Performance Poetry: Free Verse Lives!

A poem for my Grandma

2011-08-08T08:22:00.000-07:00

My dinners over Grandma’s,
banquets fit for royalty.
My plates piled high, food scrapes the sky,
she really spoils me!
Then after tea, five-year-old me
and Grandma will duet.
It's ‘Uptown Girl’ by Billy
or a Carpenters cassette.

From tot to teen, there’s always been
my Grandma – always there.
Trying our best to win ‘Who
Wants To Be A Millionaire?’
We’re phoning up Chris Tarrant
(though he never phones us back)
We’re millionaires in laughter
from day-break ‘til skies turn black.

The Phantom of the Opera sings
to Christine, ‘All I Ask’.
We’re off to Manchester, see
Peter Karrie don the mask!
We write to Peter Karrie
(though he never writes us back)
But still, we won’t forget
his smashing chandelier attack!

From teens to twenties, now thirties,
through times happy and sad,
My Grandma’s faith in me’s one of
the greatest gifts I’ve had.
No calls from Chris, no letters from
The Phantom, these I lack.
But Grandma’s always loved me
and I’ve always loved her back.

Should I Hand In My Homework?

2011-06-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

Walking to school, I hear a crack...
A dragon bursts out the tarmac!
Its scythe-like claws tort for attack,
its drool-drenched jaw hung wet and slack.
No beast will eat me for a snack!
I have no muscle (no six-pack)
but I've the brains that dragons lack.
I trap it in my math's book! WHACK!

Although I know I'm no hero
I *did* defeat a dragon... so...
I raise my math's book, cheer 'BRAVO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'

Of course...
Dragon's trapped between these pages.
Must keep this book shut... for ages.
Don't unlock these paper cages.
Please don't unleash dragon's rages!
Teachers... aren't wizards or mages.
Think they're smart... but they're no sages.
Sir just snorts. I hope he’ll gauge the
danger trapped between these pages!

'Sir!' I yell, 'Don't look below
my math's book's cover!' (now aglow
as from inside dark smoke rings blow!)
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'

‘Without a sword, without cross-bow,
without kung-fu or tae-kwon-do,
with just my book I caught this foe.’
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'

My teacher says, 'What nonsense. Right,
you gave the whole class quite a fright.'
He takes the book. Its spine burns bright,
pages smouldering fiery light.
'Please stop!' I cry, 'Look, I'll rewrite
my homework, please, I'll do it tonight!'
He opens the book... Dragon takes flight...
devours Sir in one sharp bite.

Teachers! My moral is more than implied.
Don't wish to corrupt, don't mean to misguide,
but when marking homework keep caution applied
for there might be a dragon... waiting inside!

What's That Smell?

2011-06-16T01:26:00.000-07:00

I have a cat. He's small and thin.
Bright ginger fur covers his skin.
His name is Dillen. He's my pet.
My playful, cheerful friend... and yet...
I fear wherever Dillen goes,
for every man will hold his nose
and all the women go beserk
when they smell Dillen's bottom burp.

Wherever he goes, people yell
at my poor Dillen- 'What's that smell?'
But I am too ashamed to tell
the truth as they shout 'What's that smell?'

At first, your nose he'll gently tease
with just a whiff, like mouldy cheese.
It gets worse than old football boots,
the stench that comes when Dillen toots.
Like bad eggs rubbed in sweaty feet,
sour milk dripped on rotting meat-
you'll hear no sound, the stink grows steadilly.
Dillen's trumps are silent... but deadly

Wherever he goes, people yell
at my poor Dillen- 'What's that smell?'
But I am too ashamed to tell
the truth as they shout 'What's that smell?'

One night, I couldn't sleep. I saw
a rainbow pour beneath my door!
Then in mid-air... saw flowers bloom!
Fireworks burst... in my bedroom!
This was no dream. This was no bluff.
This magic soared from Dillen's guff!
He's been a wizard all along.
Like Harry Potter... but with more pong.

Now Dillen knows many a spell.
Can teleport and fly as well!
Let's tour the world! This show will sell!
A shame he can't dispel the smell...

Now one last truth you might find tragic.
Not all our botty coughs are magic.
In fact, some people act aghast
if you let rip a trouser blast.
I can't believe some folk can't cope
think it's a crime if wind is broke.
It's normal, natural, not obscene.
We've all got gas- even the Queen.

So I'm not shy if people yell
when Dillen's trumping 'What's that smell?'
Magic or not, I'm proud to tell
the truth when they shout 'What's that smell?'

My Living Document

2011-05-06T01:20:00.001-07:00

My Living Document

4am parched,
mine marches on paper legs, tramples detail,
runs over its own mistakes again,
runs in circles, spiralling.
Parasitic bloated hungry,
mine is a vampire cannibal draining its own neck.
Stamping new ideas on top of old,
past thoughts bleed between present ones.
Now feels forever.
Mine jibes sour stories it promises tomorrow will unfold.
I’ve paper-cut eyes and fistfuls of scribble
that can’t punch through even the lightest doubt.
Gasping. Straining its leash.
This brittle cover can’t hold mine down anymore.
It tears ahead of hands, rips through pride and pants.
Its inky print stains you. My mouth says sorry.

Help me keep its wet, jaw pages tight shut.
A black blob butterfly waits inside, cackles all night.
How can I sleep? I’m wide-eyed beside you
wrists clenched, fingers spiralling.

Yours, in a dream-hammock over your head,
returns to your brain as you wake.
I wrestle with mine ‘til it knocks me out cold.

Hero

2011-03-26T03:03:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j88bmsv8H7E "the handsomest nose in the galaxy..." short film of my WIZARD poem, 'Hero'

First draft of poem from workshop at Contact

2011-02-04T01:53:00.000-08:00

Brain gone tidal.

Ideas rising,
salty memories,
an inspired foaming at the tip.
A brain wave.

Thoughts come crashing down,
prepare for impact,
all hands on deck,
hands ready to write,
hands to document this torrent of inspiration pending.
Get ready!
Thar she blows!

Pause.

Nothing.
No thick burst of ice water,
not even a hint of sea mist,
nothing.
Not even a vacuum or gulf of space,
beyond space,
space imploded,
there is nothing in my head

and its weight is killing me.

Imp or Giant

2010-11-25T02:45:00.000-08:00

Sat there alone, I saw this...
In the bar's safe corner where no one else sits,
away from the giants, their laughter like grit,
away from catty dwarves’ cruel chitter-chat-chit,
away from wafer thin willo the wisps
fingering magazines between vodka sips,
I chewed my shaking nails like half eaten bags of crisps
watching this cackling, barefoot Imp.

I watched it. Barefoot. Waving round its shoes.
Acting like it invented feet.
Cackling up to the jukebox din
through the crowd so thick with their talk so thin.
No one even gave it a glance.
Sheltering behind my fat finger mask
I thought, ‘One- two- one- two- one- breathe’,
turned my ears away from its barefoot beat.

Imp flitted forward, cheeks and teeth,
elbows jabbed a staccato jig.
Too wrapped up in its own bare feet,
Accidentally... knocked over
...a Giant's... full
...drink

Smash!

...

Giant's face... engorged.
Cherry red... eyes glaced.
Lager danced down his mountainous shirt,
rumbaed to the valley of his lap.
Giant’s knuckle hair rose like spears.
Imp- bare faced- had no fears.
I thought, ‘One- two- one- two- one- breathe.’
As my fingers hugged my beer I felt myself freeze.

Drenched and deranged, Giant leapt with a roar,
slammed down fists, a fight, or more
and Imp... waltzed away,
oblivious... free.
Seemingly unseen
grinned relentlessly.
The crowd hadn’t flinched, their natter bobbing along.
Giant sat down. The night sailed on.

‘One- two- one- two’ still could see
Giant's massive muscle, Imp's barefoot glee.
In my safe bar corner where no one else breathes
the air got sticky like someone spilled the breeze.
I thought, ‘One- two- one- two-’ to ease
as I bit nails deep, tasted them bleed,
Panic attacked on the count of
‘Three...’

...

I would do anything to be bigger
or smaller
than me.

Medusa

2010-11-24T01:21:00.000-08:00

Medusa's hands have got ingrowing nails.
Sat behind the check-out till she chews at her gnarled fingers.
Customers tut.
Tsk! Tsk!
One day, she stopped painting them,
realised she'd got more nail in her than out,
an inside out pin cushion,
spiky Medusa chewing.

Six minutes past two.
Two hours and fifty four minutes to go.

She loves collections of porcelain shoes,
used to wear bracelets heavy with runes,
never had kids but sponsored a unicorn,
wishes her flat had a fireplace.

One day, woke up with ingrowing hair,
screaming,
hissing migraines and head-full of cobras.
Felt like an atlas had cracked in her skull,
felt like she'd swallowed the weather.
Got two months away from the shop
then Doctor said she was better.
Confided her eyes still twisted of serpents
but Doctor said she was better.

He told her to smile,
take the bandages offered for her internal bleeding.
Cheap incentives.
Counterfeit concern.
Minimum rest keeps her stressed
python knotted shoulders tort,
chest crushed tight.

She wishes
she could turn more than his heart
to stone.

She must
not
sweat,

must
not
blush,

and never
ever

cry

in public
again.

Medusa's face is ingrowing.
Check-out till stranded,
struggling to smile,
hold those bloated eyes in.

"Hold my eyes in, keep my eyes in,
smile and thank who I'm despising.
Venom swills against scraped nerves
until I can’t shake off their words,
words that make my heartbeat flicker
pumping poison through me quicker."

Lumps of fear, chunks of doubt
feed the snakes she can’t carve out.

A new poem looking at Wizard's past, 'Hero'.

2010-11-22T01:15:00.000-08:00

A bit of Wizard's back story...

Hero

Once-upon-a-time, a barman worshipped the Sun.
Worked nights so didn’t see much of it
but in his head he’d got stories of
the Fire God supreme
vanquishing monsters who'd eat out your dreams.

He called the Sun ‘Hero’,
believed it had six pairs of arms,
giant wings of flame
and the handsomest nose in the galaxy.
Made moons blush,
giggle their names.

His Sun was a Hero who rescued smiles
and fed them ideas 'til they were fat with luck.
Faster than a speeding comet,
could see around corners, rewrite destiny,
didn’t break promises,
could even rewire a star.
gave songs to orphans, faith to minstrels,
had the kind of hug you couldn’t touch
but kept
safe
underneath your skin.

Barman knew his Sun would come
one day,
teach him the Hero's Way.
He could be the Sun’s wise-cracking side kick.
Might even get his own light saber!
On long, lantern lit night shifts
washing drip trays,
watching drips
getting wasted,
Barman kept faith that Sun would come.

Hurrying home under a bludgeoned moon
he’d hum a tune made from
downing flaggons and flying dragons,
nights filled with what-would-be’s!
Adventures! Dichotomies!
Unlocking his flat’s door

at 4am
he’d get ready for bed,
every time dreaming he’d just stay awake
long enough to see
Sun.

The Elders Song

2010-11-18T04:54:00.000-08:00

In this 'Wizard' poem, Wizard gets a letter from the Elders of his world questioning the severity of his mental illness. Wizard has previously been given money to live as he has been considered too ill to work. Now the Elders are reconsidering their decision...

The Elders’ Song

(spoken by THE ELDERS)

“Dear Mister... insert-name-in-this-space.
We are writing to conclude on your case.
You ‘say’ you’re... ill... Your words are misplaced.
Sometimes we all get a little sad.
Yours isn’t the only form we’ve had.

Lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
Hey, hey, hey! Earn your play!
Live to work another day.

You say you’re too ill to go outside.
We said where therapists were. We tried!
You wouldn’t go! You just stayed inside!
Have you thought we might suspect your sneaking?
Is this just attention seeking?

You said you panic. We heard your call.
With our pills, you’d feel nothing at all.
You wouldn’t take them! Of all the gall!
Have you thought we might suspect your faking
easy way of money making?

Lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
We’ll clear up all this mess and fuss
though no-one ever says thanks to us."

(spoken by WIZARD)
“I said I would work. I’d work from home.
I’d work quite happily left on my own.”

(spoken by THE ELDERS)
“Well, how could you find work with that tone?
Have you thought about our budget’s cuts?
Now, please, no more ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’,

lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
Hey, hey, hey! Earn your play!
Live to work another day.

Lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
We’ll clear up all this mess and fuss
though no-one ever says thanks to us.”

Most recent 'Wizard' poem... GORGONS

2010-10-25T03:09:00.000-07:00

Gorgons

“Steel your nerve adventurer,
be dexterous and wise.
Make haste to the Supermarket...
The tea bags are in aisle five.

Watch out! Milk spill, aisle three,
a fat white ocean wide.
Steer your trolley deftly lest
you wake the gremlin inside.

Should your trolley veer harsh left
you’ve just upset its gremlin.
I gift to you one SLEEPWAX spell
to soothe those wheels a-trembling.

Beyond baked bean tin avalanche,
behold- our goal- our tea!
But yet, beware the check out tills,
sat there are sisters three.

Foul Supermarket gorgon hags!
Their hook clawed nails forebode.
Spit fire if you pay with change
or buy food with no bar code.

I swear to you – one look could kill!
O mortal man-hate frown.
So judging should you shop barefoot
or in your dressing gown

whispering ‘Weird!’ and ‘Paranoid!’
with spindly fingery glee.
Can you survive these devil’s crones
to bring back milk and tea?”

Another 'Wizard' poem- this one's called 'Tea'

2010-10-21T02:06:00.000-07:00

Brew for me a cuppa tea.
Fill to brim my mug.
Warm our bodies, brains and speech.
Internal, liquid hug.

Every word I form began
an undug thought to free,
each like an acorn in my skull
to feed and wet with tea.

You and me, together,
sharing tea, the world goes mute.
I hear a rumbling in my head,
our tea wet words take root

and grow, a thousand words tower tall
all branching inspiration.
Kettle’s boiled, tend our talk
with tea’s sweet irrigation.

Sheltered by these evergreen boughs
let's make another brew.
My mind’s a forest of great calm chat
with cups of tea and you.

First draft of a new 'Wizard' poem

2010-10-19T02:33:00.000-07:00

*Snap* *Click* *Thwack!*
My heart armour... is intact.
Mission target sighted!
There is NO turning back...

It is a quest to retrieve
the most awesome treasure.
Most power-reaping life spark!
-yet most quiescent pleasure.
For its lure, a king could murder,
forsake riches, live in rags!
It's legend is sung in many lands tongue.
The magic of...

TEA BAGS!

Pyramid ones are preferable,
though square or circular's fine.
No nobler elixir flows
within your land or mine.
Without tea, I turn wild as wolf,
tea's name, I howl and bark it.
Tea can save if we can brave
the trials of...
...Supermarket...

O... ...Supermarket
where the happiest heart could crack.
For tea, I don my heart armour,
*Snap* *Click* *Thwack!*

O... ...Supermarket
enslaves her worker’s dreams.
Promised opportunity.
Most will never leave.

Supermarket gives her drones
a few loose pennies to hold
whilst hoarding for herself great piles
of diamonds, rubies, gold.
Supermarket's clones accept,
blind follow their leader's call.
If they didn't take her pennies, well...
they might have nothing at all.

Their withering queen, deflowering thought,
dictates when they should eat,
when they should rest, when they should smile,
free will is obsolete.
This isn't life.
These drones exist in undead misery.
How I fear their zombie touch
when I want to buy tea.

Watch flaking hopes decay,
fall wasted to the floor.
A zombie touch could shrivel your soul.

I can't go there no more.

Their stares en-flare fears I can't share,
shoot shivers through my blood.
One touch could shatter my heart armour,
*slash* *smash* *thud*

Friend, hero, valiant knight,
heart armour firm as metal,
survive these Supermarket ghouls
and I'll put on the kettle.

...

2010-10-05T04:52:00.000-07:00

...

Honestly,
wish I hadn't gone.
Saw a different side to Earth that day,
ugly as coffin splinters.
No spring buds warm promise or flower tips lit that grass.
Earth had nothing to give me.
Quiet as monsters claw tapping under the bed
tap
tap
tap
stop
it came.

Still can't taste anything.
Feel drunk on absence,
a hollowing spirit
shaking my legs like chains
cursed numb my tongue,
double shot my words dead.
I don't believe in them anyway.
Words.
My words were only ever the ghosts
of someone else's thoughts.

My thoughts are all wrapped up together,
haunting sheets of guilt
rip,
can't untie them,
this guilt holds closed a body so full of nothing
opening up could shatter any heart
under its empty weight.
My heart has sucked space inside out.
I've got the vacuum of the universe in my gut.
People ask questions,
they don't want me to share,
I'm sick of hearing their honey and mud.

Wish I hadn't gone.
Wish I hadn't seen Earth so hungry,
scavenger scheming,
whistling maggots, slobbering soil.
Before that day the Earth I knew just
grew fruits,
shared roots,
I'd never seen it eating.
Earth doesn't eat fruits.
Earth eats death
and grieving.
Feasts on grieving.

That day, Earth opened up,
cold, dry gums parted,
gaping, lipless mouth crumbling
as men I'd never met before
fed it the left-overs of your body.

Wish I hadn't gone.
Sorry.

I stood silent as Earth devoured your scraps,
toothless jaw closing over your bones
to never let go.

Wanted to kick ground,
yell in its face,
punch out these fists so tightly plunged
in black jacket pocket
but didn't.
I did nothing.
Listened to strangers talk like that was you down there
falling apart in Earth's full belly.

Spoken Word All-Stars at Contact

2010-09-29T12:13:00.000-07:00

Hey ho, hi dee hi and general happy greetings from my good self, the poet dominic. Cheers for reading! I've been writing this blog for a bit now (infrequently, i know) and have thus far used it exclusively for my poetry. Well, today is the grand unveiling of a blog that is NOT a poem (gasp!) but.... a blog about upcoming poetry nights!! Big evolution yes i know :)

tomorrow i'm very excited about going to watch SPOKEN WORD ALL STARS at Contact theatre on Manchester's Oxford Road. SPOKEN WORD ALL STARS is exactly what it says on the tin: a stellar cast of talent from the UK's live poetry scene, performing an original live show alongside one globally acclaimed musician - the sophisticated saxman, Jason Yarde.

SPOKEN WORD ALL STARS include:

El Crisis - his unique style combines a hypnotic mixture of rap, spoken word, song and chant.

OneNess - spoken word soulsista from Grenada.

Kat Francois - slamtastic, superphysical storyteller.

Ventriloquist - wordsmith wizard from the west.

Kate Tempest - hellfiery powerhouse of socio-poetry

and of course Jason Yarde - the king of improv sax.

The SPOKEN WORD ALL STARS National Original Tour - will be winding it's way across the country, September through to the end of the year, and there are more dates coming up in 2011.

But Dominic, I telepathically hear you cry, where can we hear your work next in this fine city of Manchesterford?

The following day, Friday 1st October, half seven at An Outlet on Dale St, I will be co hosting the prize poetry open mic POETRY PILLOW with the marvellous Cathy Bryant, who will be performing a guest set of work from her imminent debut poetry collection. £3/2 in. If you would like a slot on the open mic, it is first come first on so just get down nice and early and you'll be all good. The venue is right in the middle of where they're filming the new Captain America movie but us poets are special and will be let through the sets in order to express our inner demons and the like.

Fab!

By the way, hope you enjoyed the previous poem I posted on this blog, the 'Snail' one- that's the first of the poems completed for my current Arts Council funded development project malarkey. Watch this space- more to follow...

Love and light,

Dominic x

Snail

2010-09-29T03:11:00.000-07:00

Snail

When Rain calls the snail out
of sleepy, snail dreams,
sliding out a restful place
no human eye has seen,
silent Snail calls to Rain
'Let's wash this city clean'...
Trail wraps paving cracks
and litter in between.

Rain is calling Snail
through the greying of the street,
through a swollen puddle
stretching out its concrete seat,
to a green-red apple,
naked core torn indiscreet...
Apples travel half the world
to fall, crushed under feet.

I sit, dry, inside my flat
as Rain calls out to Snail.
People caught out in the storm
will curse the sleet and hail.
Flail back to brick high homes,
locked strong against the gale...
Trapped inside big, brick shells,
so wrapped in our own trail.

Watch the green-red apple,
tender innards battered, split.
and watch Snail call the Rain
then face the apple pip.
So easily killed. A small life spilled
by just one similar hit...
This snail braves the rain's call
whilst my warm shell I can't quit.

Time Travellers

2010-08-20T02:43:00.000-07:00

Jocelyn Brown,
Jazz Cafe, Camden, 2008,
teleport... here,
ear to ear,
roof to floor,
the air's gone solid with bass
- bm - t-t-t,
bm bm bm t-t-t,
bm bm bm t-t-t,
bm bm
and the crowd's turned liquid.
We've had to!
Everyone's melted into one sweaty, sing-a-long throng
bubbling song.
Simmering lips and shimmering hips
slip slide between
the tightest slices in concrete sound.
Funk bound.
We are profound dancers,
barely touch ground,
too important for 'ground'!
Jocelyn sings 'Keep On Jumping',
you and me, keep jumping,
my heart, you've tugged it to pieces,
when i jump bits hit walls like jelly.
Splat!
...I'm steaming,
heart's all wibbly and everywhere,
splish splash crash
our arms collide,
your tongue
on mine.
Squish!

Swinton,
Salford, 2006,
teleport... here.
Homo home owner, DIY.
I always wanted a man who could hold nails in his teeth
and you look dead sexy holding nails in your teeth.
You know how hammers work,
understand screw drivers.
Your arms... strong enough to lift me when
I fall apart in Tescos,
sat crying in the biscuit aisle,
my chewed up nails spiking my teeth,
screaming fat, ugly tears,
don't know why,
just Panic...
Just Panic.
You're a man who can hold nails in his teeth
but never tries to mend me.
I'll never make sense like spirit levels make sense.
My wood and bubbles are all wrong.
Sometimes I'd love to twist how I stand,
pretend I'm right angles, proper straight
but you love me crooked, weird and bent.
I don't look great with nails in my teeth
but I do look dead sexy in fishnets.

Bedsit,
longsight, 2003,
haven't met you yet,
*don't* teleport here...
This universe is divided in two:
outside and inside my flat.
I chose the wrong side.
Outside, people put their hands on each other
in ways I don't get.
Don't yet believe any man could love someone who
owns more than six albums by
Kiki Dee
...and listens to them
...all the time.
"Call me camp again and I'll gouge your fucking eyes out."
I do have some anger issues
and only glance in mirrors.

Anywhere else, anywhere else,
streets emptied, 2010.
Teleport... here,
dead night, sky numb, stars gone,
you, me, outside, yelling
broken words, broken yelling,
Stupid words, breaking,
not while I'm yelling!
My sentences are punctured, commas puss,
i've severed colons...
I'm talking shit.
You look like the sky, open, still,
Why was I yelling?
Do people yell in Kent?
You used to be from Kent
but we've rewritten our pasts
so now I've known you since forever.
You tell me that Kent would love a good yell,
to connect so heavy it don't make sense
but Kent can't touch without apologising,
can't just let us be us all sexy and loving and yelling!
Hey!
We've yelled so hard
we've erased Kent from time and space!
It never was. Never will be.
Fab!

One last time,
twenty-forty-something,
teleport here,
yes, here.
People say you look like Dr Who
so I know you can do this.
Show me Jocelyn Brown,
900 years old and still jumping.
Kiki Dee reuniting antimatter
and you can go the pub in pyjamas.
Kent can only exist if it wears a fez
and supermarkets have designated areas for Panic attacks,
little rooms where they play B-52s,
give you stuff to make with glitter, pritt stick and potatoes.
Show me mirrors.
Show me us old but still dead fit.
Show me younger gays seething jealous
cos we're fitter than them.
Immortal fit.
Make our love keep regenerating
and I've still got hair.
Immortal hair!
Show me youl love me beyond end of days and
I love you.
Show me we're forever.
This is Sci-fi epic love
where the heroes
will never die.

Playing Mortal Kombat Guarantees Your Inner Calm

2010-07-07T01:22:00.000-07:00

It's an age of caged hostility
where Health & Safety forms and files
fry brains,
pry pains,
supposed source of securities see highs waned
and lives drained.
Cries contained *can't* scream through offices
*can't* rip through orifices
*can't* express a desk job's bubbling hate
and hurt
and harm.

But playing Mortal Kombat guarantees your inner calm.

Yes, playing Mortal Kombat guarantees your inner calm.
Maybe play as Jax and slice off someone's arm.
Be Mileena, eat your foes without a second qualm.
Or Kano's organ donor- burst hearts inside your palm.
Playing Mortal Kombat guarantees your inner calm.

Insurance claims and tax returns incite most deadly vows
but Sonya Blade's leg toss can never fail to arouse.
Funding forms leave hair-lines torn, they make us curse and hiss.
Sub Zero's spine cord rip will induce instant love and bliss.
Baraka's blades decapitate with almost cheeky charm.
Playing Mortal Kombat guarantees your inner calm.

Without Mortal Kombat I'd have murdered half my school
and every boss I've ever had- fatality by duel
but Mortal Kombat soothed my wrath, i felt my fury fade.
Let us respect the Rayden effect with a world wide parade!

Let's sing of Johnny Cage in hymns, perhaps I'll pen a psalm,
for playing Mortal Kombat guarantees your inner calm.

Sindel, my soul's sweet saviour- I salute you, ma'am,
for playing Mortal Kombat - it gave me inner calm.

Princess

2010-05-07T04:16:00.000-07:00

Princess

She is not a real princess.
On the corner of Midnight and Spirit,
achingly sober,
shaved arm pits,
smile a bent moon beam,
paid
to stand
and wait.

You could see she was no princess
in the snow white of her eye
when he told her,
"You are a princess."
when he told her,
"Show some thigh.
Flip that frown. Wake up, Beauty,
smell the coffee liqueur.
Half price booze!
We are open 'til four.
Shout it loud! Make me proud.
Show some shoulder. Lose that bra.
Bring our lads in. Fill my bar."

But she doesn't feel like a princess
on the corner of Midnight and Spilled Spirit Staining
fumbling out flyers.
Smiling.
Smiling.
She feels like an iceberg with an American accent,
an origami swan made from unpaid bills
paid
to stand
and wait.

Unpaid bills.
She can't be a princess.
Debt overdrawn by a fat Crayola,
Skint Pink.

The world doesn't want her skills;
a Crystal Castle made of pasta and glue,
twelve ways to cheat at a Rubix Cube,
making up voices for pencils.
So she works for a bar
in a strapless bra
on the corner of Midnight and Empty.

And seven little men get too close.
Boozy, Schmoozy,Handsy, Shouty,
Licky, Pukey and Punch
say hello,

"Hi... ho!"

"Nice legs. When do they open?"
"D'you like chicken? This cock'll have you chokin'.''
"Don't put out your goods if you're not selling too."
"If you were my daughter, I would still be bathing you."

She knows she is not a princess.
Loyal to her boss, her Prince Harming,
she's faced these little men,
these mice disguised as stallions,
rodents wrapped in beer sticky manes.

"Neigh. Squeak! Neigh."

The customer isn't always bright

but she is.

Brighter than any crown.
Today, she walks away.

She walks away
and their taunts turn to fairy dust,
insults dissolve
like shadows clouding into candy floss.
She walks away,
body full of sunrise,
her skin a goose bump farm.
Honk! Honk!
Clear the road!
Rip down the corner of Midnight.
Spirit of Lionheart and twilight.
Wow - Wow - Wow through morning,
Spirit to Swift Wind,
blizzards of light hope quiver in her lungs.
Rubix cube squares flit free at her feet
like Billie Jean!

She might go and invent a rechargable biro.
Might bake the first daffodil pie.
She might become a princess...
or anything.

Beers In Your Bedroom

2009-10-13T06:51:00.000-07:00

Beers in Your Bedroom
(for Rachael K, for helping me save my life)

We have beers in your bedroom.
My fears would be intoxicating without you.
Outside, car alarms shout at shadows,
a woman’s scream stabs the night.

Inside, together
we are alive.
Your flat's above it all.
Door locked. Window open.
Glows from fag stubs, thin white dukes,
light a corkscrew path to morning.

Our tongues brighten dark.
These moments taste of unconcentrated truth,
Chaucer and tumblers of Fat Boy Slim.
We tape Woman’s Hour to play backwards,
exchange identities under skin.
Hail bloody fairies and horns.

We dress up in old lovers’ ideas.
Hang ours up to dry. See what drips out first.
Dissect entrails of aborted stories.
Whole scripts wait in a typewriter’s puckered spool
between shy, naked poems
printed only on sheets of dusk.

"Then, we unwrite the imperfect pop song.
Kurt Cobain and Kiki Dee sing
Don’t Go Breaking My Heart Shaped Box."

Our nights are so heavy with talk
we might even... break through these floorboards,
crash into the spiked streets below,
so I cuddle your sentences. Grip tight.
Sit secure in our obscurity.

We're the extra features on a DVD
those with jobs are too busy to watch,
but we watch them and talk
ourselves down in thick blankets of sun.

Let us sleep through the violence of minutes and hours
that wage war against today’s tired minds,
too burdened with action to slow down and think.
I drink to the courage
of these thoughtless grunts on the front line.
Raise my empty bottle.

We’ve drunk the night dry.
My voice lids won’t keep open.
You wrap my words up warm.
Still, I know that they would freeze
out there
at bus stops, supermarket queues,
or sat, without vowels,
at office desks and the water cooler.

Spirit

2009-09-10T16:01:00.000-07:00

Spirit (a duet poem, spoken by Wizard and the man)

“The soul of an ancient eight-armed
ninja drag queen dragon king
is locked inside my shower
and joins in when I sing.
Sometimes we dissect biscuits,
wonder why the sky’s so long.
Yes, I go in naked.
Nothing sexual’s going on.

But is my hoover lying when he
begs me not to clean
because he swears there’s goblins in my
carpet never seen?
He says they put the milk back
in the fridge when I forget.
But drag queen dragon king and me,
we haven’t seen them yet.”

Panic doesn't understand
my brother's new wife's Sunday dinner etiquette
or what my hands ought to do in interviews
or what to say to friends of friends' Dads.
Panic's clumsy.
Breaks things.
Has no respect for folk who really are what they own-
comfortably cluttered with too many rooms,
never touched, never looked at.

“Ursula the kettle said
her work wear makes her blue
so I wrap her up in tinsel
every time she makes a brew.
I never met a human
on this Earth or anywhere
who every time they make the tea
puts tinsel in their hair.”

Sometimes when I’m out
my heart starts to throat slap,
flap like dying fish,
taste like grated carrot in sawdust and sherbet dip.
Panic tells me I've too many fingers.
want to escape,
eyes want to roll loose,
eyes kick inside lids,
steel tear-capped kicks.
Eyes bite,
Panic slavers.
Everyone else sips cocktails and nods.

...

I've not lost it.
There's a key
in my skull
engraved:

"Here,
put this in your ear."

Listen.
The key turns my ear lock.
Listen.
I hear nothing.

Leave sounds for real folk,
clumping around in their fancy size nine realities,
big, ugly feet.
Their ideas look like feet,
stuffed deep in sock,
sweaty,
hidden ugly.
Too repressed to know Panic
if it bit them on the brain.

“They’re just husks of mortgage. Suduku stained."

I don't have feet
or anything ugly.
I am the subtext of wordless night,
the blinding light of total darkness.
See, you can't hold down the sky.
Gentle as tide, pulled from body,
free of frenzied skin, beyond breath,
bound to bone by
the thinnest of truths.
I’m a weightless parade wrapped round
a sun beam guiding my body home.
Guide it home.
Guide me home.

"But is my hoover lying when he
begs me not to clean
because he swears there’s goblins in my
carpet never seen?
See, you can’t see what matters
caught up in the city drone.
There’s shelves of elves in sequined bells
hop scotching here at home.
The thinnest of truths
binds the moons and oceans, Sun to Earth.
We’re rock unsolid fantasy,
know what magic’s worth.
Everything we need is here.
Fantastic, roof to floor!
Nothing outside this flat matters.”

No.
I know what my body is for.

It might not be for my brother's wife's dinner
or money or make-up or manners

but I think it's for caring when someone else panics
and helping them find their way home.

Do You See This Night?

2009-08-14T10:24:00.000-07:00

Do You See This Night?

Do you?
This towering, ancient
sour dream tree of petrified tears...
For years, this night
has blocked all hope of sunrise.
This night is solid wood

but I am going to break its branches.

This night's soiled roots
that have tugged so tight around my throat
are going to loosen...
are going to lose.

I’ve been bullied,
broke and aloned.
Now I’m blessed with restless passion.
Turn bruises into shields.
Like liquid metal I am cooling my anger
into the greatest weapon.

Crack!

This night is splitting wood.

I am the axe against its bark,
bite like acid at the trunk.
With relentless vision,
eyes like machetes
and sweet strong pride, unshakeable.
My belief is unbreakable as I chop
chop
down
this
night.

Crash!

Unclog clear skies.
Breathe out my dreams.
Smell their freshly cut spices.
Taste their quivering nervous heat
as dust particles kiss the air.

This night is dead.
Felled.
Count the rings inside.
Each ring within its split core marks another year
I made it through.
I made it!
These rings are the rungs I’ve climbed
to find myself behind this night's silhouette.
I embrace the years I have conquered,
and will never fear the joy of ageing.

Joy of life without this night
No longer telling myself
"I am weak.”
Moon drowned words.
Shadow obscured sight.
I watered this night with my tears.

I wish... I could hold a fraction of the colour
that sparks and cracks inside me now
and convey it back through time,
back to when this night clung tightest
show myself,
"This night will end!"

Look around.
Already seeds of another night
are being sown at my feet.
A dark sapling claws at my ankle.
It is trying to take root.

Purple

2009-07-08T09:54:00.000-07:00

Purple

Purple is there
making butterfly hands in an eye's corner,
in top hat shadows when you should be sleeping.
Smells of joss sticks and cold lakes.

Purple might be naked,
off somewhere
with eye-liner swirls round large, flat nipples
and a moan like thunder self harming.
Or,
maybe strutting
in straps of chiffon and velvet stripes
dancing down somebody else's street.

Lives in a handmade book
about eating disorders and lunar eclipse.
Did stop a boy from hanging himself.
Heard it's in diazepam and fairies.

Your imaginary friends might have liked Purple more than you.
Purple's nice to your Mum when you're not even there,
gets all scented oil and Stone Henge about it.
Didn't go to maths.
Blames dyspraxia and forests.

Purple is not 'no-trainers' clubs
or ironing.
Doesn't like meal deals
or long, ironic novels.

I think Purple was my first kiss.
Or
at least its memory.
Tasted like pumpkin seed,
black coffee,
skin bitten off round the nail.

When toddlers see ghosts it is Purple.

It is the language of time travel,
what's inside the sun,
inside your finger
and lips
and the words that you chose
not to say.

Demon

2009-06-18T08:31:00.000-07:00

Demon

"Creep home. Keep alone down alley cracks,
deep hungry tracks, bones hollowed slack,
where weeping clouds mourn bricked up back
streets. Funerals wait to attack. Wide

black sleepless eyes breathe whispered blinks.
Seeping bruises purple pinks.
The church tower sinks in a graveyard throne.
The last heir's breath. Keep on. There's

a thin arm. Open hand.
Rat rail fingers, money fanned.
A choked calm. Silence planned.
A too gentle man. Don't stop.

Keep strong! Walk on.
Eyes wrapped round the road home.
Keep going. Never drop.
Stop lonely hopes from growing.
Keep wing clipped feet from slowing
as neck hairs hook
the gloaming.

He has a thin arm. Palm flat.
Life lines like a road map.
Wants to soothe those aching heels.
He understands how this pain feels.

A careful grin on shadow's cheek
offers comfort. Here's a seat.
His eyes talk beneath speech.
Promising something sweet.

Keep strong!
Walk on.
Watch toes
point home.
When your lonely
hopes start burning,
cover your neck.
Resist
the gloaming.

A thin arm stretched forward
could pull a faltering one toward
a gorge of claws. When sores sting sharp
that voice plucks like a distant harp.

That melody can hook in ears,
a life choked memory reclears
of lidless love, not capped by fears.
A desperate smile appears

and with the hollow of tomorrow so far away,
the future can be forfeit for one happy today,
just one grain of colour in a desert of grey
and a curse of 'Come what may!'

This Demon, waiting for the meek,
will promise everything you seek.
Knows all the perfect words to speak.
Show him you're not weak!

Keep strong! Walk on.
Eyes wrapped round the road home.
Keep going. Never drop.
Stop lonely hopes from growing.

Keep strong! Walk on.
Eyes wrapped round the road home.
Keep going. Never drop.
Keep wing clipped feet from slowing.

Keep strong!
Walk on.
Watch toes
point home.
When your lonely
hopes start burning,
cover your neck.
Resist
the gloaming.

Stabilisers Taken 1987

2009-06-15T01:30:00.000-07:00

Stabilisers Taken 1987

Boys love bikes.
I hate mine.
Stabilisers taken,
Mum and her cuddles inside as
clumsy Step Dad holds my saddle,
runs close. I pedal.
Don’t let go!

Down a back alley street, so far from my pillow,
handle bars jiggle under sweat wet palms.
Spokes growl grumble. Belly drum rumbles.
Feet cartwheel like bumbling clowns
on Big Top’s opening night.
Propelled by fright, I glance back to see him
laugh at me.
He’s let go.

I fumble. Teeter.
Clumsy me!
No safety net beneath trapeze.
He laughs

then I laugh too.
Ha!
I let go.
Woah!
Crack through air like ring master’s whip.
Phased.
Amazed.
Shot free of my cannon. Rocket and fly!
Tear through skies whose horizons had fallen
down the back of a hug.

Mum might be cooking.
I feast on speed.
My tummy, a circus.

Song

2009-06-08T06:14:00.000-07:00

Song

We're bob sledding
down Dusty Springfield's beehive,
wind alive with drums and strings.

Ears whipped, spin to ground.

Racing pulses.
Mine wins!
This songbird unlocks a mind cage.
Magic flits out,
dips behind curtain rail.
Close the window before it gets out!

We dance in the kitchen.
Sing to mug of tea.

Tomorrow, I Will Go Dancing

2009-05-29T01:18:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, I Will Go Dancing

Today, I’m eating margarine straight from the tub
and I feel so guilty however hard I scrub.
My wrist's unbandaged, I’m trying not to rub
but I’ve so many sores that need lancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

My fingernails are rusty. Head full of ills.
Chest hot and tender as stomach spills.
But tomorrow, I’m going to get these little pills.
See, everything about me needs enhancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Tomorrow, you’ll go dancing, in your glitter tat.
Absinthe! Vodka! You never get fat.
Laughing. Smiling. All that goes with that.
Today, I feel anxieties advancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Hear my father’s voice, warped and splintered today,
he says “Misery will find you, boy, you’ll never get away.”
My dick feels like a beehive on a warm, summer’s day
when I see pretty things all preening and prancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Everyone there’s friendly. Falling into song.
I want to be loved. I’ve been lonely for so long.
Tomorrow is a vessel, sail way from all this wrong
where bitches say I’m ugly and can’t sing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Today, I feel your laughter and it’s gnawing in my head.
It's biting out the blisters where you burned until I bled.
If I panic ‘til I can’t breathe, feel I’d be better dead,
well, I tell myself that risk is worth chancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

I want to join the happy crowds, glorious and glad.
I want to like pop music. Never feel bad.
My therapist’s implying that I choose to be this sad.
I tell her, “You know nothing… but if you’re asking...
I think she's asking?
She's asking.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.”

Diamonds

2009-05-21T03:04:00.000-07:00

Diamonds

We are ring without stone.
Rich belong to rich.
Diamonds are mean,
clean jewels for tidy, shiny families.
Diamonds, a boy’s worst friend.
They’re forever.
Aren't they?
Reminding what will never be.
Lingering fingers flaunt sharp rocks.
Always pointing.

Wizard

2009-05-13T03:03:00.000-07:00

Wizard

There is a wizard downstairs
in the flat below.
He wears a pointy hat
and a dressing gown
and he makes rainbows for me.

He wipes the dust from his spell books
- mixes it with tomato juice,
eye of black bean, crust of tooth paste,
microwaves it in a pudding bowl
and then

...

tells it secrets.

Heating up rainbows,
there is a wizard downstairs
with a bumper-carred grin.
One eye all Ferris wheels,
one eye the underside of a scratched CD.

He can't do hellos or goodbyes
but knows everything in between.

He knows what tea leaves think
after they've been read,
can see the faces talking
in the damp patch in his kitchen
-corrects their algebra
-makes them blush.
Patchworks his bedroom with postcards and photos,
says they switch places when he sleeps.
I believe him.

I think about him when I'm at work
as I type other people's words
on a computer that doesn't even
have a name.

He names everything.

The kettle is called Ursula Pink.
She embodies the ghost
of a menopausal midwife.
Poor Ursula.
Lime scales her children.

Morgan the dish rack wishes
he could swap places with the plates.
"Confounded scoundrels!"
Let them carry him for once.

The toaster is Catherine Taylor-Clarke
(Double-barrel, 'cos she's posh),
will burn your bread if you look at her wrong.
but Wizard says he would never change her,
he likes her as she is,
If she just did what he wanted all the time,
she'd be boring.

When Wizard talks,
words start fire working his lips,
tiny explosions tease on his tongue.
I want to study them,
pick them up when they look cooler,
but I'm scared they'd blow up in my face.

This man is a bonfire of love,
a Hero,
will fly you on a carpet
through a thousand lands
of impossibly beautiful dreams
all inside his flat.

He won't go outside anymore.
Says his magic won't work out there.
It's happening here,
where he makes me rainbows
and I make his tea.

Stranger Dress

2009-05-12T03:06:00.000-07:00

Stranger Dress

One day, when I was bored
I dressed myself in strangers.
They made me think that I was beautiful.
Pressed diamonds in my lap.
There were wild, flashing colours
Everywhere my heart touched

And every frown I saw became
A harbour to a smile,
And every sobbing drunk I touched
Was sober… for a while.

I threw off the rags I’d worn,
I’d been a slave to labels.
Never even realised
all this freedom could be mine!
Pulling out the panic
from me celebrating madness.

I know
My wardrobe doesn’t have
A thing to wear through rain,
I know
That all my jewels are fake
As any artist sane,
I know
That all the men I wear
Like cloth, will quickly fade,

But
Still, I’m glad, when I got bored
I chose the clothes that suit me!
Dolled up like a princess,
I won’t go home today.
I grabbed a fist of fancy jewels
And never had to pay.

I’ll never miss the drab and grey
Tatters I wore yesterday
Because the first time you feel happy
Can never be taken away.

Home of Beasts

2009-05-07T16:36:00.000-07:00

Home of Beasts

Beetled walls protect
our woodloused floors, our spidered
roof, our great small lives.

Living Document

2009-05-05T01:42:00.000-07:00

Living Document

My mind is a living document,
marching on paper legs,
trampling detail,
dissecting later.

My mind is a feeding document, parasitic,
bloated hungry, writes over its own mistakes,
slops new ideas on top of old,
past thoughts bleeding between present ones.

My mind is a breathing document,
gasping for air,
strains its leash.
This brittle body cover can’t hold it down.

My mind is a walking document, no, a running document,
tears ahead of hands,
rips through pride and pants.
Its inky prints stain you. My mouth says sorry.

This mind is a talking document,
tells me sour endings it promises will unfold.
Help me keep its wet, jaw pages tight shut.
There’s a black blob butterfly inside.

This mind is a laughing document,
cackling all night.
How can I sleep?
I’m wide eyed beside you.

Your mind is in a dream hammock
resting over your head.
It returns to your brain as you wake.
I wrestle with mine ‘til it knocks me out cold.

Like School

2009-04-30T01:36:00.000-07:00

Like School

The cool still rule.
He's queer-bashed on Canal St again
but these gay men can't see
a bleeding nose eclipsed
by their rising Bacardi Breezers.

Don't Bank Love

2009-04-29T14:06:00.000-07:00

Don’t Bank Love

Our love
in shoe boxes under the bed,
in brown, big envelopes
stuffed,
loaded
under the arm chair.

Banks give plastic.
Don’t see or feel.
Accept transaction
without question.

Our home
takes love with one sugar.
Stuffed
loaded
sprawls through woodchip.

Performance Poetry: Free Verse Lives!

2009-04-29T13:44:00.000-07:00

Whack!

Bam!!

Performance Poetry slams... are dead.

Brown bread. Burnt.

Fallen, jam side down,

hit ground,

K.O.

Time out.

Clear the ring away

because poets will not fight today.

Won't judge. Won't jeer. Make this clear.

Speak quiet enough for everybody to hear.

Slams are dead.

R.I.P.

Now, feel free to fancify your verse

where crowds won't curse or prey you are worse

than their own stanza.

Where hands are applauding. Not marauding.

Mouths cheering. Never sneering.

'Well, his rhymes OK but that metaphors weak.

He does go on abit. Hey! I wannna speak!

Make my mates all rate him low.'

There's no bitterness like show bitterness,

no bitterness i know.

Ding! Dong! The slams are dead!

There's no place like this home!

Our house crushed flat that wicked deed.

No more yellow bricking it before you stand to read.

Just sun gold ink on paper skies

and thoughts, coloured outside the lines.

Beer soaked wisdom. External rhyme.

Share lyrics and laughs.

Write shields, not swords

because friendship is cut by scoring boards.

Competing is unavoidable, in work or family.

Let poetry be a sanctuary.

A cloak to curb a hurricane,

though it only has one thread.

Make this known wherever we tread.

Free verse lives!

Slams... are dead.