Thursday, 27 April 2017

The Woodcutter's Daughter remembers her Forest

The Woodcutter’s Daughter remembers her Forest.
(day 27 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

It was accidental. Too much blackcurrant and cider
and you dancing around like a spider being flushed down
the pub toilet - all limbs and peculiar magic.

It was the taste of clarts rooted to your tongue that did it.
It sowed a forest of saplings right into my marrow,
deadheaded the spectres of lads that that had tried before you.

Left them as kindling in the clearing of my memories,
something your kissing would set fire to - burned embers of youth.
Your lips were Pear drops, Wham bars, crumpets covered in Marmite.

I cannot smell Jack Daniels without that evening
surfacing. That table in the corner, our great white whale.
The gloaming of the bar anchored an Ahab in my heart.

Your breath as you sailed away set Hansel and Gretel loose
among the butterflies gnawing strange paths through my stomach.
Now, I leak out breadcrumbs when I pass one of our old ghosts.

The city is littered with them, favourless poltergeists
that shriek up a thought-storm as I pollard my way back home.
The bittersweet rise of sap, how it can beach. Haunt a mouth.  

Wednesday, 26 April 2017

Expedition to the Cavious Plato Region

Expedition to the Cavious Plato Region.
(day 26 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

They flitter, these prihysteric creatures.
Wrap themselves around metal shrubs
covered in peculiar blooms of pigeon poo.
(we believe our ancestors harvested those to sculpt
statuses for the Gawds on their church of PukeBack.)

“Under the Likeroscope, they shimmer a little.
Possible descendents of the Meyer Effect?”

In their natural environment, we believe
the lifespan was considerably shortened
if manufactured for the Friday-night Tribes.
(Vicious specimens. Splatter enemies with Kebabian Vomit.
Love siblings with liquidised apples thrown into eye sockets.)

“Often resembles a pair of wings stuck together.
A pocket at the summit where a head once was?”

Something textural about them. Almost bookish
when looked at in low light. No spine of course.
But there are ghosts of words sun-gobbled on their skin.
(an early ESoulReader perhaps? Primitive of course.
Unable to withstand a sustained barter with Lucifer.)

“A scent of warm fields and worked muscles lingers
in their corners. Tickles nostrils, makes saliva glands insane.”

Believed by the Bullshittian Acolytes to be part-angel
due to the whispering they will often do when left in a room
with a window open to let the wind mumble through.
(we laugh at this. Every advanced mehciety acknowledges
windows are merely the egos of cultureless communities.)

“Changes shape when ripped. Bleeds crumbs, tasty ones.
Can be scrunched into a ball by a fist. Best tested with lips.”

The unprecedented decision has been reached. We’re taking
an expedition of our greatest Thunkers to the desolate region
of Cavious Plato. Wish us reactions by the thousands. And shares.
(being a Thunkerist, it’s dangerous. Many are lost to the whims
of self-obsessed thoughts that no Upgraded System forecast.)

“Eh? You’ve woken me up to look at what?
Something from my ancient society? Something profound?
Something you discovered in several thousand plastic
containers with lids? Oh, you daft, idiotic lot. Don’t you realise
what you’ve got in your mouths? They’re a herd of discarded
pasty packets, the ones made famous by Greggs.

Tuesday, 25 April 2017

Toyscape of Youth, Revisited.

Toyscape of Youth, Revisited 
(day 25 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

Sometimes, a cabbage patch kid will go rogue.
Lie itself down on the tongue of a cousin’s
Castle Grayskull jawbridge, let itself be mauled
by a stormtrooper dressed in a big brother’s
Thomas the Tank Engine’s underpants.
The ones that haven’t fit since he was six.

In the cul-de-sac that joins shoulder to neck,
that’s where the soft parts of our history fit best.
The apparition of my heel, harpooned. The blood.
How you made whales out of your snowman gloves,
beached them to extinction piggybacking me home.
I loved you then, more than my Chickaboo boy.

Sometimes, toys get knifed. Slit from navel
to throat by a broken lego brick turned sharp
from being stamped on by an exasperated Mam.
Fingers become pioneers, discover new continents
inside the furred world of a favourite teddy bear.
Replace stuffing with secrets, a few condoms.

Behind the wardrobe of your eyes, that’s where
I will thread off to, to die. Thoughts can be cities
or the solitude of a secret garden grown heathen.
The islands your palms pressed onto my skin
when we were ten are the places I migrate to
when I allow my memories to turn geese again.

Sometimes, the spaces between a doll’s dress
and its plastic tummy become the haunted attics
an adult can never allow themselves to return to.
It’s the fathoms beneath the fabric, the maelstroms
that swirl there, how they breed their own Charybdis
if looked at. Their very own Scylla if touched. 

Monday, 24 April 2017

Wizards of Odd

Wizards of Odd.
(day 24 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

A double-jointed child is doing backflips
on the spine of a salmon turned cloudy.
Everything’s blue - the sky, the ship, the Freudian
slip that’s there on the paper centuries before
the man is born. Mother eats father from the prongs
of a fork she’s carved from living whalebone.

Jonah’s the jester juggling the sun and a wolf.
Someone’s added a Rubik cube to the back of his head.
Not God. They’re off filling the brains of monks
with ideas the leaders discovered on mushrooms dried
by melancholic moonbeams in the throat of the North Wind.
It’s grand sailing lives on the backs of dead centuries’ hands.

On strands of Ivy drawn eerie, angels make bowling balls
with heads of unicorns. Horns and feathers tickle the air.
A seven foot bat unstrings violins, makes them into boats.
Sailors dressed as albatrosses row them to the fat side of the moon.
Distant stars stand sentry, belligerent bouncers of the solar system
that refuse entry to anyone acting ordinary. Rocket their arses away.

A satyr sticks rose petals up the nose of a naked woman
with the horn of a narwhal sticking out of her stomach.
There’s a pandemic of peculiar illuminating all the paper.
Mother Nature’s on the margins, licking stamps for Postman Pat.
All the wheels have fallen off even before they are invented.
The cogs have turned into warthogs that will be roasted for supper.

And there’s all this laughter wearing the wings of old dialects.
It raves around like a squadron of starlings weaned on Ecstasy.
These are the memories of the holy ones that sculpted society.
Manuscripts of magnificent weirdness housed in museums.
Such gregarious ghosts. What a hilarious haunting they've left,
penned in those spaces where a blankness would have spread.

Sunday, 23 April 2017

Alexander's Band

Alexander's Band.
(day 23 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

Tristimania leveller.
A Horizon hugger
that pegs brains still.

A mirror.
Internal attention pools.
Tarn of your thoughts


Saturday, 22 April 2017

Lent Lily

Lent Lily
(day 22 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

From the back of the bus, someone coughs,
starts saying a prayer as we pass the church.
Not for the dead there, or the religion itself,
but for the daffodils that are on with their dying.
Chewed back to earth by the molars of April.

I remember my fist full of paper, the dry
texture. How it felt alive as I scrunched
it into a bud, the blooming it did when it hit
the back of the fire, petalled up the chimney.
How empty my fingers felt afterwards, how old.

The flowers have shaken off their yellowness -
little blots of custard, the kind made properly.
Turned crispy now, singed ears on tortured toys.
Battalions of them that rasp the air to a shuddering.
The burned tongues of early Spring, desiccating.

At the bus shelter, someone’s mother drops a tin
of beans. It rolls and rolls, forgets it has to stop.
Among the empty crisp packets and stubbed out tabs
that make a universe of litter on the grass verge,
a solitary daffodil shines. Nods its head as I pass. Smiles.

Friday, 21 April 2017

Post-it Notes for the Dead

Post-it Notes for the Dead.
(day 21 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

If you were alive, I'd send you a blank page
and a Starbar. If you’d been born a football,
I would not kick or deflate you, ever.

I’ve never fallen out of my shoes twice
in a row before, but I’d be happy enough to try
if you promise always to laugh and laugh.

This need to knit our histories into the pattern
of distance and dreams. I will not let go
of the wool though, or drop a single stitch.

And when age advances and we become
nothing more than the story of jumpers
tucked away at the back of the drawers,
I'll remember the sound of that laughter.

Me, the dog, three unsleeping horses
and an atypical bird in the fog, hunting ghosts.
All origamied inside the folds of a Saturday night.

No wonder I want to hold onto those unconscious
moments the same way Linus holds onto his blanket.

Another Sunday morning, another rain-drenched day
stretches forward like a leering old man with a walking
stick and an opened packet of Fishermen's Friends.

I need a wolf in my pocket with my dragon I guess.
So if we ever need to, we can burn it all down. Howl.

And along the edges, my Happy Pill.
A little island of wonderful with its spooky
accent and Saturnian imagination.


Midnight musings scribbled down.  
Questions for the stars. The moon.