The Factory

Placing our thoughts in order and putting them into practice is the hardest challenge of all.

Month: September, 2015

Boomtown

Published by Forward Poetry (2014).

Tents of the Wild West battered by screams
reminiscent of a drug-fuelled regime.
Rum stains blood, as pirates sail ships
over miles of green hills,
dancing girls and Ferris wheels.
70’s roller discos and lounge jazz kids
groove to the sound of shadows,
in the evening shade of portaloos.
The sound of trumpets smoothly spread
over dusk air tempered with hard-steel glares.
And when the rain fell, breaking our summer hearts,
we huddled in droves under shared canvas,
until the sound of brass sparks us back to life.
A taste of German cuisine, and a morning cider,
as we gather in front of stages,
until the festival ends, and the new week calls us home.

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Bristol Rose

 

Unpublished (2012).

To you, my friend of several months,
You’ve become a canopy over true sight,
As my irregular heartbeat blinds me further

Mimicking surrounding sounds,
Knocking crotchets off-beat,
Causing my senses to follow
Over a path leaden with wet leaves,
Leathered by uncharted weather
And brazen touch to my worn soles.

Umbrellaed under warming, lustrous joy,
A safety within the unknown.

Mists whisper amongst the night air,
Our skin rippling at the same frequency,
Respiring above springs, and we knew
We were uncharted, but not actors making for a role.
A calibration to my finger prints,
A comfort to my senses and my worn soul.

Style is Nothing Without the Onlooker

To be published by Forward Poetry 2015/16.

In an evening glove
dazzled to mourning
always pretending as
the afterburn swallows bicycles
ears perked, woodlice on floorboards
creak, my mess streaks
excitement shut out
placing chaos on shelves
organised drama
maze prints surround
searching, bones spun
to make milk, to make
me, make doves
make peace
never recover

under this temporary
blanket.

Rebel Tea Party/Irked

Rebel Tea Party

And we sit and drink,
making subversive
comments about primary
issues we don’t really
understand. Mocking, we
slice crackling from meat,
until we make our own
meaning. And who’s to
say we didn’t really know
anyway?

 

Irked

It’s a funny thing to feel irked,
to see from inside the Panda’s eyes.
We could make love forever,
but the seams will never fit,
and the rules presented by
faceless admin staff
of magazines and websites,
destroys artistic intent.

Style is Nothing Without the Onlooker

To be published by Forward Poetry 2015/16.

In an evening glove
dazzled to mourning
always pretending as
the afterburn swallows bicycles
ears perked, woodlice on floorboards
creak, my mess streaks
excitement shut out
placing chaos on shelves
organised drama
maze prints surround
searching, bones spun
to make milk, to make
me, make doves
make peace
never recover

under this temporary
blanket.