In a basin of flesh,
surrounded by hills,
the sea glistens blue,
sun warms our chills.
On a concrete port,
we plan our escape,
fight off the locusts
or bear the rape.
Through the mesh of a sunhat,
life is just squares,
scenes stitched together,
threads and hairs.
Everyone at the hotel
The men are turgid pate,
women floppy fleshed and flapping.
The Diabetes may not
have been diagnosed,
but lurks in sugary
Blood struggles to extremities,
clotting and clarty in tubes
destroyed by years of
Everyone at the hotel
Waxen grey happiness,
floating in a plastic vessel
looks out to sea like a watery watchman.
Charred chuffed tip,
I’m excited to announce that my first collection of poetry is now available to purchase through Amazon. I spent a few days going through my notebooks, which dated back to 2001 and picking out some of my favourite poems. The common theme that ran through them was the environment and how it shapes our feeling and perspective on the world.
Growing up in Wales was all druids, enchanted forests, coasts, fields, horses, birds, worms and stone. London is a feisty gargoyle, coughing up her cancerous, sooty lung. These were all themes I had unconsciously focused on throughout my fourteen years of poetry writing.
I hope if you decide to buy a copy that you’ll find as much excitement in reading them as I did in exploring their language and writing.
Link to buy: http://amzn.to/TlbXBe
Perched on a hill
inhaling the sea,
four years old
with a demon in me.
Druids and graves
enchanted by mist,
running through forests
Welsh air had kissed.
Fag ends and skag rocks,
sticky grey skies,
pounding the mountains,
to the Kestrel’s cries.
Singed tips of a wormed mass
fester beneath thatch and flake,
a face turns to dust as a thousand
electrifying ants crawl.
Arm raised to heaven and bereft
of any feeling; the monthly terror,
pulling at eye sockets and nerve endings
locusts and crickets festival.
Cricket bat racquet hand reaches uncertainly
for a link to cry for help,
useless digits blunder and surrender to
a swarm of wasps in my head.
Turgid lungs creak and groan,
Festering bedsprings wax and moan,
Structures wince under the dusty press,
Of the once -fragile Female undress.
Smoke curls up from a smouldering bud,
Ash underfoot, ‘kin to mud,
Burn holes tell of restless nights,
Turn of the leg rouses putrid mites.
Twenty four hours unmov-ed corpse,
Waiting in silence for treasured recourse,
Fire in the gullet, emulsified belly,
Flesh then bone and royal jelly.
Gnarled claw parting four-poster drapes,
Skin like paper; breasts dry grapes,
Sipping from ethereal glass,
Sober and ginger, waiting to pass.
Swollen faced shock and vile surprise,
Hoarse voiced calls and guppy eyes,
Inside the corpse a burn and itch,
In hand a note reads ‘Selfish Bitch’.