Tag: writing

Press Ups

I resent the term push up; it’s

Press up.

I press myself to the carpet with

Inhale.

I hold the contraction, until

Up. Three.

I like to pretend, on my

Way up,

That my breath assists with

The lift,

As if I were a hovercraft,

Exhaust-

ing through the nostrils, escaping

Trace smells,

Like footprints, or my best friend’s

Vomit.

The Toast

He raised his wine,

Just to lower it twice as far:

A half-arsed toast.

The window scene Swung full into view:

Five other guests, who of the botched

Behest, were ignorant. The culprit had

Burrowed his eyes into a stain,

Whilst his failure snapped his neck at

90º.

He looked silly between the laughing bottles,

Like skinny jeans and gel amidst four

Women in corporate noir.

The kind of faux pas

To make a man say

“I am just going outside and may be some time.”

Speakers

Surround

The rumours, when they began, were

Sound.

Gratuitous in-wall speakers, every room

(Even the bathroom,

So a piss was no respite).

In fact, the architect had seen fit

To affix one device within the

Basin. It’s bass vexed the pool, and

Growled lemony spittle across

My new white jumper.

I’d flip flop back to the hallway

And curse,

Because I had to buy a new white jumper.

A Depressing Thought

I heard a rumour that the proper realms of poetry are Love and Death. Well, I’m only twenty-three, so I won’t be talking about death. And I find myself under an encroaching suspicion that love operates in a similar manner to memory. When you remember an experience you are not remembering an experience. You’re recalling the latest recollection of that experience. Like a photograph of a photograph of a photograph. No matter how good the camera, you’re still haemorrhaging pixels. What if love is the same? You get one shot. And every subsequent love is a sketch of the first. the sketch may have been done in a steady hand, with a Blackwing on paper of 120gsm. But it’s a sketch nonetheless. It’s taken from a model.

Peter

Peter was a funny boy

Who’d masticate raw cabbage;

He’d drop dry leaves into his mouth

And crunch them like a savage.

 

Peter was the kind of boy

For whom the age-old adage,

“Eat your greens and you’ll stay lean”,

Was stooped in excess baggage.

 

Peter was a quirky boy

Who made up his own language,

Codifying leafy greens

As pudding good enough to ravage.