The Factory

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

Homeless:2016

A shivering walk ends with a bounty of food,
Paid for with a bank balance
Sufficiently full.

Next to the cash point, a dog-eared
Bed and a lost soul,
No food or shelter; tent stolen by police.

New Year’s Resolution

**Written in January 2016.

 

January brings joggers to the crisp, damp park.
Icicle-shaped leaves provide an aspect of danger.
Back and forth, they run past a girl slumped
Sleeping limp across a bench, legs dangling,
No sign of air from lungs under her padded coat.
Some look and think of stopping,
But phones don’t fit in brand new jogging shorts.
Should I raise the alarm?
Two park keepers preening, cleaning
Not too far away, but I continue my workout,
Shamelessly, not wanting to be involved.

Rebirth

I awoke at the feet of a man,
Clothes drenched and dirty.
Body fluids; human and machine in origin.

He sat tapping the curved edge
Of a one-stringed guitar, swigging
Lumpy milk from a greasy glass,

Barely flinching as the sour mess
Slid down behind the folds
Of his ageing throat, laughing,

Hand pressed against wall; cold brick,
Slimy mortar —
My only comfort in this rendition of rebirth.

‘Leave Me Alone’ Hinds Review (Album)

As effortlessly cool as this debut release by the Madrid-based quartet is, I feel we may have heard this sound before. The album is a homage to garage-pop, lo-fi indie and although the sound maybe …

Source: ‘Leave Me Alone’ Hinds Review (Album)

We Are Moving!!!

I am moving all of my music journalism related articles to a seperate page. Link Below.

The move is due to my journalism schedule picking up pace recently, so when potential clients come and check out my work, I don’t want them to have to wade through poetry to get to what they’re after.

However, this doesn’t mean you have to miss out, simply follow the link and start following that page as well.

Cheers

DC

https://davechrzanowski.wordpress.com

City of Foxes

Our back garden: green and yellow farmer’s fields.
Daffodils, rape seed, and hay bales lined up on hillsides
opposing the main road that split housing estates from nature.

Yet, I never saw a fox.
Not until I moved to a city –
20 years into my life.

That town never felt like my true home.
So, like the fox, I moved out to find a food source,
to expel hometown torment,  a love affair of new experiences,

A mixed land to conquer, or dissolve into.
Leicester, my new found playground.
Ironically home to a football club nicknamed the Foxes.

Catalonia

Salou’s beach
with its sands
compact,
bars spaced–
neat vertabrae,
a spine stretching
and bending
down to Cambrils.

This day of summer’s peace
is Catalonia’s legacy.
A bloody regretful history gives way
to holiday makers sipping 14 euro pina coladas
on hot sands and sun loungers.

History sacrificed
for the shouts and screams;
enjoyment for future generations.
Puzzled tourists lost down Las Ramblas
transformed into intrepid explorers
lost on an island of gothic megastructures.

Terragona in a forever battle against modern mortar,
still fighting Rome’s ambition.
The fight is worthless,
there is a place in Catalonia for past and present.
Under the sun’s parasol
language is even.

The Plain

9pm; the winter darkness has checked-in,
keeping watch over several hundred metres
of disillusioned, half-deserted concrete plain.
Everyone here is foreign in their own way.
Students of the local uni attach themselves
to this angular fragment of the city.
Coming from all over, an invasion spawned
from mass-marketing campaigns.
Eastern Europeans, mostly Polish, with their shops
selling food items beyond my pool of culinary knowledge,
adding colour to the edge of my world.
But, it’s the local drunks I find the hardest to decipher,
speaking a language I will never learn.

Lester Bangs’ Moonlight Raiders

Surfaces so hot they feel cold.
Skin is dried wax,
the damage is done.

Playing with the big boys –
they surround you star-struck.

Lester Bangs,
Lou Reed,
essays of demagogues,
boozed up logic,
drugged eyeballs popping
words everywhere
except in the pages they belong to.

Gather the Raiders,
their sweat encrusted t-shirts,
we’ll take one last ride
into moonlight regression.

The End of Factories

Yesterday was the last post from the Factories collection. I am very happy with the way most of the pieces went down, so thanks for reading, liking and commenting.

I will be leaving prose poetry alone for a while. Although, I like to dabble in the style it is by no means my strongest form of expression.

The next mini collection is well under way. It will comprise of ten poems of a darker, observational narrative of situations I’ve been invovled in, or goings on in the world I feel the need to comment on. The working title for this collection is: This Place Called Memories.