It's all just attachment theory
The stresses and strains
And the colours run down the drains
We've washed ourselves clean
In the new green machine
But I still cannot wash out the stain
I mean
The blood spot
of a murder scene
In which we killed our love
Got away clean?
Scot-free
Neither
lest the bonds of guilt
Struggle to hold the mermaid
As she tries to leave the sea
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Like thunder clapping
Tap dancers tapping
Seagulls flapping
Above ocean waves
Love unwrapping
Milestones lapping
Thoughts and ghosts
Against graveyard graves
Like kettles rumbling
And Televisions grumbling
And old men humbling
Their lives away
I hear you slapping
The thighs of happening
Happy as larry
Larry who saves
All these wonderings
Pirates in swaddlings
Mothers in coddling
And lovers in lathes
Chiseling out existence
To a fine point
Like a dagger or a spear
And losing the thread
But gaining the yarn
Somewhere we guessed
It could do us no harm
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
haycation noun [C]
/heɪˈkeɪ.ʃən/
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The dirge was heard
In an echo
Of faceless voices
Down the tunnel escaping choices
On a single track minded train
Robber barons, and braids are framed
In forget me not knots
That tie down your friends
On the rails, down the line to freedom
Some signal man says you must change tracks
And hoops are thrown, like star jacks
To catch on the back of my hand
Like maps
I know so well, yet there's something I lack
A compass stored away
A needle on my lap
To follow the flow of flowers
down wild winding tracks
I see the gods of Ash collapse
In the leaves of their prayers
Their devotees, picking through snapped branches
Like grasping knobbly fingers of old witches
The skeletons of women trees
Who's men folk have wandered too far
Skeletons soon to be but ashes
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Who is that monkey sat there?
What does he want?
Who is he with?
Why is he scratching his bum
Does he have some kind of itch?
No, Monkey, no!
No, I won't give you an inch
You'd take a mile
I can see it in your cheeky smile
And I know you would switch
Your allegiances in the end
Deceitful little monkey
I don't trust you at all
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
So this is England
Walking down the High Street of a Somerset town
Shops are closing down
Or shut up already,
Walking with a dry mouth, parched
But The pub at the end
It hearkens no laugh
The bar is a dark place
The bar stools stand
Empty as a pocket
In an empty land
So this is England
I hear you say
What I had come to love
Has soon been blown away
In a wind of change
As across the motorway
The dust of dry fields
The corn storks decay
But this is Autumn, the voice of reason calls
And anyway what's the season, we
Still have the market stalls
And Artists crying treason
Writing written on the walls
Who's sold off this lovely land
The politicians or the fools?
Who voted for them in the first place?
In this government of crows
This murdering of Parliament
This place where no hope grows
And yet and yet I hear you say
This is Winter, it goes that way
Perennial seasons, people trying
To reclaim
The name of the rose
So this is England
Dig in your own garden and look after your own lot
Put up notices, beg for pardon
Give whatever you've got
Give as good as you get
And forget to pick forget-me-nots
For suckling bees at flowers
Could not count all of their stock
Store it in piles in larders
Fill up the honeypot
And save for a rainy day
For you know that happens a lot
Though we never spend
Even though today is no day to save
Gather it in at your wedding
Give it away at your grave
Yes this is England,
Hoarding your plot
And marking out the lines
Where you go
Where you do not
And never throw a stone at a crow
Never break the glass houses
Because we've built them out of stone
And we've tied them on necklaces down blouses
Caught in the cleavage gap
Between two breasts boom and bust
Crying I must, I must, I must improve my bust
Yet leverage of whale bones, never
Moved the beached body off the beach
We saw the mermaids waving in the surf
We gave it a pauper's grave and tears of grief
This great flotilla of what was once our dreams
That came up for air once
But heard only screams
Yelling go back, go back
And warning us of the sand banks
But it was too late as The hull
Hit ground and broke the cranks
Yet this is England
We've landed
This place of our dreams
This isle of forever
Forever down flowing streams
Water, water everywhere, flowing down the sink
Water, water everywhere, and only beer we drink
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
In life
Do not spend too long on the ordination of spiders
For they have their own legs
And they will carry them
Try not to be fooled by earwigs
For they may get in your ear and whisper many things
Memory is a wonderful thing when founded on common sense
Otherwise try to forget it
The meaning of moths can only be had in daylight
At night they can really elude you
Do not talk too fast nor too slow
For doing either will upset google translate
The best remedy for a cold is not to catch it in the first place
Kings and Queens may come and go, but the monarchy is forever!
Until it's not.
Gargling can increase your life chances by 50% if stuck under water.
Too many cooks spoil the broth, but only if you don't chop them up enough first.
The large stone platform in the world is positioned about Milton Keynes
The thing is nobody gets a chance to look up, and no one wants to look down,
They just keep on going around and around.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.