Tag Archives: poetry from Liverpool

The Cuckoo, The Cockroach And The Wasp.

The Cuckoo sings as bright as any bird

and its forest chattering drawl

draws many mouths to smile

as the long awaited Spring peeks its head

from around Winter’s closely gathered shawl.

 

The odious nature of its parenting skills make the Cockroach

shiver with nerves pumping prehistoric blood

and alien indestructibility. It shakes its scale like protrusion

and it sniffs loudly and the Cuckoo hears from above the trees

soaring in search of a sucker to warm its eggs.

 

The marble eggs carefully laid by the sparrow, destroyed, turned over, damaged

The Cuckoo, The Cockroach And The Wasp. full post

(464 words, estimated 1:51 mins reading time)

Anti-Clique.

I have never been a dedicated follower of fashion,

the committed hunter of trends or the seeker of the inner circle.

I couldn’t care less for style unless it’s of my own making

and the latest thing, the craze of Dutch Tulip, just passes me by.

 

I love my team but won’t buy into the ethos that sits there now,

I loved them when were so bad we were great and being against type

When others around me supported the local three teams,

and then later the likes of the team from Salford, Arsenal or the beautiful

Anti-Clique. full post

(356 words, estimated 1:25 mins reading time)

No.

I have never been at anyone’s beck and call,

I will tug no lock nor doff my trilby to no one,

I will admire in great abundance but I will not lick your arse clean

nor allow you to make me feel like I am worthless;

for I am not your whipping boy.

 

I place the smoky glass in front of me as I wish it to tempt me,

inside I want it to take me to a place where

you cannot reach me, because the last thing I want

No. full post

(323 words, estimated 1:18 mins reading time)

Concrete Tulips.

Concrete Dutch Tulips are all the rage in the city by the river

as they trade for increasing vast fortunes

that feed the bloated economy figure, warts popping pus

and oozing, squeezing blood all over the dust potted road.

The second city of Empire, the anti-capital, the gateway

to a new world, has more and more concrete tulips

than is healthy as the modern bubble shimmers

in the March sun and speculators look for another

square block in which tulips will thrive.

Speculating on a future that could change with a slip of a pen

Concrete Tulips. full post

(169 words, estimated 41 secs reading time)

The Words I Love You.

When I was young, love was a different concept to what it is now.

I once laid down in the grass by Brill Hill ready to tell you

how much I loved you , to declare at the top of my voice

to the clouds streaming past in military order, clean as a whistle, that I

truly could not imagine life without you and not realising for a single minute

as we both sat there, the grass staining our arses

through the cheap childish clothes we wore, breathless and steaming

The Words I Love You. full post

(477 words, estimated 1:54 mins reading time)

My Own Little Run Away.

It used to be so easy to dream of running away,

to throw in the towel and become forgotten quickly in one day.

Leave all behind and always start a new

be a vagabond, a tramp in new clothing, with no expectation from anyone

because they hadn’t got used to you.

 

Just turn up in a different town one day,

the fresh faced boy on the street, the accent from far away.

Nobody gave a damn because they had no idea,

but they gave a damn when I could not fit in, a ragged detestable man

My Own Little Run Away. full post

(256 words, estimated 1:01 mins reading time)

Murdering Words.

She rang me in the middle of the night, speech slightly slurred,

scurried, slow drawled, concerned and with heavy patience address.

“I worry about you, I believe you will write yourself to death

one dank and dark December day.”

The hint of concern overflowing and verging on future grief

overwhelmed me briefly and

I paused for thought, after all the hour had not long since departed

three, half a pall bearing team I thought wildly with a wry grin,

I wonder where the other half went, perhaps to make sandwiches, after all

Murdering Words. full post

(363 words, estimated 1:27 mins reading time)

Solmanath’s Extra Day.

With the pleasantries over, the argument started in earnest

and February shook its small but well rounded

fist at the other eleven members

of the council and stated his intent to see equality achieved that day.

 

“I still don’t understand why I cannot at least be thirty days long…!”

He boomed in a winter foamed echoing voice

which shook snow from the steadfast Oak and which drifted in a flurry

on to the table carved from a fallen Willow and in which

August exclaimed a serious dislike for.

Solmanath’s Extra Day. full post

(1236 words, estimated 4:57 mins reading time)

Purple Lips.

The cold of the nights,

The chill of the wind,

Purple lips

Slipping out beautiful sins

 

The curses at the sky

Replying to its bitter sweet lies

As society hits her with a label

“The local lunatic” or “mentally unstable”

 

The howls at the moon

Crying what do I do

I’ve been stranded on this world for two decades

I just want my body to disintegrate

 

Society ate everyone’s brain

The Internet,

Consumerism,

It’s driving us insane

 

Purple Lips. full post

(112 words, estimated 27 secs reading time)

The Madness Of King March.

March stands on the precipice of life and dislikes the view.

The infant King, fawned over, lauded, feted and feared in equal measure,

the tyrant teenage regal monster and the early despot in waiting

rages. His senses coloured, polarised by anger, unhappiness and sorrow,

understands only too well that for all his blustering fury, this is not

what he was meant to be to the people in his shadow.

 

The blackness of the sky, the rage and fury, the odd measure of calm

in another wise incensed frenzy in which ships shiver in still icy waters ,

The Madness Of King March. full post

(468 words, estimated 1:52 mins reading time)