My Poetry: She Is My

She is my first beer:
Quenches my thirst,
And eases my wary bones

She is my second beer:
Dulls the edges of the day,
And makes me want more

She is my third beer:
Turns my legs to jelly,
And intoxicates my head

She is my fourth beer:
Making me forget,
And want to dance

She is my fifth beer:
An invitation,
I cannot bear to refuse

She is my whiskey:
Puts a grin on my heart
As she lays me to bed.

My Poetry: How Long Before We’re Wearing Stars On Our Pyjamas

I

The real oppressors of your freedom
Are not wearing jackboots
Hijabs or stars on pyjamas.
They don’t bare arms on jihadi TV.
They don’t wear uniforms.
They don’t wear dog collars.
They don’t speak in foreign tongues.
They don’t cross borders.
They do not wait in hoodies
At the end of your street.
They don’t wear angry faces.
They will not be your friend.
They do not live in your house.
They are not the latest knife crime stats.
They do not listen to Rap.

They’ll be wearing suits
Matched with secret ties.
They will wave false flags.
They will steal your freedom
In the name of protection
While you skim social media.
They will be the face
Of faceless corporations.
They will engineer forced migration.
They will create borders
By which YOU are told to judge people.
They will fracture society.
They will manufacture fear.
They will not be ‘voted’ in.
They will not stand for democracy.
They will be the establishment.

II

The disease of business elite
Infects Westminister with greed
Party neutral donors

Wine, dined and 69ed
On luxury yachts
So moneyed vultures can pick
At bones of asset-stripped nation.
Common’s benches lobby
For free-trade dream.
In side-room deals
Corporate whores dodge tax
Compliance bought with a nod and a wink
And a six-figure membership
To a company’s board.

Unions vilified in the press,
Castrated in the Commons
By neck-tie terrorists
Conducting ‘collateral damage’
To single mum housing estates.
Screwing Proles further

In their poverty hole:
Give us slogans telling us
‘We’ve never had it so good’
But we’re still fucking slaves
As far as I can tell,
Bull-whip and yoke swapped
For social media anxiety
Oppressed obsessed with eastern patsy’s
While unelected law makers erode rights.
Food-banks feed first world hunger
While fat cats suckle cream
From a nation’s wizened breast

III

Drug company CEO
Withholds cancer cure
For another fist full of dollars.
Cash strapped hospitals

Buy into postcode lottery,
It could be YOU who stays
The rest left to pick a God and prey.

Oil tanker spills black gold

Into crystal blue waters

Marine life destroyed
Conglomerate shrugs

Trying to protect bottom line.
Paid off congress publically tuts
At another sea disaster,

Then pockets back-hander.

My POetry: I Rehearse Your Death

I re-read the lines of the poem
They are not particularly sad
Or good,
But I imagine the words spilling,

Like tears, from my lips
As I say goodbye.

I do this often, even when
The words aren't special,
The meaning unpure,
The setting uninspiring.
Still I search for the text

To understand what you meant to me.

Which might explain how I feel
As you lay before me
Skin stiffening like cooling wax
In silk lined pine box.
I do this because...

Because one day
It will not be a rehearsal

On commute back home.
Preparation so when
The call comes

I will still be able to breathe.

Blunt sword that carves
A piece of my happiness
From my mouth, 

My cheek, my day

With a stranger’s soft musing.

I re-read the lines of the poem
And think, I will call
You again soon enough
Just to make sure you're alright
While I still can.

My Poetry: The First Fist Flies

When silent blue lights arrived
On forgotten council estate,
I was still crying,
Don't know who called it
Or how long I'd been
In the arms of a neighbour

The clocks had stopped,
IT lay stillborn limp
As the uniforms bound it carefully
Before moving IT
From foot of stair to ward.
You went with IT,
Which confused me more
Than why we didn’t leave.

IT began with shouting
You retaliated in kind.
Then the first fist flew.

Twisted from the blow
The second crunched
Your bone, clean as a crack,
Screams silenced the house.
Screams silenced the house

You bounced from couch
To wall, fist slammed
You to floor, then dragged
You up for more,
Click of kick to nose
Thud of punch to gut
I don't recall the blood.

Time’s not dulled the feeling
Pit of stomach ache,
Like leaning over building
Wondering if jumping
Would hurt— as much as not.
Remember the feeling,
Struck sob dumb in kitchen
Rooted to where I stood
Hugging doorframe to that room,
Old enough to know
Too young to understand

Then the horror stopped

Your punch drunk toes
Moved up the stairs
To wash away evidence
Of another afternoon beating,
But IT followed you there
Like a jackal sensing a kill

I can still hear blunt booms
Like distant battery of guns
As IT fell down each stair.
Then explosive silence
As we waited for the ambulance,
Me hoping IT was dead.

My Poetry: Strange Shells

Turkish beaches bear a strange shell
Blood on the stones and blood in the sea
Foreign bodies lay still in Agean breeze
Strange shells laying on popular beach

Pastoral scene for the gallant West
Scent of salt-water wind blows fresh
Stolen breath from within life vest
Then the sudden smell of bloated flesh

Here lays infant shell for gull to pick
For sea to claim, tide to lick
For the sun to rot, for West to muse
Here is a strange and bitter truth.

Poem based on Abel Meeropol's song 'Strange Fruit' popularised by Bille Holiday After seeing this story:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/arti...ish-coast.html

My Poetry: Rush Hour Crush

Starved of kindness
We turn a smile
Into a fantasy
As we fill the minutes
On the rush hour commute,
A shared cookie becomes
The plot to a Renee Zellweger movie,
The packed carriage
The setting for a story
To melt hearts at our wedding.

“In a city of millions
Where is my Mr Wright
Perhaps its you?
Tall guy with the coffee
And a cute toosh
On the 6:40 District line
Who looks like the hero
From a Holywood blockbuster.
Let me take you out
Where the lightings just right
To hide my wine complexion
Honed from Friday nights
With a glass and my cat D'arcy”

"Perhaps it's destiny
Which brought us here
You dressed for success
Me in the grey suit
Coffee stain on the breast
Where is my Freya?
Could it be you?"

“Petite blond with red lips
And Betty Boo bag
Who smirks each morning
As I flirt behind the Metro

If you're reading
This page fifteen plea
I'm really not creepy,
That's just how I smile.
Drink sometime?”

So why be coy
Say hi, don't just grin
And pretend it's a win
For the shy and the needy.
Start the new-year
With a date, then perhaps
Who knows two more
You could make your way
Into each others head.

My POetry: Let Beauty Be Mine Once More (swear once)

Who is this man
Staring back?

Who doesn't understand
The past lives he sees
In the strange lines
Around his eyes,

In the corner of his mouth
Pulled by the gravity
Of empty days.

How his craving fingers
Reach for her.

She, a ghost from yesterday,
Haunting his today
As he folds sandwiches
Into metal blocks;
In the CDs stacked in silence
Mocking, like old photo album;
In crackling fire which roars
In his spine when frustration hits.

Who is this man
Who sits beside me?

A stranger whose ego
Tells him thinner, wealthier,
More success is better.

He speaks in tongues
Which fork the decaying land
In which my heart is planted;
But the land is dead, hollow seeds
Wait for germination by
Diseased ants with flaccid cocks;
My soul hibernates, till the day
Of my execution,
When my torn body can return
To the worm licked soil
Where ancestors remain.
This is me; the I who rests
On my shoulder, is he.

Who is this man
Who longs to escape his body?

How can I manage her absence
On days when the blue is bleached
From cold sky?

I long for her, for her kiss
To warm dun blood.
Embrace me, embrace me, embrace me
Nocturnal witch cast your spell
Make happiness and sadness,
My mauve smile and rouge frown, merge
Like spilt water colours.
Kiss me, and drain the ink blood
From my veins
With your golden brown mouth,
Kiss me and let beauty
Be mine once more.