Archive for March 2015

world poetry day 2016

we were stood where petrol station forecourts go to die,
Jason and his rocket arm too,
kicking rubble into rubble fires,
mumbling, Turin couldn't crack it either, over the silly things,
yoga mat rolled back up ripples bleeding from mouths, exorcising chuckles every so often,
putting out the wound of brief recalled playtimes below,
and all of them, there,
in the haze of Nevada or where ever,
Peckham, perhaps,
amounting to nothing more than the tips they had once collected,
standing 10 meters away from the fireworks instead of the intended 25 the packaging recommended.

Some danced, really lost themselves in it,
some sat, really lost themselves in it,
but most sang a song in their head,
withholding calls, withheld their caller ids,
catastrophizing every syllable until the score became unreadable.

One Born Every 22 Seconds

One Born Every Minute tears from fathers who didn't know they could love something as much as that as just then.
On camera.
The, you can breathe now, sir moments that politely jab you in the side every time you see a plastic bag in the wind,
or hear Kevin Spacey narrating some space stuff,
seeing people helping older people across the road, it's all there,
weightless in the back corner of their gaze, mane black and tidy,
every how-to manual from Haynes Ford Transit Connect to wiping tears from tired faces
and rehearsed,
ready to impart to a smaller version of them:
a somewhat man about to become an somewhat Cezanne who's just been given a paintbrush.

And the birth goes without a hitch,
they're unmarried, but it's fine
because I think this kid's in good hands,
look at how much they can't believe their own luck.

You did that.

Zumba's a Killer

Shed the bootstraps,
who needs laces now you've got a desperate hallway
under the influence of two toy guns
and your vague idea of vogue;
they're on their knees in the corner over there
yet you've set boundary field borders forcing them into new area codes
but you still want to be president of their Zumba club,
prevail into local history bought-at-a-Post-Office books
as, the woman who didn't give two fucks about anything,
always wearing boating heels in every picture she was surprise-faced in
yet, again, she'd only worn them once on an actual boat,
their boat- her boat in fact-
moored just off of Dunkirk because that was their dream they'd never dreamt of fulfilled by a salary she didn't know how she got,
her Drake Passage hips,
slipstream wind streaks for football club's worth of men, always warring,
and her makeup from the night before is less curated now and more a raw storm footage from the bridge of the Queen Mary 2
and she's screaming inside of the hull,
hating the weather
and the pull of everything bringing her down

and I'm no better.