Wednesday, 28 January 2009

Purple (A Poem About Purple)

A poem about purple called




(was a poem about

Monday, 26 January 2009


It was violetblack like blackjack so
he popped the beetle into his mouth,
it melted in his mouth to an acrid fluid
which burnt his tongue and he spat.
He mauled at the inside of his lips with
his tongue but no saliva would come.
And he pumped his throat for sputum,
but a cold weld had set across his tonsils.
He stepped and looked and stepped,
and into the garden he fell, onto the path.
Caught upon his hands and his elbows and
his nose was grazed against the ground,
in front of his eyes on the pavestone there were snails,
everywhere he looked there were snails
and they stretched their eyes into the distance,
He saw that they didn’t get any smaller as they receded into the distance,
and he lay prone in an amphitheatre
of ever increasing snails.
They all sat at corners.
The patch at the centre of his gaze was a corner
And the little patch of grease where his nose had touched was a corner
He could now see the millions of ever decreasing snails
that were extruding from the pores of the tip of his nose
and dropping into that patch of grease.
And he stayed there, elbows bent,
tips of toes stretched, neck straining, laughing.

Saturday, 17 January 2009



andpleesestaynow, youmakenewyerns

Tuesday, 13 January 2009

A Kafka-esque Treatise On Jam

(This is a very high-brow work of European Literature of international import.)

Jam Sam

A strange little boy here; his name was Sam,
Sam woke one morning to find his hands made of Jam.
So he licked a finger, a thumb, and was deeply disturbed
at his ten chubby digits made of gooseberry preserve.

His parents and grandparents and sister despaired,
Sam was a bad boy, he stole - stood on chairs -
from cupboards and sideboards and the very top shelf
jars of peanut butter and honey and anything else

he could get his sticky hands on,
with Sam around, like that! it was gone.
And with such jammy hands there was nowhere to hide.
But now he remembered his mother, and she hadn't lied,
You'll turn into Jam, I promise you son
of all your Jam stealing no good will come,
best stick to veg and the odd tattie scone
Jam all the day and you wont last long.
He rolled out of bed, sticky prints on the sheets,
and quietly headed for the door, his family were asleep,
but the handle slipped through his jellied nails
and Sam sat on the floor and started to wail.

He looked at his green palm with orange peel veins
and Sam promised never to eat jam again.
Then quick as a flash he was sat up in bed
a raspberry jam sandwich on the back of his head.

Friday, 2 January 2009

January Poem

Smoking through my broken face,
Left side feels like the inside feels,
Got no eyes to see you now,
Can't hear you now,
You're not here now.

Stuck inside a splintered skull,
Stuck inside a churning brain,
Got no eyes to see you now,
Can't hear you now,
You're not here now.

Wish the skin would peel away,
Leave the flesh to get its due,
Got no eyes to see you now,
Can't hear you now,
You're not here now.