Love is the drug

heart-drugs

Love is the drug I hear them say
Can I get it in a tablet or a nasal spray?
Love is the drug and it’s messing with my brain
Your detox did today but I’ll backslide again

Let me get caned in your cuddles
Do a gram of wet-eye-stares?
Or maybe try some methalove;
Warm and close but not as scary?

Love is the drug, light afterglow
My shot in the arm, your ultimate dose
My sweet narcotic of nuzzling necks
A sure-fire hit for knock-out sex

Love is the drug
The balm
The pain
Our tearing loss
Our need to do it again

From the soaring highs of love’s hot fix
Where blood rushes blindly inciting my psychosis.
We lie it’s forever. I believe it’s what hurts.
An infinite comedown and it’s aching our hearts.

 

2017: January Pre-Mourning

The night before the work starts
Our streets echo with lone travellers
This night of cold clear dread
As the new year shakes free
Of it’s champagne and fireworks
A mighty muted still
Fills up the dark

And in the raging dreams
Of all these people in their beds
Uncertain and alone in today’s cold sleep
Questions of fragility
Feed our hunger for dread
Spoiling this last bedtime
With what tomorrow brings

Outside in some dark corner
Of a Southern London home
I ponder how few deaths make many mourn
The slaps of conflict beat
Fresh tears from more bored eyes
Yet each hour too much life
Is bled and crushed in horror

For one more year has come on us
And forseers contort with doom
Such angry rhetoric, such mounting gloom
Yet this new year is not foretold
And harbours chances new
There’s not time to conjure lies
Just time to start the world.

The end of the world news, Ankakay via Flickr

The end of the world news, Ankakay via Flickr

The Uprisen

Stańczyk by Jan Matejko (1862)

Stańczyk by Jan Matejko (1862)

I’m revolting in the kitchen
I will not wash another cup
Also, I’ve emptied nary the bins
And I don’t care who’s turning up

In the toilet I’m revolting
You can guess the seat stays raised
A growing ring of gloomy grey
Encircles the tub these days

The floor of our thru-diner
Is an irksome furry muck
Where I’ve revolted against the oppressive regime
That bids I vacuum up

Window’s streak with weeks of grime
The laundry mountain hums
Shadows stretch from coves
– such as spiders hide –
Yet I’m sticking to my guns

Once in a while love stands a test
Resists worldly weights and… sails
Then sometimes – perhaps we looked away –
Once in a while love fails

So leave me to my misery
Let this dirt I foster bloom
You live your life in spite of love
I’ll sulk, revolting,
In some dark room

Bedlam Museum of the Mind

A visit to Bethlem Hospital
Museum of the Mind this week.
Open Wednesday to Friday 10am-5pm
(unless you’re in a ‘group’).
I find myself struck by the times.

There is a wide range of art
as well as historical lunacies to enjoy
and the staff and ‘service users’
are impeccably informed and helpful.

Here are two of the few photo’s I took to remind me of the visit.

Harriet Jordan

Harriet Jordan

Harriet Jordan (after)

Harriet Jordan (after)

Beck Beat goes on… in Southwark

Blackfriars Vocal Poster Feb 2017

 

We continue the search for a new venue in Beckenham (admittedly… have made little progress past initial exuberance of the opportunities!), and in the meantime, you are welcome to join us in the super spacious Blackfriars Settlement for Friday 24 February. It will be #openmic, #poetry, with cafe possibilities and 5 minutes of excellent audience enjoyability, for each of you ear-needy poets!

As you spout your latest, favourite, or work in progress. Also if you wish to share the origination of some other monger-of-words, then that’s cool too!

This is a real life event, of the free persuasion and is open to all; regardless of shoe colour or shampoo choice. All voices welcome. You might find more info from Facebook. Or you might skank around on Twitter?

Sorting Bags

She had bags of bags, filled with shoes,
Christmas wrappings,
old cards and new ones.
Bags of overplayed toys and of unopened letters.

We kept clawing into the gloom and dust.
More bags and open boxes,
buried in the insect-shell-carpet,
deep in the fabric of the long dead.
Box after box…
some had bags in, some had letters in,
reams of notes, in bags.

There were more shoes,
a crimson coat of monstrous proportions.
There was a box full of bags from the eighties filled with toys
– battalions of soldiers in disarray
eyeballing
teams of alien muscle men
through the decades.

And last of all,
wrenching the newspaper floor with it,
dragged out from beyond,
a decomposing leather hold-all,
filled with photographs.
Beaming back from their childhood,
tiers of school pics,
camping trips,
instants of birthdays hurried though
and flashes of Christmases.
I clamber back. Kneel back and,
hands on knees,
take a breath.

These treasures are piled in the spare room,
one trove stacked on a chair.
Inhaling the gasps of long ago, hefting.
The chatter of ages fills my nostrils,
hits the back of my throat – my memories
– and I gulp down more,
then she shuts the bedroom window,
which suffocates us abruptly.

Go get a bag then.
Her hands already picking over the bones.

Another bag. This one heavy
with the dark implications of the Black.
The crisp pliable plastic of sacks,
body bags.
I bare my mind as I reach into the
kitchen cupboard, downstairs.
Here dark personal thoughts swim.
So upstairs again I rip
one finality after another
off the roll
as she empties years of what-ifs into these
terrible cocoons.

We stay there for days jogging back
and forth through shared and forgotten
events. All that’s dead is gone, all that’s dust
is dead. In a bag in a box
in a hole. There’s a dream that once
lit up her head.

Foray into self publishing

Status

great-news

Great news everybody!

There’s a real life self-published book available now.

This collection is a journey through a day; the space, faces and traces of the day as it whirls through to night. Each written from different times in my life, gathered into a measurable meander through here and now. Characters introduced are real, the feelings are honest and the end result is a succinct insight into many of the journeys each of us take from being a sleep to being awake.

Morning Tongue: A day in the grotty life is a celebration of that nagging voice in the back of one’s mind shouting that there must be more to it all than this. This book will bring warm senses of rhythm to your bosom, sanity to your crazy, and so on. The poems in this book are not available on the blog, although a few have been aired here for reflective purposes.

Published in hard copy and available to all good readers for £5.99 from the machinery of Blurb (yes, sucking the romance out of creativity, self-publishing is a route, much like previous great writers, along which I am tentatively toe-tipping)!

How do I get mine?

You may wish to get hold of one of these Softcover page-turners and can do so by contacting me directly. It will cost the same £5.99 but this price includes delivery (instead of adding the bonkers £6.99 delivery charge that blurb charge).

Rather modernly, there is also a digital version through amazon, which turns in at a much more reasonable £2.99 ($3.91) drastically improving your poem/penny return…

Join me on this journey and help share the stupendous clarity and touching-bared-soulfulness of Morning Tongue, A Day in the grotty life.

 

 

For wanting to share in this laconic exploration in the poetry of south London, I Thank You. All reviews, comments, insights, responses will be gratefully read through and filtered carefully.