I've pissed myself. Not because I had to But because I wanted to. Life's too short worry About finding a toilet every time You're about to piss yourself. Do you know that feeling? That feeling of warm piss Sliding down your leg and pooling In a light yellow soup At your own two feet? No, it's not embarrassment And okay maybe it's a slight discomfort But really it's freedom! “Carpe Diem…” That's Latin for ‘piss yourself!’ I'm not saying you should live In a constant state of p
She has wrenched me from you Sweet synonym for youth, A segment, in truth, I was like orange slice Or lego brick; Plaything of a child Desperate attempts to stick Together only serve to Mix salt into the lemon Juice that gushes forth From that empty space On my wrists. But that's not what you wanted to hear No for you a grin from Ear to ear Is painted in a familiar tone Along blistered cheeks For I am weak. Too afraid to tell you That better days have come And gone. Now his b
Rather than give each of the last four poems their own post, as they are all quite short, I thought I’d compile them in this post here. Recently I have been reading a lot more modern poetry, like the poetry of R. H. Sin, who has a very distinctive, short, and up-front style. His poems are positioned on the page, encased by the blank page around them, drawing attention to their short length. Given that I am known to waffle a lot, and that I tend to struggle condensing my ideas
Now. I love poetry. Its brilliant. The classic stuff is great, the modern stuff is great, the stuff you read from unpublished poets, writing for poetry sharing sites is fantastic too. I do have to admit, however, that there’s scope to mock poetry, and its traditions and there’s certainly scope to mock the long-dead classic poets, and the canon they helped to craft. Simply put, that’s what ‘Pretending to be a Poet’ is all about. Written while slightly rum-drunk and annoyed tha
Wow, I actually wasn’t lying when I said I’d post at least twice today. I’ll keep this one brief, seeing as the poem itself is brief too. Rather than delve deep into any possible meaning or anything like that, I’d rather paint a picture of the events that led up to this poem’s creation. Much as the title of ‘Gallivanting on a Few Cans of Piss-Poor Beer’ might suggest, it was indeed written on my midnight walk home from a friend’s house on my birthday. I spent my birthday back
Campus is alit for first time in weeks
And awash with colour, too. For Easter towered over, bringing
Chocolate and change. Til now the paths were open,
And grass remained untrod.
A Chernobyl in the pocket of the South.
My only peers The Cobbled Path,
The Bleep Of Library Barcode
And Its Echo In The Mouth
Of the lifeless lobby I breathe in.
Each Page of Each Book
A new lover
And Each Binding
And Each Cover
A home. Though now Easter breathes new life
And the Spring it sta
So… it’s been a while since I last uploaded, and quite frankly a lot has happened in this quiet period on the site. Firstly, over Easter I worked pretty much full time, and when I wasn’t, I was working on one of my five assignments that Uni has lumped me with, though somehow I managed to find the time to have a birthday, and along with that, to finally do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time now; perform my poetry on a stage in front of total strangers (and the group o
Today’s accompanying blog post will be a short one, as I fear of over-analysing my own poetry, and revealing too much of the meaning and whatnot of today’s poem. Penned on a train journey yesterday, this poem came as a result of the writing of another poem which I believed was not conveying everything I wanted to say and wasn’t saying these things as I wanted to say them. Often, I will begin writing a poem on a certain subject, and by the time I’m a few stanzas or lines into
"Yes and it was here in this very parking spot That the world ended." She gasped, as if she didn't know already. "It is said the floor itself opened up and
Swallowed them whole." She covered her face as if to hide from reality. "Why, it is said some otherworldly being
Possessed his mind."
She laughed, as if in disbelief. "A marvel really, it were so contained.
Within just one car."
She wept, as if it would change things. "Please, no photographs, madame.
The memory itself
So, today’s poem is far from some kind of internal struggle, or manifestation of any kind of deeper conflict, and more of an example of using poetry to explore something so mundane and otherwise uninteresting and presenting it in a way that is far more fun and enjoyable . The concept of setting a morning alarm is surely one that almost anyone has had to come to terms with, whether that’s setting your 7am alarm at 3am after a night out, and somehow wishing four hours could las
My, I do believe I'm some form of wizard,
A very magician of time itself,
Plucking minutes from thin air
Gorging on extra hours here and there,
Conjuring another ten, twenty, thirty,
Sixty even, if it’s worth the risk.
I summon thee every morn
At the point of fingertip. Hark! Grandfather clock I keep
Condensed on bedside table,
Torment me not with incessant wails
And bugleman's morning libel,
For you take on Cockrell form,
But I, the farmer's gun,
You may gi
So I knew it wouldn’t take long before the more self-exploratory aspects of my writing made their way onto the site, and while kicking things off with a jaunty little poem about a friendly rat is all well and good, sometimes things aren’t quite as whimsical, and you find darker subjects being your muse. This poem poses the question: “what would happen if I simply stayed asleep and never awoke?” It’s a thought that I’m sure many have experienced in darker times, when perhaps t
The stories do not befit you, rat,
Harbinger of Disease,
Plaything of cat.
Sure, you once brought with you plague,
But that was far from yesterday,
In fact you are much sweeter now;
Shed the black,
A coat of Brown
Is how you stand before me, rat,
But there’s precious little time for that,
For, rat, our time was only brief,
That running man,
A chronal thief
Why did you flee? He meant no harm,
Spare robbing me of playful charm.
I’d question why you’re terrifie