National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 08/04/17

 

Off We Go to the Circus

 

Polished Spam beneath a cloud of hay,

full of grubby dollar bills, shit and piss,

gargling garbage, stinking like a drain

grabbing at pussies and licking his lips.

 

Full of grubby dollar bills, shit and piss,

he’s made of bacon, baking up hate,

grabbing at pussies and licking his lips,

sweating primal musk in your cornflakes.

 

He’s made of bacon, baking up hate,

swaggering about, bragging about his,

sweating primal musk in your cornflakes,

rubbing greasepaint straight on to his tits.

 

Swaggering about, bragging about his,

gargling garbage, stinking like a drain,

rubbing greasepaint straight on to his tits

polished Spam beneath a cloud of hay.

 

 

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National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 07/04/17

No News is Good News

Jack Wagon stared out of the window as hills and rivers rushed past, meandering busily alongside the track. He wore a purple zoot suit and a pair of wombat skin brogues and carried a newspaper strewn haphazardly across his tiny lap but, to his great shame, he did not know how to read it.

“Seat taken?”

An uncaring voice interrupted his landscape enjoyment. A small bald man was leering at him from the aisle. He was dressed in a sort of trench coat and may have been nude underneath. Certainly he had his knees out. Jack formulated a response.

“Well, I think that…”

“Cheers, mate.”

The stranger plonked himself down, already too close for comfort. Jack detected a dirty citrus tang in his nostrils. The invasion of his personal space continued unabated.

“This weather, eh?”

“Yes.” Jack answered, immediately wondering if he had been too terse. The man did not seem to notice.

“What are you reading there?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“The paper, is it the Mail?”

“Aren’t they all?”

The conversation was veering into uncomfortable territory but luckily, greed intervened and the lemony cue ball revealed his true motivation.

“Done with that? Mind if I have it?”

Relieved, Jack handed it over, glad to be rid of the wretched thing. The man snorted his gratitude, rolled the paper into a tight tube and bent over the hand rest staring back knowingly at Jack. He pulled up his coat to reveal his hairy cheeks as the train crashed violently into a Volvo dawdling on the level crossing and Jack was spared from witnessing the act by a swift and fiery death

        the paper phoenix

           fluttering into the flames

emerges unscathed

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National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 05/04/17

Linked

The man with the yellow hair approached the cave with caution, crouched and creeping, scheming a solution to the problem of possession. The lizard men, purple skinned and feathered sat or stood, some laughing, others dancing, all guarding the object of his affection, a solid oak box bound with brass fittings. The air was thick with the stench of lizard men together; a dense, musky funk that stung the nostrils and clouded his thoughts

the sword of the stone

    calls your inner warrior

to bathe in their blood

He stood, holding aloft his wicked curved blade and shining shield and charged the nearest lizard man, catching him unawares with a cut across the throat. A club crashed down beside him as he wheeled on his heels and clattered another with his shield before back flipping away, firing a flaming arrow at the peak of his flight through bone as he caught a wicked club blow to the chest that knocked him backwards, down into dust and darkness…

awaken saviour!

                  the Princess needs her hero,

       your name is foretold

 

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National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 04/04/17

Covered

The snare drum rattles and pops a staccato introduction, doubles and triplets complemented by the low swinging parping of multiple trombones that get the shoulders swinging for several bars before the bright trumpet section start up the main riff of Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing; all high end sass and macho brassy swagger, teasing you instrumentally, over and over before, finally, three minutes in, a joyous chorus swells and erupts

impressed into wax

      an irrepressible groove

mounting to release

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National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 03/04/17

Jason Statham Buys Some Shark Repellent

The small boat drifted lonely on the cold ocean, miles from the shore; a luxury yacht packed with shiny brown leather, deep mahogany and chrome devices now an unmanned cabin lit yellow against the darkness of water at night. After several long moments an orange spark appeared upon the horizon, looping lazily, tracing a crescent as it arced through silent black sky to disappear beyond the bow before

                a fierce flower blooms,

                an infernal lotus borne

unfathomable

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National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 02/04/17

Marina Bay Sands

An enormous surfboard structure sits atop three white skyscrapers, towering above the bay. An azure blue sweep of water, speckled with tourists and selfie sticks, stretches the length of the gigantic shelf with no edge apparent, seemingly nothing to separate the laughing and tanned from falling fifty seven floors into the tarmac heart of the resort

        the great and the good

                    suspended, floating in clouds

forgetting to swim

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National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 01/04/17

Casing the Joint

Down there, by the industrial units with steel roller doors and weeds poking through brickwork, a selection of vans of various sizes came and went. One unit in particular drew a steady stream caked in muck or gleaming like teeth in a commercial. A red panel van sat with the engine running, headlights cutting through the falling gloom as a flash of bright white suddenly lit the small window in the galvanized frontage. A hooded figure clattered out awkwardly and made for the driver’s side; I prepared to take chase

                          turned up my collar

                          against the cold wind and sang

                          How You Like Me Now?

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