Archive for October 2012

No Limp And Leg


For the girl who used the umbrella as a walking stick,
this is for you.
No limp and leg slide followed your wake
just the upright roar of footsteps on pale shale-
Cambridge cotton stones that reflect and reverberate
the sound from around into the ears of the passerby.
I cannot wait, nor hold it in,
the urge to scribble 11 numbers
onto parchment paper, old receipts or
or that wilted vapour notepad paper,
that nestles in the jeans.
If I had, then we’d be at a meal now- a dining experience
just for two.
22 numbers and one letter was written,
illegible and wrong.
I forgot which phone number worked
and forgot which one you could reach me on.



**A poem from the upcoming poetry pamphlet, published by CoffeeShopPoems,entitled "Leather Clad Warriors", available soon for £3. That's only 300 pence.

For Home.


For home.

We can leave our books, pens, baggage in the rooms
where teachers tell not show
and spit into tin can coffee cups
pretending to save heat-
when in fact they’re lying to themselves. They want out.
Get out before the war comes, with new money, filthy money,
the money of tight lipped, “nice tie mate”, gentlemen-
who for pleasure play golf with the Ms’s and the Miss’s,
but never The Mrs.
Clip on those ties and wear that blazer, A Golf is here to stick around
and stay with his goldfish ideas and bull shit, utter bullshit, brown, phallic,
conservative ideas. He waves them around
like scarves from windows,
accept this window has a fly. Zip it down every time you want money.
Zip it down for every unresponsive email reply.
Zip it down until it hits your ground
every time Mrs A Golf wants a hug.
Children and ginger haired, beauty in the sea of chairs, teenagers- get out
in cars or buses, trains until the lines run out of much needed curves and
buffeters. See the red brick, the old, the archaic stone cracking with the cold
and remember it. Take an espresso from the grey door machinery and sip
wistful long sips until the grounds remain and the taste is gone.
Sit until cellulite is nothing but dough in your hands.
Shapes of the seat and the heat rises
until squares in France become squares in the skin.
Sit until lined contours of plastic remain imprinted like
Braille upon sweat skin, tied down by blue jean pins-
cut to look cool but fail because every whore by the pool
has the same cut shorts you have, you fool.       

Rules To Get One Dance


Wait for the door by the pillar
because she’ll be back again,
with an arm around her neck
to keep her warm against cold
eyes looking down, from the surrounding guys from around the bar.
Every jackpot ever, was won in their hearts that night
in that shadow of time that they called light.
Single girls will always be watched,
and those girls with a man attached
will always seem unmatched in the eyes of the lonesome.

I waited by the door and joined in with her stride,
a pace set with vigour and pride.
Did I speak?
No, never spoke up, just let it carried on
until it lit and flared up.
When that match hit okra runway slip
everything comfortable flipped and switched
into a cushion of stone that now dismantles backs,
blisters fingers and causes calluses that stop and linger.

Hate myself?
Increasingly.
Personification was me, to her
and to me, she was just that.
I should really get in contact,
and apologise.

If You Leave


If you leave now
you’ll never see anything in
bold, italic or underlined marks.

You’ll be forever a Times New Roman kinda man.

Stuck in small village quicksand,
you sink not hear or reprimand
those particles that slip from beneath you and
subside down towards a hellish checkout, receipt, checkout, receipt, checkout, customer complaint, take another seat sir, kind of job.
Find who you are within a company,
find where you are in accordance to their rules,
don’t find yourself because it’s not your thing,
Nor chosen career, go back to school.

Forget the dreams of living in the theatre, breathing
in chain-attached-to-curtain musk,
and the greases and the paints,
and the sulphur oxide dust.
Forget that you were ever you,
because Mum, Dad and girlfriend too
have moulded you into a Pedestal Prince,
one that looks and acts to their very imprint.
Type press and letter press,
one-word-at-a-time progress.

Your sentence in their hands,
sad times for the lonely man.

One Night Stand. Stomach Cramps.


Break your arm again,
mould it a new cast,
sleep, rest, dig up your past.
And  this all comes from down near my heart, to the left,
where you’ve pitched camp in the forever sun of the forever nest.
Birds don’t perch there like they used to,
instead they flew south in
belly pains and stomach cramps,
another reason to sleep under lamps.
See the bowl, throw up in the bowl,
rub your nose with child like hands,
that swept hills from above moles-
back when playing in sand was accepted and fun.

When we wake from such anguished
pasts
memories waver and do not last,
nor do they retain any hopeful longing,
as they disappear out into the morning.
You are gone and you are forgotten,
but the rings in the candles tell me we share the common.


Monochrome Beauties


This is for the internet,
clicky finger, type with thumb,
girls, whom,
live
every
second
online
and not in line, an actual line,
to queue up for food, films, and
fist full’s of real books, that
are placed in a regimented, bookshelf army,
fiction army for the nonfiction cause.

Get off the blue
and become monochrome beauties,
that roam around in three shades of grey,
not in a infinite walled, Wikipedia, Facebook kind of place.

 

Grab Your Kerouac Coat


Grab your Kerouac coat,
get on the road and
find everything you lost about yourself,
reclaim it from city street code.

Dust travels with the wind
when the wind is hesitant to go alone.
Along with the clouds that
cover the sky, cover the unknown.

Cars with driver and passengers 
flee the mounting mess,
the debris of souls, money,
cash around the necks-

Choking on greed and new sofas,
deep porcelain baths, chunks of
meat: expensive, not kosher.

So grab that Kerouac coat
and get on the road.
Find something worth doing, before dusk becomes sweet-taste cold

.

Help Note Snow. 9/11 To A Boy


9/11 happened,
so I turned to friend 
and shook.
Year 5 boys won't understand
the chaos of planes and buildings,
together in a perpetual meld 
of iron, and fuselage weld. 
Help note snow turned September to December,
within a million pens to paper.

People fell.
Hearts sunk.
Raised hell
in New York's cold front.
Bowery, Bleeker, Church & Liberty
all shook to one man's thought:
dreary and undefended, destroyed in the heart.  


Mary's Place


Safely say that you’ll fall in love with every girl you’ll see.
Be that the Real Mistress’s in the search box bars
Or those lonely night time wonders
parading around in boots and stockings in this
year’s annual contest for the cleanest hooker award.
Clean or cleanest, they still look for dances in back alley ranches
and Richards to suck up and enjoy free of charge.





Follow @coffeeshoppoems on Twitter, now!

Update

Coffee Shop Poems is now a dot com website, which is rather exciting. Other exciting news is that in the next week or so I'll be putting together a Pamphlet of Poetry to be distributed both online and in shops around Cambridge. If you would like to contribute to the Pamphlet or would like to help with the publishing of it, please contact timofknight@gmail.com. Any form/style/genre of poetry is fine, so no need to worry about that!
Remember that my first eBook is still on sale up on Amazon and that poems will be uploaded here, at the blog, most days of the week, month and year!


Drug Mules Of Skelmanthorpe.


The ploughman ploughed the grass away,
so there was no path again.
Like last year when the rain came,
so the drug mules of Pilling Lane
had to move on down
toward the railway track,
with the angry bee’s driving their hives
on two rails:
as thin as lead-
pencil thin,
nail thin-
lines.

Marley & (Not) Me


Fingers fall down on her hook
as we watched the dog die.
A blonde beast with eyes toward the sky,
deep bark eyes that made trees double back and look.
Rows of cosy cut fences lined in front
obscuring dog and death from us,
held breaths hung  as if mist on moors
thus lingering around ‘til horsebacks hunt.
Hooves for hands fumble, tremble,
lead to the inner assembly of
organs, functions and that hidden temple-
shaped teardrop like, rains nothing quite
like the weather above.

American Murders. America Murders.


Cambridge is screaming
and as a result its throat is sore.
Everyone is every park and porch
stopped, looked and saw
the shot and killed on a Willow Street floor.

For a girl whom walked as if wind
over little river stream, murder
was the last thing that made her scream.
A thundering absence laid seldom slain
with a bolt of blood spelling innocent pain,
on porch-wood-decking painted cream green
salad leaf fresh, cut from the root with melded flesh.

Origami Seasons


Chimney stacks and silhouettes
play in front of building sites
and red lights;
blurred, spotted and out of focus amongst
the divided night.
Tomorrow it’ll close in and fold up-
an origami season from the weatherman’s book-
bringing with it oceans’ rain and Sheppard’s sky seas,
all upon the south-westerly breeze,
towards the warmer climate of Florida Keys.

Winter has yet to grab its coat and join us,
because Autumn has outstayed its colourful welcome.
Spring is a pipe dream laid down next to the motorway
and Summer, well Summer will never come and grace us with its rays.
 

Starbucks On The Rocks. Whisky In The Cups


Starbucks for the beach sleeper,
cigarettes for the cruise ship worker,
around the world a further three times more
with a six-a-day job, one on shore.
She smiled with Gatsby glare.
She smiled with  fair, tied back hair.
She smiled.
And how her love for Poe and Wilde
found its way to my ear a mere three year veer
around time itself.
Turkish delight is not a food nor a sweet
but a lady who gives a discreet smile to those she meets.
My cafe in my street has you across from me
and the books I read have you printed in an uppercase key,
black on the white and bound by the spine
for you are the cruise ship lady, the lover of mine.  


A Little Shy To Show Your Left Side Curve: Breakup & Leave


Between slot machine windows
you hide off centre,
a little shy to show your left side curve,
to me and all the widows-
standing top floor with
frost and snow in slips of hair.

We met only once before, for a weekend,
when the aim was to experience and explore.
Your eyes were panes,
a reflection of a busy city caught
up in a loveless chain of concrete,
gray walls and back alley, back street stalls.

Five days we had this time,
just us two and no words, mainly mime.
Hailing for cabs felt like a salute,
daily to those whom do nothing but commute.
To us we hoped for a ride
with a gentle hand treading the city-street’s gusty tide.

There’s only one photograph. It’s stuck
under bulb and cord and when
Cambridge nights move in, draw in, thunder and rain-
I know you move and carry on.

Hello New York City.

Dances Were Had


With the darkness,
we held hands,
a trespass through blind fields
and silent roads,
nothing lives except poorly written
odes on the back of napkin, paper, napkin, read-back-later-paper-odes.

Roads. Roads greet us
with a painted line smile,
and an artificial light shower standing,
looming,
over everyone who is running.
They run as fast as thieves,
no bank CCTVs will catch them
with their haste and speed.

Looking back, I saw nothing happen.
Hands were held,
drinks were drunk,
dances were had,
fevers swelled up
and,
faces turned red with love.

Get Laid By The Gin


From this telegraph watch tower, paths
seem short. Cow Hill seems small.
All of the borough seems like a resort;
swimming pool, gym, shop and gin. Buy the gin -
drink the gin – get laid by the gin. 

Maps and compasses don’t work when
looking for something still hidden.
Double A, in fact, triple A batteries
won’t make any torch brighter,
because cigarette lighters are far more fun for this journey.

You can walk longer that any
green diamond, distant line, past
ridges that descend at a nerving decline.
And inside hat and head you’ll preach,
‘Forever the ridge we’ll never reach’.

The Real Reason We Left & Quit


She got back from a trip
that took her off the face
of all she knew and wasted.

It was 7 months that saw her gone
into the frightened room
of darkened doom.

Rows of pine laid your path
down into woodland maze
clear sky, pine branch, upward gaze.

Wood pile high in the season of cutting-
blood on the wrist and lipstick’s smudge,
followed by those you wish to forget.

Open that door into radiator warmth,
squint into the light that saw you blind,
come back onto the face and walk behind.

She got back from a trip
that made us forget
the real reason we left and quit.


Soap White Rainforest Shower


Soap white rainforest shower
with water in beads
that fall, falling clear of tiled
surround and hazy glazed sliding doors;
all I can think back to are your sized five feet
perfect in their creation,
not a single stitch out of line
nor the glue shining and showing.

On the floor with its colour and signs,
shapes; forms; hues and lines,
you dance not ripping a seam.
No sweatshop made you
nor is there a long queue
of people and prams waiting to buy you,
pluck you from the rails or keep you deep inside baskets.


Cup Of Work


Rings in a tree
have nothing on the rings in a cup of tea.
Golden, yellow tan lines
that stretch around
in millimetre, centimetre bands.
And thick ones say where you left a sip
others say where you fell and tripped;
and what trickles down is an amber drip
leading from the mouth, the puddle,
moisture's muddle on cup ring lip.
Red lipstick, not mine,
traces along porcelain’s line-
a delicate dance spoiled by ‘Yorkshire Gold:
A Free Caddy Today’, but still love persists
and now the red lipstick lips are mine to kiss,
forever more.

Vignette One: Looking Above Love


Break up over the vinyl
                              and smash the music in the face,
because tonight we’ll go out like fakes
                                                    in the myriad mist rising from the night time, back alley lakes.

Last Night Sleep Didn't Come Easily


Backs aren’t meant to bend
in such contorted trends.
Seats, however do:
they’re made too.
Usually by withered hand of a
carpenter man
whom sits, on a stool,
hacking away with some old school work tool.

My back will not mend
nor contort back to an early blend
of athleticism or creative vocal cord and friend.
But for now, typewriter taps on the window board
and drops follow and get swallowed by water tracks
that attack the maps and contours of the window pane.
I cannot sleep.

Envelope Room By Reception


There’s a rope wrapped around your wrist,
dividing hand to arm.
There’s a noose around your neck again,
a twisted fibrous taught storm,
stretching the skin sideways,
back round to hairline farm;
malting in body’s murder,
escaping the harm.

77 minutes late is the rain today
and you were 2 weeks early:
a few pounds overweight.
Snake trail tubing finds a home
under tissue coat, buttoned tight
to the top in a loosening knot.
Zoo bars restrict you to opening hours only,
Christmas closed.
Simply the hoses stay plugged in, turned on
exposed but enclosed in the envelope room by reception.


A Poem For Yorkshire/A Poem For National Poetry Day


Twisted deer antlers topped the trees
a place to hang coats, hang the keys.
Close the door, shut out the cold
wrap between blankets, rest amongst the folds.
A Twitch of the feet, a comfortable greeting
to the night ahead, Sunday feeling.
The constant wash of water’s drip,
drains from forehead, a salty fit.
Down past the shoulders, above the chest,
a pool waits and rises and comes to breast.
Cold to touch, warmed to heal
balanced nicely, wave and keel.

For this is a feeling,
a moment
a one hour, one off, Christmas special
For you are a feeling
a moment
a one hour, one off Christmas special.


Black Eye For The Lover Who Wasn’t


Black eye for the lover who wasn’t
the best pool player in the hall
nor the confident kisser;
or that smooth guy in the sack.
For all he knows this punch in the face
is the alarm clock he needed, but couldn’t stop.
But it could be that medal he never won
in that race he never started in
or the goal line he didn’t defend.
To us, street corner cooks, it’s
embarrassing to watch.

We look away and change are mind
to something distant and far more kind,
yet still retaining a glance,
a stare,
out from behind comb-over hair
and from under electric light glare.

He’s yet to build an emotional fence
to break up the break ups
and split up the realities,
that he finds himself lost in.

Animal soup fortnight,
shit armour for a shit knight.

No One Is There For You


You’ll look at doorways
in stretched corridor space
and not see handles turn
or hinges yearn,
as no one is there for you.

And you’ll walk a pavement tightrope
with arms up and holy,
a balance beam in the street
with no right flank protection treat,
as no one is there for you.

If You Ever Get Famous, Remember Your Dead Relatives


On the other side
in desert heat amongst the flies on animal hide,
canyons run deep.

Below in the trench
water runs forever quicker licking the sides, a fifth sense:
water splash, white liquor.

It oozes up past the brim,
there to be mopped up by grass and root growing wastefully thin,
in dense earth covered up by shrub.

A wound to the landscape
precedes the beauty of form, line and shape
that the canyon sees as long term commitment.


Out in Afghanistan where this canyon lays,
medics surround it in a bloody, utensil filled haze,
with Corporals shouting the canyon’s praise
as it lies catching a breath.
A breathing canyon is nothing but a success,
but one effected by our own contributions to this untidiness
means that we’re a player short for the end of season,
kick-around bash, in the courtyard  behind the mess.


For the Soldiers. For The Wives


For those whom couldn't see their children grown up.

Rifleman and Captain
downed by the bullets
barrelling out of broke butts
bought by beards, shot in fear-
another lesson for you on here.
Checkpoint murder simmers down
to the protection of a gate,
leave on gas mark four and it’ll bubble back up
frowning in rage, an insane glare.

Just read now the tale of innocence,
a kidnapped kid fighting for defence-
lost from his post in blind darkness
only to end up at the muzzle end
of Taliban Heartless;
a mirror image to Highlander
only hiding beneath a costume of panic
holding a prop of panic
seeing the eyes of panic
across from him turn white, back to organic.

Little Town Blues. Fuck You New York


German carton wallet
is no place to hide money away
not in notes or change,
cheques or the range of shit
you hide in there for ‘that special moment’.

New York is busy enough
without the thirteen minute thrill
of checking every pocket on your persons
for that lost $100 you need to buy 
big pencils, Rockefeller tributes and
endless refills from Time Square’s own MacDonald’s.
Instead, for a day I went poor-

sympathising with every bum I saw
sat on a cardboard plinth 
lonesome
with a hat out for a voluntary ransom.
Warm as you are New York, you
never helped me once.
my train was late, the room key denied entry
and now this is my fate:

Lying in a bed used by couples to copulate
whilst their respective partners sit at
home with their children waiting for their return.



 

Kitchen Blues And Bedroom Highs


Post-it note love letter
folded up into your keys.
Because student love is measured in
75 gram bags of slim
chances and fake hugs, one off
dances under lamplight, super night, star night sky.
Our metronome sits upon our piano,
our song plays, whurrs, 

and 

we 

waltz 

to everything we ever knew about each other;
twice a night, daily, into the evening when the sky became cooler.