My Poetry: We Were The Daydreamers

We Were The Day Dreamers

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Between us we would have made
At least one good person,
Nights where we chose
To celebrate the unveiling of dawn
By dancing under warm skies
With whiskey in the grip of ecstasy
Screaming naughty words
Into the void of the brown sea
Ignoring the moral outrage
Of the stagnant middle-roaders
On their way to work.

We carried on dancing
Despite of them,
Singing hits from our childhood,
Taking turns pushing each other
On kiddies swings
Trying to reach the fading stars
As fires of indignation roared
In bellies empty from missed dinners.
But there was humour in our motives
Casting aside inhibitions
Like they were the rusting chains
Which bound our father's generation.

We kissed each other in public,
Displays of youth's romantic vision
To be observed as if
To give oxygen to a beast
Whose heart was arrested;
To ears which witnessed torture
Never meant to be.
They were the days,
We ran from our sorrows,
Felt the high fall with
The waning moon,
And, I will never forget
Those spacemen
Or nights we sailed too close to the sun,
We were the day dreamers, then.

My Poetry: Soaked in Sadness

Soaked in Sadness

Mid-autumn colours
Are setting trees on fire
Making the world appear warmer
Than it is, 

On a day too beautiful to dare
To venture outside,
With the dog walking couples
And hip youth strolling

Back from somewhere they never

Could explain to their mothers.

But screw them all, I'm gonna kill
This Sunday afternoon with whiskey
Take a seat along the bar
Lined up by my 37-year-old self,

Because he's the only one

Who doesn't implore me to cheer up.

Like a domino waiting to fall
With other examples of my species.
Watch bubbles in a glass disappear
We don't talk, there's no need,
Just swap luke warm observations
On a sporting occasion
Which is just a distraction
Between the next round.

And then an old man,
with a face, like a 5am mirror,
Mumbles consonants, and I agree
Because I've nothing to add.
Later, I give a witticism,
But he is too soaked in sadness
To recognise my effort.
I understand what he means, so say no more
Turn to the screen and think,
I could have been a contender
If mushroom tea and apathy
Had not stolen my fight
For things I do not desire.
And the old juice head turns,
Once more on his stool,
To offer me a joke
I nod, by way of applause
Turn back to attend my pot,
Continue piling coins on the bar.
Glance at the clock ticking slowly
And wait for time, and booze
And boredom to kill me.

My poetry: Bookshop

I do not want to leave,
Trapped between believing
I can read every single page
That I may understand each word,
And knowing i never can.
I have nothing
But time, free time
And yet i cannot buy,
Or steal an hour,
From this constant chatter
To loose myself in the silence
Of the hallowed pages
Between the sentences,
Make friends with new words
Feel the hug of old ones
Reappearing from nowhere.
How i long to empty my head
Allow dreams and images
To overwhelm,
I am overwhelmed
As i choose another
From the shelf, and replace it
Carefully with one hand
As if tucking a dear companion
Into a sick bed.
I do not want to leave,
For out there sadness
Is my only friend,
Dumb, inelegant, unintelligible
Sadness.
I do not want to leave.

My Poetry: Do Nothing

*Warning contains adult language and references*

When force-fed fame

By media hungry whores,

Performing mock satanic rituals,

On Superbowl half-time shows,

Do nothing!

They're just slaves imprisoned by promises

Of prime time television slots.
Busy turning photoshoots into careers,

Becoming fake reality idols

To kids left thinking their best shot at life

Is becoming a contestant

On Britain's Got Talent;

Before we were happy with nature,
Now smart phones have turned us

Into whores for likes,

Before selfies made us superstars

To 250 followers,

now being liked by strangers

Is better than trusting men in turbans

Woman in burkas or even schoolmates

Who sit at the front of class

Daring to learn about life

Outside columns of celebrity gossip.

When force-fed porn

By money hungry whores 

Plucked teen starlets paid to perform

With no way to say no,

Do Nothing!

Welcome unsubtle sex references

Into home via media icons

Magazine ads and hand-held screens

Turning bedrooms into dungeons,

Let them transform Youtube playgrounds

Into places where girls are bullied

For not giving head at thirteen,

And boys are effeminate

If not notching up conquests;

Each told fucking, fame and drugs

Is better than passing GCSE English.

Do nothing

Do not switch on the TV,

Do not charge your smart phone

Do not turn on your lap-top.

Do not become so damned fearful

You forget to question

The onerous instruments of repression,

Keeping us servile

Because until we no longer fear freedom,

From Sex and Money

And meaningless possessions

We will always be slaves

To our invisible masters.

My Poetry: Kefalonia

Skeletons of houses litter the landscape
Ribbons of road ease slowly, up 
Then down, reeling around
The pine green hillsides 
Innocent as a virgin’s thigh.
Mountains like small breasts'
Heave and swell
Under the bellowing clouds
Which caress them gently
Like a new mother her first son

Crystal waters undulate to shore
Rattle white pebbles smooth
As a hustler's midnight lie,
Salt cracks on bare chested paperback afternoon
Diving belles and trunk-clad boys
Like milk white flotsam
And mahogany jetsam
litter the beach on a day when
Youth's currency is as good as mine
When we are all paupers 
Kneeling at mother nature's door
Begging for forgiveness for ignoring
All her calls.

A solemn boat bobs to the horizon,
An old man snags a fish,
Small, silvery penance for patience
On green fern harbour wall
Where weekend sailors drop anchor
Where locals reclaim tavernas
Lost once again in card game revelry
As chatter of foreign tongues
Become a whisper,
Where an orthodox priest in black, 
Bends his grey beard into car window 
Where silent streets forgive everything.

As night’s cloak falls, discarded
Over land which spawned religious legend
Zeus' rage roars eloquently, casting
Electric arcs across charcoal sky
Silhouetting slate sea and land,
Building wind whips trees which bend
To their new master.
Rain explodes off half built roads
Illuminated by car headlight beams.

This island, which witnessed atrocities 
By marauding colonising armies,
Earthquakes which shook soil and soul,
Left boxes full of grief and ruins,
Is now ready to pull the curtain
On another international invasion: 
The last flight is Monday,
Everything closed Sunday,
Each visitor a pinker shade of pale,
Packed, waiting for cut-cost aeroplane,
Like condemned men to return us,
To old cold rain misery of Blightly, 
From wence we came.