October 24, 2015
I am going to blow some bubbles
But first I’ll chop some wood
Then I’m going to blow some
B, B, Bubbles,
I hope then you’ll feel good.
The colours are exquisite
Magenta, Blue and green
But just before the bubble pops
Yellow gold’s the scene.
It must be this or all the b-blowing
That gives me such a thrill
And words start falling on the page
Like bubbles down a hill
Spilling from my mind
I struggle for control
In a stream of consiousness
Flowing from my soul.
October 22, 2015
I just caught the man with the van
Who was driving off when I foiled his plan
I’ve got no milk but I do have apples
I drew a triangle, circle and square
Like I didn’t really care about the chill in the breeze,
Walk the dog and buy sweet peas.
The distant sound of an aircraft propeller,
Drew my attention from that dreamy thought
To the sight of glistening sun on waves
I am in Sopot in reckless gay abandon.
I started the day in a beatbox way
Felt so cocky with my hip-hop rap
But didn’t know where I was going
Like a driver with no gps map
I wanted to go downtown
But only got up the junction
With a flat tyre and no cell phone.
So I just sat and took
A swig of gin
Imagined pulling on a cuban cigar
And thought about my next move.
October 19, 2015
Too many pebbles on a beach to count
Two flying seagulls soar above waves
I smell the salt on sun-warmed skin
and hear feet crunching stones
Echo in caves.
Beach life. Life on the beach.
Fruit knife, slices a peach.
Laze away. A way to laze.
Turns to a haze.
Hot sand burns the soles of my feet
Sea-shells cut into my skin
The salt of the sea in the cut
Makes me flinch
String of beads on my necklace shrinks.
October 18, 2015
Talking on telephones
Walking on belly bones
Don’t know the answer
Capricorn sounds better than cancer
What are people?
I am not dead
Not like Fred
West – not the notorious
guy from Bristol
But the one who offered me cider
When I was only 6
Probably would be locked-up
If he did that now
But he won’t ‘cos he’s dead.
Not worried about the finality of it all
When you’re dancing around in a teetotaller’s ball
With endorphins flushing through your channels
And your brogues getting polished by your flannels
This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco
No ‘end of year do’ for the dental floss few.
It’s an audition and you didn’t get the part.