in for a second kiss,

to ever allow old-age the promise

of victory in wondering

who the women is when I look at a

sepia toned photograph, torn through the middle

On The Subject Of Ageing. full post

(396 words, estimated 1:35 mins reading time)

92 Degrees In The Shade.

Sat in a fashionable coffee house in the centre of town,

a pot of flavour filled tea lost in the melee

of noise

of the spitting furnace of the gargling dragon

as it pumps out saliva, frothy and burning hot

coming from one end of the pure white interior

where men and women all decked out

in Dulux shades of the same duck breed egg

and their eyes down, screen driven pupils

whilst their tongues never meet the gaze

of the green eyes, dark shades, expectant calls of mercy me,

92 Degrees In The Shade. full post

(300 words, estimated 1:12 mins reading time)