Friday, 28 April 2017

Ode to Lurpak

Ode to Lurpak.
(day 28 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

Ah, butter!
Couldya be better?
Even in batter
never a quitter.
Dieters stutter,
grow fatter.
But your taste
It’s just ace.
Stuffing a face,
bursting lace.
If this is a race
you’re the winner.
Slavered on dinner,
hours grow thinner,
daylight does a runner.
When you’re spread
thick on good bread,
hunger will nod.
Properly fed.

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.

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)

Rainbow.
Tristimania leveller.
A Horizon hugger
that pegs brains still.
Nature.

Reflection.
A mirror.
Internal attention pools.
Tarn of your thoughts

doubles.



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.

Thursday, 20 April 2017

What time is it, Mr. Wolf

What time is it, Mr. Wolf.
(day 20 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

Days dissipate, become dandelions
chewed in the jaws of a fist, muzzle off. 
Night-time wears its wolf suit now.
All the clocks are wound to feral time.

The solitude of sheets grow fangs,
gnaw dreams to shreds. 
Next door’s dogs stride in beats of threes. 
Long shadows prowl the spine of a playground
spectre until everything freezes.

DINNER TIME!

Memories scatter faster than bairns
being terrorised by the tongues of bells.
The walls of the bedroom play at statues.
A spider kisses the windowsill, loses a leg
to the ways of being gone with the moon.

Distance is measured inside the space it takes
silence to howl. I knit a cloak of my words,
hood them through the forest of my thoughts.
Imagine grandmothers with footsteps bigger
than Jupiter. All the bones of the dead chant.

Three o’ clock.
Nine o’ clock.
DINNER TIME!
Again and again.

The pack life of history howls through the marrow.
And I retreat, become another little cub denned in the dark
coaxing her animal coat out, tagging the furs of her ancestry.
Drying the pelt of territorial intent. Learning how to wear it.

Wednesday, 19 April 2017

How the first Unicorn arrives in Geordieland

How the first Unicorn arrives in Geordieland.
(day 19 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

In the beginning, there was just nowt.
Not even an egg and tommie stottie stuffed with sand.
Just aal this nowtness streaming out and out.
Me Ma, she said, ‘this life of ours is proper shite.’

And me Da, well he wasn’t aboot thank gawd.
One of those fellas that’s clever with his fists.
Reckons he’s all the way to proper hard
especially when he’s utterly pissed.

So in the beginning, the nowt got aal lonely.
And a bairn from ‘round here, they imagine ponies
instead of unicorns (until they get horny).
Anyway, me and the sis, we scarpered to the bookies

with one of those new fivers every bugger
keeps trying to wash, and we stuck it on a pup
called ‘Opportunity knocks’ cos it wasn’t a quitter.
Then we went back yem, took a wee nap.

When I checked the teletext, cor blimey we’d done it!
That mangy auld whippet had actually gan and won it!
Me big sis of course, got herself in a proper geet flap.
Started sticking pins in this auld, unfoldable map

ganning, ‘we’re moving ter the moon now, nah Scotland,
Cadbury’s massive factory, the one proper down south!
we’re ganna really start living now, wor youngin
we’re ganna seriously start having a proper laugh!’

And she’s jumping aboot like she’s got worms in her arse
and aal the people on the bus are gowking at us as they pass.
And me I’m just embarrassed, coz I haven’t washed in a week
coz the leccy money got spent on whisky again. Aye, neat.

And we gan back in the bookies and the fella behind the desk
he starts tutting, ‘you’re ganna have’ta leave, canny pets.
Yer just bairns yer nar, and the law doesn’t allow it.
Aal these youngins nicking from their folks, I abhor it.’

Then me Da, he comes stumbling out of the Auld Club.
Sees us through the window liek, comes in fer a nose.
‘Hinnies, what yer deeing in here, get yourselves yem!
There’s dirty fellas aboot that’ll wanna take yer to their dens.

And that auld git that’s ahind the counter, he’ll rob yer better
than uncle Harry does when he’s on a coke bender.
What’s that in yer fist, wor Jen, have yer been betting?
Get yourselves yem now. Gawd I’m proper stotting!’

In the beginning, there was just nowt.
By the end, there was more nowt as well.

Except for this tiny unicorn that’s started whinnying
in me brain as we're dragging worselves back yem.

Sunday, 16 April 2017

Hare Sighting

Hare Sighting
(day 16 of #NaPoWriMo challenge)

I think I see the hare again.
I know you don’t care any more,
but I think I see it creasing choices
over the furrows of a ploughed field.

Maybe it is just its shadow?
A blot of memory in a tear duct
levereting up to haunt me.
Maybe it is just its ghost.

Remember when you loved me
the most? More than pen nibs, more
than crumpets. More than oblivion
fished for below fathoms of whisky bottles.
Those bastard oceans, reeling you to drown.

How I hate the smell of the gloaming now.
The reckless reek of night stumbling in.
The punch of darkness into fences -
how the press of it still summons bruises.

This is the last time I will write to you.
The last time a landscape will whack me
weak with the scab of something skittering
the wound of your indifference wider.

I will make a ferret of this obsession.
Sic it on every memory that mauls me.
Leave lacerations over the love knots
that once bound us to that massacring.
The Gordian glimpse of a hare, haemorrhaging.

Saturday, 15 April 2017

Crossroads

Crossroads
(day 15 of #NaPoWriMo challenge)

The words pause, arrange themselves
pigeon-toed among the trenches
of your teeth, hunker in.

It’s the light’s fault, how it stutters -
an April afternoon bright with Tourette’s.

By the middle of ‘The Visitations’,
Simmonds’ moon is back to eating
its own heart out, again.

The front door unrolls its tongue, coughs.
You wonder whether the act of slicing

your own head off with a cardboard
marker from Barter Books might invoke
some sense of belonging into your neck.

Once, there was a child who’s spine
was composed from a column of horseshoes

his mother had stolen from a stable of unicorns.
The woman bled herself with nails at his death. 
Watched the stardust of her blood dissipate his ghost.

Your thoughts become the restless shadows
of snowdrops at three a.m in a noisy cemetery.

It’s the rooting down that’s unsettling.
The pressure of belonging, the gravity of it -
a feather on the crosswinds, undeciding

the trajectory of a life lived without wings -
pigeon-toed among the trenches of not fitting.

Friday, 14 April 2017

Five Clerihew

(day 14 of #NaPoWriMo challenge)

 

The wife of Humpty Dumpty
attracted everything numpty.
But she still threw out her whisk.
Thought it hilarious, the risk.

  ii

The hubby of Emily Bronte
was all the way imaginary.
A Heathcliff on acid.
(maybe she loved a good bastard?)

  iii

J.M Barrie’s pen
scribbled Pan all Zen.
But his character was a bugger,
grey-haired all the mothers.

  iv

Dear poet Crispin Best,
come and live with me in a nest.
Don’t think of it as stalkerish,
more an exercise in mutual dorkish.

  v

Dear poet Rebecca Perry,
your Beauty/Beauty I would marry.
But the law still walks a backwards path
so I’ll settle for reading it in the bath.

Sunday, 9 April 2017

Bitten

Bitten
(day 9 of #NaPoWriMo challenge)

It comes with the snow on its soft, soft paws.
It sniffs and it sniffs, always this sniffing.
Until it re-finds you, rattles your doors.
Up on hind legs, it laughs. Oh that laughing.
Worries your loose threads right to your stuffing.
Oh no, the horror, the torture! It’s real!
On to the ravaging, barking. Woofing.
Licks you, gnaws you, starts softening its meal.
You fall, hopeless. Love can be a ferocious deal.

Friday, 7 April 2017

A second-hand book brings a comet to breakfast

A second-hand book brings a comet to breakfast.
(day 7 of #NaPoWriMo challenge)

A cross of daffodils, crocheted on a card.
A camera lens, scratched by a kiss from God.
Juicy spring water, its attempt at lime flavour.

The steady spaces between Venetian blind slats.
On the shelf propped in front of Miss Peregrine’s

children as they hunt for unicorns dusted with pollen.

Boxes of Star Wars figures - a tongueless Jabba
the Hutt. Those decades past bring and buy adventures.
A quest for more space. That need of far, far away.

A pipe cleaner centenarian four inches in length.
Its bone china face haunts the detachment of an attic,
scares dust motes and the stories of  broken-in spiders.

Then the comet appears - that hare-lipped lassie.
Wonderfully heavy with the orbit of her stone baby.
And words gravitate from a page, arc into a heart.
Meteor the organ open again, remind it to work.

Monday, 3 April 2017

The Threshold of Loss

The Threshold of Loss
(day 3 of #NaPoWriMo challenge)

The door hinges creak, the tap drips and drips.
I hear these voices in soft moments as they pass.

The crows, live wires. Another perplexed wasp.
A space in my ear canal distorts as it reopens.

Dead music starts singing a soliloquy to lost love.
This is the mix-tape death plays now, on repeat.

- The rasp of a tongue over cigarette paper.
- Laughter that thrums inside skirting boards.
- Morrissey on helium, plucked like a kite.

- Hamsters in attics clattering dead mother’s wigs.
- Telescopes tuned to the waltz of a waning moon.
- Baby pigeons on a balcony pizzicato-ed  by gulls.

- The ghost of ‘True Blue’ that still haunts the landing.
- The shriek of a key as it turns into this unloosening.
- The way footsteps can make an orphan of a house.

Sunday, 2 April 2017

Recipe to make a Fox Lass

Recipe to make a Fox Lass
(Day 2 of NaPoWriMo challenge)

Preheat the woods to flourishing.
Add books upon books to the pot
of her head when it is nicely soft.
The more the better. Stir and stir.

Sift in some violent incidents;
DNA disasters, familial blood.
Backslap until feral, threaten the
drunk fist. Repeat and repeat.

Add a decent splash of whimsy
to temper the coddled melancholy.
This mixture is prone to splitting
so handle gently. Knead and knead.

Sprinkle with death. A little poison
helps the development of her crust.
Add a few drops of unrequited lust
at this stage, roll out. Cut and cut.

Lastly, spread with a thin layer of friends.
Let the love she feels for them sink fully in.
Dust with sugar to sweeten the belonging.
Then the cruel part, bake until burned.

When she is casseroled long enough to hurt,
cool until frozen. Your Fox Lass is complete.