Well I feel like death warmed up
Yes I feel like death warmed up
Just throw me a life buoy
Sing out ahoy
Brew me a cup
Cos I feel like death warmed up
Oh life can be so cold
When you're way out to sea
With your ship thrown about in the waves
And the galley slaves are howling out their grief
This life's pains seem long, and its joys too brief
When you feel like death warmed up
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
stung ten times by a wasp in the hood
It ain't doing no good, it ain't doing no good
Flyin' around lookin' for jam
That ain't a plan, that ain't a plan
Tryin'n to bully others weaker than you
Ain't that true, now ain't that true?
Stung ten times by a wasp in the hood
He ain't doin' no good, he ain't doing no good
Why do'n't he go get a job, go get a job
Stop acting like a slob
All of these wasps they just be lookin' for trouble
they just be lookin' for trouble, lookin' for trouble
All of these wasps they just be lookin' for trouble
Yeah I'm tellin' you double
Cos I'm gonna burst their bubble, burst their bubble
This neighbourhood, isn't their yard, it isn't their yard, it isn't their yard
Where they can act kind a hard
They need to be barred
They need to stop actin' like a bear with a sore head, with a sore head
Like they've got a bee in their bonnet
Well I need to be honest
I'd rather be dead
Than be in a wasps bed
I'll need a coffin made of lead
And get on it
Cry out my God I'm a hornet
Come on I was born it
I ain't but, you be tryin'
To sting me good
In my neighbourhood
Well you better watch out neighbour
You're in the wrong neck of the wood
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Walking on the Godney mile
When out of the sky flew a missile
It pinned me right at the top of the chest
This horse fly, wasp or hornet's nest
It was like a flying dagger
On a loaded spring
That the willows had whipped
Where the bluebird's sing
But the only thing singing that day on the moor
Was the wind that whistled
And my cry of pain that soared
Well what I had now was a creepy crawly down my shirt,
I slapped and I wrapped it, but it stang me and it hurt
Then as it tumbled down my tummy, I thought oh mummy!
It will be heading for my waist and my shorts. What's worse!
Luckily the offender flew on its way
But now I had a glowing red bulge upon my gullet
It itched sore like buggery, and my throat swelled
From wasp thuggery
Led me to believe I had been bitten by a bullet's burst
I pushed on and I did rub it to try in vain to dull it
But the pain did throb like a mullet had slapped me off my perch
The moors rolled on in soliloquy
Of a Roman revellery, when Mars the god of War
Is charging full red of face
Belligerently raging, the wind's war was waging
And holding hostage
Willows, reeds all in its embrace
Fellows linked arms and swayed
On that tortuous fierce windswept way
And faced the storm as they face the grave
Together as one, in unity strong and brave
Well what a wasp, what a stinger
What a counterfeit saint and a sinner
To have stung me that way, and then got away
I'm a red rosette winner
My throat swelled up I began to gasp
The sky turned sideways, cast askance
I looked one last look in that final glance
Saw my world fall apart and a fleeing wasp
I fell for what seemed to be days
Down the rhyne in the gutter of the moor's water ways
And saw there all kinds of monster misbehave
From Gorillas in the ditch to crocodile graves
From the tombstones of vampires who could never
Find their rest
To the boomtowns of rats, just past the last harvest
And they each were a forgotten race, by the race of man
Abandoned and left to fend in their wayside caravan
As I slept in the wasp's sleep, it's poison did circulate
It turned my cheeks a crimson red
It turned my teeth an ashen black
As I chattered I did hibernate
Away from men's minds and matters
Into the dreamland of the wasp
He hovers above the flowery field
He zooms in and out of the farmer's meals
And around pots of honey left at the rainbow's end
And I see that he killed me, so I might be his friend
I wake up near midnight
My back it is sore
My legs, are like black defenders
And what is more
There are no longer two
Six instead is their score
And my arms and hands into legs were blended
Nothing like they were before
As for my stomach, a thorax hard shell
Ribs like some titanium
Or carbon fibre as well
Light and of the strongest mould
Nothing less than from the fire's of hell
And I have no bum, no hips, no body
Except a bulbous bulge and at its end
A pointed stinger swells
I shiver at the sight, the thought sickens my stomach
But as I go to rub my eyes I realize
I have none, and then my spirits plummet
What has become of my head I can hardly tell
My mouth is some tapered visor and
With pincers there as well
As for my eyes they are disguised like some huge
Side placed globes, that stare out in all directions
No left or right I know
No night or day either,
Just shades of bright
And this is how I find the ether
Like a flowing road of light
I can see the sky rails
Can see the pollen trails
And thermals, the tiny discrete lines
Too miniature for detection by human eye
At last I notice behind me, folded in some natal sack
My wings like a quiver of arrows, ready for the attack
As I turn myself over
I feel them spread out naturally,
And beat and quaver and wobble and trim
To the humming sound of a bee
I rub my legs together
In some natural preparation for the flight
And before I take off I remember
To clean my large eyes
Ready to have clearest sight
Then I am off, it is lift off
The first unmanned wasp or kite
Is blown by the thin wind
His life to rescind
Which is better? Fight or flight?
I sail in the eves, I investigate nooks and crannies
Where I fail, my wasp heart believes
It can beat all the crooks and nannies
That if someone does you some harm
This sword will rebalance the scale
And you have to be cruel to be kind
In this world, for loser or winner will mind
That there is always a sting in the tale
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Dover white,
The Plymouth rock
Northerly right
Occasionally moderate Irish sea
Showers later heading
Southerly
Between a Rockall
And a hard place
Biscuit with a German bite
Lying broken at Finestre
Wet weather in Lincolnshire
Sandra Bullock
In rehab
By Monday Lightning
20 degrees in London
Very much wetter
In the Sciliy isles
By Monday afternoon
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I don't need sugar
I don't need cold or hot
But what I need most of all
Is all the time we got
So give me your honey
Don't give me your money
Give me yes but don't tie me in a knot
Because you might think it's funny
But what I want is all the time we got
Give me your wisdom
Don't give me your gold
Let me have freedom, I'm tired of being told
What I can do, and what I cannot
I just want all the time we got
Help me out somedays
When I need it most
Just like a good friend, don't act like a ghost
I want to see you, we fell in love on the spot
Now I want all the time that we got
I'm trying to remember, where I might have seen you before
Perhaps it was in the movies or outside somebody's door
They're looking for you most ways, like it or not
So now I just want all the time that we got
I've been hiding, but now I'm tired of all that
Tired of running, and changing my hat
You can trust I love you not for what you are, but for what you're not
And I just want all the time that we got
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
It took me everything I had
Every nerve was strained
And as I sorted good from bad
I saw the clouds outside that rained
It was a fire in the morning
And a life that's half constrained
But if you want freedom here's my warning
Only dead men can be unchained
The tires are burning on the tide
The crisp frost's on the hawthorn
Blackberries turn a darker shade
By the water droplets churning
And if you think that you are free
Then I must pass to you this message
That even the birds who fly can't be untied
From their skyward passage
The farmer toils in his field
He moves his bones and muscles
Each sinewy strand of fibre burns
With every turgid tussle
His Solar panels reflect like a mirror to the sun
But even that gigantic globe
Can't move from the path it runs
And I ask the crow how does his life blood flow?
Black or red or mauve, from the bullet in the sun
And who said the dead can't go
Where they midnightly run
Led by that black clothed friend
Who each day shoots the sun
The wind rustles leaves with invisible muscles
Branches askances and ash keys are
broadcast seeds
I struggle to know the good or the bad
And the archer walks past my window
The windrows blow like hair styles
The archer raises his bow
And fires straight his arrow
Into the marrow, into the heart of the crow
She falls, she falls
Like a silence, falls like a fragment of sun
The sun bird so black of wing
Shining like the barrel of a gun
And behind her the torch burns out brighter
As the crow falls dead on the ground
And the parliament stops all its conspiring
And the kingly sun wears proudly his crown
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The clouds are fighting with the night
In some titanic battle
High above they clash their shields
And their drums of thunder ratttle
They are just starting to unfold
So regal in their hopes
To conquer
All in heroic battle
But the truthe wille be told
by the homeward trudge of weary cattle
The horses neigh and rear their manes
And I can hold this day
no longer
let the fight begin
It fizzed in some unearthly dream
Way off over yonder
in the summer spring
let the gods of thunder battle
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Up on the hill
That is where you'll find me,
Mowing the grass
With my head in the clouds
It isn't hard to find me
Upon the hill,
Where the squirrels screech, the crows squark
And buzzards and hawks breech the blue open sky
On days like these
Up on the hill the road inclines
The heat just climbs
But cool air blows through
The pines
Upon on the hill
I can hear somebody talk
It could be a neighbour about his work
It could be a horse who neighs at a stork
Or a cow who ploughs the land
A sheep who calls for her lamb
Or a cat that meows below the bows
Of the cider apple trees
Upon the hill where the thunder clouds roll
Like God's avenging soul
Like breath in boiling bubbles
And drums that beat their warning
Upon the hill in the night or early morning
When the stars beam out like traffic lights
That say go fly, then the vast emptiness awaits you
And all in the blink of an eye
Where the rain falls in buckets
And the chickens peck and the bee sucks it
And the forest flowers are burning in the arms
of the enchanted love of a life that's lost
To a time that's past
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
She had good ideas about unusual careers
She was right on the ball and on track
She took no heed of fears, and after some beers
There was very little she did lack
She went straight for the throat, there was nothing to gloat
She was as happy on her feet as on her back
And she went to the school of hard knocks
She was raised to crush rocks
And to look for hidden treasures in the cracks
She learned ballet, in her muse in her own way
She said she couldn't lose what she never had
And it was hard to say, if I loved her that day
Or if I did choose to do good over bad
She thought I was romantic, she said frankly You're Atlantic
You're like the gap of blue between two land masses
You just act so frantic and I know you are up to your usual antics
When I see you trading oil and insults in Bagdad
Oh it was a beautiful sight
So wrong and yet right
To see her fight the Pandas
In her local forest at night
But if I told her once, then I told her twice
It's illegal to eat wild things
But they taste so nice!
Draw a line on the map
Sit down on my lap
I'll tell you how far you need to go
It's like I lost my needle
Somewhere in your haystack
And you need to search in the proverbial bush to get it back
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Two pigeons I saw on wild windy moor
A floating and filling the air
Death held their hand
Like a skipping companion
Death in a Peregrine’s stare
The z car beeped inside the busy street
But Goliath was empty dead on his feet
And he toppled the bean stork
Where jack and his mother talk
And Jack has more business there
Goliath, Goliath why do you take thy rest
In the grass of the wild moor?
The children are going and their mothers are sewing
Clothes for you elsewhere
Why do you think this the time to blink
Can’t you see Jack has his medallion?
And he’s swinging it around
It's making that whirring sound
Goliath went to Ireland
He walked along the pounding streets
And upon the causeway
He met Danny Boy in a hostel
And Danny Boy did try to kill him
First he sang his song so sweet
And then he sang his shrill hymn
And it was someone from six feet
Who threw the stone that killed him
Yes they buried dear Goliath
Down near the cliffs of Moher
They lowered him down as a king
As Lilliputians did with Gulliver
They pinned his bones between the rocks
As a shipwreck, like a warning
So that if any giants should show their socks
They’d be dead by the next morning
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.