A Glance
At a glance, I am plain,
All salted and personal, the starving soldier,
Up against the wall, the small faceless joke,
It is impossible to tell when she is coming;
The fridge is empty, an aging imposter.
Our weary desire for people
Wears us out;
Everyone’s qualified, the impossible children,
Constant drivel, the outcry of incidents.
My friends, left alone,
Red-faced, she faces again;
She works the world, curled into herself.
Lit from underneath
I headed up generation to generation,
Perhaps our grace graces us all.
The half-decided days wanes into itself like women.
And me, tea-bags for eyes,
The slow baptised dog.
Untitled poem (written in about 20 minutes)
I am sitting here dreaming I
Was in another place different to here,
I’m staring at this painting seeing
Turn brightly I am a
Knight in shining armour,
There aint much use in calling
Out names forgiven forgotten
Outside I am a broken
Washing machine,
There aint much use in writing
Things are useless to me now,
The echo of our righteous
Plays on the negative
I am the rightful joker,
The mother tells the time like a clock
And these deaths couldn’t have been kinder,
I am here I have been shot down,
Someone screams to their mother
And I am not yet invented,
Now the days are boxed in
And it’s dark and it’s old in this North end of town,
And I’ll play this in A-minor.
