Moonsville

This collection is from 2016 when I got into gothic! A few poems from it.

SUMMER OF DARKNESS

It’s so black in the afternoon

We have to light candles

To see anything in the gloom

As lightening hands turn door handles.

With windows shedding dark from outside

And branches dangling shadows

In their last throes,

Torrential rainwater, upturning stones, unearths traces of carbon dioxide.

1899 VISIONARY

Finally, what was there from its beginnings was clearer.

How the coldness had been hidden behind an hysterically hyped up veneer.

A scientist opportunist conning peers.

A philanthropist grave-digger snatching moneyed sneers.

I’m not going to judge lest I be judged.

I’m not going to hold a grudge lest they begrudge.

Nor march to the next century to just trudge.

Nor pose for a still frame where to budge

Might mean blurring a Victorian image into muddy Georgian sludge.

THE DEHEARTED

I love songs ‘cause they remind me of people

and I love people ‘cause they remind me of songs

when coffins are laid with knives and forks and candles

and when romantic skeleton couples elegantly come down for dinner to gongs.

  ON A CAROUSEL

Morning mourners come to terms with their birth.

Toddlers clamber up shoes piled up in the corner of the room;

Start school, risk getting into trouble or not, do their homework,

and love most things that go crack, bang and boom.

Later and well before, flower bulbs are lobbed into the sea.

Seeds rain down on seaworthy upside-down roofs.

Everyone needs money, or something to get something, a currency

As wine bottles twirl round daring them to tell truths.

Over time,  flesh drops off bones as skin gets torn.

Brains bubble and boil in jars hidden away in treetop laboratory hideaways.

They retire or die before, expect the unknown, finish their days.

The only thing for sure is running away to the fair will be frowned upon

and, even contemplating it, will be treated with scorn.

HOMESICK

I miss the crappy locks on paint peeling front doors
where bendy Fosbury flop envelopes letter-box land
on fraying 1969 carpet halls
to be picked up by a big Monty Python hand.

November 1st days with their frosty faces;
Shaky minute hands clockwise shivering;
Family members in chronological order on book cases
And blue mettle kettles whistling
Old tunes in the kitchen.

GRAY GRAVNEY


Who I never spoke to over there far away
who was near enough to be left astray
who had a ring on her finger
who had nothing that would linger
whose dress had a hem
who painted a chimney like an industrial stem
who had a hat on her head
who rolled out of bed
who ran and did not falter
even when there wasn’t an alter
who’s still there still
like a pigeon on my window sill.

BEDLAM

Mattresses levitate upwards to a bedroom ceiling
And break into two, falling.
Feather ‘n’ down paper weights feather down
Onto pillow fighters in their dressing gown.
Mouths with false teeth are put into glasses
And doctors get in with their certificates and passes.

4.44 a.m.

He woke up, there and then, and looked at the alarm clock with its big green numbers glaring back, luminously.
Like the other times; 5.55 or, stranger still (‘cause it wasn’t a time to wake up to), 3.33.

Daytime seemed to say you never stood a ghost of a chance of understanding what night meant.
So, having smoked a cigarette, he lay down and hoped to fall back to sleep before any dawn chorus came and went.

EMPIRE ISLAND

Modernists and bedrocks sink to the bottom of a wintry sea by an off-season seaside.
Patriotic lungs fill up and get washed away with the tide
as lively lifeless corpses on the crest of a wave
come home to a heroes’ welcome, floating on ale casks, towards their mass church-crawl grave.

FAWNY DROPPING
Dodgers who spill the beans well
tell The Police News which gets read to hell.
Years and years printed on front pages
get cut like minutes at a meeting about cuts on weekly wages.
Most are so rubbish that sleepy bin men are the only ones awake early enough to open their eyelids
while the lucky few snore, having dumped money on their blanket kids.

PORTRAIT PHOTO RUBBLE

She died the next day.
It changed him.
She would have been 26. The frame with dust on its rim
lay where it lay.

BACK TO MY ARROGANT IMMORTAL SELF

A bleak week of weakness
feeling dead and on my own
in pyjamas as my Sunday best
and wondering what will become of my flesh and bone
I’m back to my arrogant immortal self
where I open my lungs to the city’s sunny ray summer breeze grime
walk with David Jack the Lad Baudelaire stealth
and kick old leather 50s footballs back to where they came from; not my time.

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