Friday, 17 April 2015

NaPoWriMo 17

Dave wants to be my friend.
Jane drives me round the bend.
Frankie is eating pork pie.
I'm bored.
Heidi's not gay but she's bi.
Good Lord...

I really don't care
about all of you there
but isn't it time
for I, me and mine?


NaPoWriMo 16

We are slow dancers, scoring life with feet,

leaving in our wake disordered music,
upon a stage where oil and water meet.

Find with pace a tendency to lose it.
Seeking rhythm or some mad alignment,
leaving in our wake disordered music.

Full of weight we tackle our assignment,
track of foot referring to our centre,
seeking rhythm or some mad alignment.

Here a partnership we dare to enter -
skipping hearts that share a kindred step,
track of foot referring to our centre.

But oh, to steal a lead we must misstep.
We are slow dancers, scoring life with feet,
skipping hearts that share a kindred step
upon a stage where oil and water meet.

Wednesday, 15 April 2015

NaPoWriMo 15

Dear Writer,

Please stop. You make me a misery.
This page is full to the very brim,
saturated with sadness and bloated
with mirthless miasma.

Your pen is a slow spillway of
self-pity. The ink a deluge
of woe. I have become your
very worst invention.

A bullet to the foot, or a
smart-ass slipper of concrete.
You've fashioned me from guilt
and a manipulating shape.

This is not love. Just artless piss
toward the wind. Sit back.
Take pause. The cause is long lost
so stop writing shit.

NaPoWriMo 14

You again. we thought we heard

the last of you but look there,
scheming imp, mischievously
stirring wistful memories.

Your fingers on our unsound
bones are unbearable bliss.
Your subtle soul-touch
by turns good and intrusive.

The countenance between
the pair of you is witness
to my audible authority,
be it cut either way.

Exposing with my weave
your innate vulnerability.
Unseen, profoundly felt.
Not even here to be heard. 

Yes, even in silence
your unheralded kiss
bids this body shake,
shiver and sink into sepia.

Monday, 13 April 2015

NaPoWriMo 13

Wanted by the world am I,
oft in desperate short supply,

life's pursuit and worries' root, more
dear than any heap of loot,

hid in all the simplest things, like
flying kites or plucking strings,

found in unexpected places,
remedy for dismal faces,

onto me you all must cling,
I am a fleeting, fickle thing,

find me and the stars you'll bless, for
I am your own happiness.

NaPoWriMo 12

the whole universe never looked right
understanding that not said with words.
undoubtedly quite brilliant,
bringing caustic wit to bear,
She is a dreamer trapped in reality
full of precarious fury or
capitulating to the assault of life.
Not mad but preoccupied with madness.
Touched by something we don't understand.
An abstract thought turns tangible and
nobody does it quite like her;
regal in her poise and motherhood
the way she carries herself and the stars.
What quality she aspires to
being quite so clever and canny,
perfectly chaotic from
irresistible first moment
to ineludable end.