Thank you
for keeping my secrets
and telling my lies,
for saving my soul
and drying my eyes,
for holding my hand
and kissing my head,
for breathing new life
into dreams I thought dead,
for giving and living,
forgiving me,
thank you, thank you
for loving me.
There needs to be an urgency,
an emergency of feeling
for poetry to reach out
and leave the reader reeling.
The poem is a potion
of emotion for the poet,
who imbibes life like tequila,
but through whiskey wisdom,
shows it.
This Frankenstein of flesh
Stitched together back from death
‘The Headless Children’ lyrics by Blackie Lawless
A memory, dimly recalled,
has the sense of something
hollow, an echo of a dream,
that non-linear moment upon
waking, when the world,
trusted to the night’s safe-keeping,
has broken the spell
but kept the secret.
A requiem reaches
the dishevelled heavens,
engineered by an arcane art
and furnished with
the frustration of a Phoenix,
bound to a Prime-Material plane
by a prophet who will not relinquish
the ashes of their religion.
Although they are truly nasty buggers,
hanging round the ATM,
I do admire gun-wielding muggers,
you’ve got to hand it to them…
Mount Ironing, you bastard!
My deplorable Everest,
the seemingly unconquerable
clothing conquest,
I look up to the heavens,
I wonder if this is a test,
I want a hug, I give a shrug,
I suppose I’ll do my best.
Sorting through the crinkled,
wrinkled wrongdoing,
I fight back tears and rising fears
of the futility eschewing,
the impossible likelihood
of completing the task, it
looks like a war-zone
in this blasted basket.
It almost hurts to see the shirts
and trousers in abundance,
but the excuses to procrastinate
have finally met redundancy,
so I set the iron to steam,
the dream of pressed clothes, dawning,
but then I think, to hell with it,
I’ll do it in the morning!
Tempered in the forge of battle,
the cold steel heart
seeks the weak, unworthy,
denizens of the dark,
to take up swords against the lords
who wield a mighty pen,
the dangerous, estranged from us,
the fractured rapture, ken.
This is the zenith,
the mountain peak,
this is of what your
ambition reeks,
this is the zenith,
your man-about-town,
be careful what you wish for,
it’s a long way down.
This is the zenith,
king of the hill,
big fish, small pond,
never standing still,
this is the zenith,
the killer in the clown,
be careful what you wish for,
it’s a long way down.
This is the zenith,
an untrustworthy messiah,
this is the zenith,
you can’t get any higher,
this is the zenith,
and if you don’t want to drown,
be careful what you wish for,
it’s a long way down.
Weightless ghosts, the hosts
of the bard’s vanguard,
his army’s armoury, harm for me
in my marred, die-hard disregard
for hypocrites like me.
Be free.
Wow! Thank you to all who voted so far, I have had one of my poems shortlisted for The Loneliness Project! Please, please, head over to the Theatre Cloud and get voting again, I may win a prize! Here’s the link to the reading:
Much love from Baldy!
I am delighted to tell you that my book, Lacuna, will be released by Black Pear Press on Sunday 14th August. There will be a book launch, including a book signing and poetry readings from myself, the amazing Alan Durham, the magnificent Mike Alma and perfect poet; Polly Stretton.
The launch will start at 4pm at Drummonds (28 New St, Worcester WR1 2DP) and end around 6pm. You may want to book Monday the 15th August off work as there will be one heck of a party afterwards (same venue).
I hope to see as many of you as possible, thank you all, the support has been welcome and humbling.
