My Poetry: The Glasses Have Paper Skirts

The glasses have paper skirts
In this Bavarian citySquatting on the banks of the Rheine.We: me and frau; Boozer and barmaid,Have been enemies since1977, when I was expungedInto a homeland of indoctrination,
Just don't mention the football.
And, right now, As semiotcs wage war: 
Suit versus denimFreedom versus career,
Strange tongue versus mute ear
I think about fucking her.
Her round bum plump
In blue, washed out jeans
I'm disgusted by my
Carnal flesh instincts
Driven by beer and lack of sleep.
But while she serves, she serves.
There is no fancy science
Math or philosophy tonight,
As the rain slaps the window,It is the biology of fucking,
Thigh, hip, belly;
The desire to conquer
Her snow white hills, my Everest,
I lose time in reverie of desire.
I am a man, and she a woman?
Hot blooded mammals
Contained within skirt and trouser.
Are we not just two pieces
Of the lords flesh?
I want to ask her.
Shall we not decay, if we do not
Allow the waters of love
To make us pure
And fresh as a plucked apple,
Shall we not die
If we do not fuck right now 
across this old bar table?

My Poetry: One Last Letter

One Last Letter

---

Out of this fragile modern mood
I write, my anorexic words
Have shed their weight with time
As rhyme and reason fell,
Like freezing rain, on deaf ears
But as forgotten typewriter,
Missing every fifth key
Gathers rust, I was redundant
As dust built death's foundation
Of ancient dumb metropolis
That is my weary shoulders,
My weakening tin body, no longer
Able to cope with the weight.

And so today is the day
To finish that half-written
Love letter, revisit those fragile hateful
Evenings when we retaliated
With undiluted venom,
And ill send them to your dying father
Paper clipped to the pictures
You begged me to take,
When you were young
Enough to be beautiful
When your looks could still
Cancel out your ugly heart.
Let the words exorcise
What your stone fingers found
On purple mornings
Excavating meanings, where none were,
Slamming letters back and forth,
Like a fly fisherman
With no fly and no hook;

Mornings when my words fell out
Disjointed, and broken
Splintered pieces of
What i had meant to say
But could not, words lost
In unknown afternoon bars
Cus its not the miasma of regret
Which left me gasping for air
T'was the light which illuminated
Every crack and hypocrisy
You vomited in grey tones
As you lied to yourself,
Telling a head poisoned
By glossy magazine columns,
Its better to burn out,
Forgetting no one ever died
From Prosecco rounds.

My Poetry: I Watch Robots Move

I watch robots move

Like iron filings
Magnetised by adverts,
Buying into capitalism's 

Grace and favour mantra:

Love is measured in debt

That takes till November to pay off,

Skint boasting of drowning under
A tide of big receipts,
As if a pre-teen needs £400
Worth of micro chips and solder.

Passive aggressive adverts

Push guilt in the guise of love,

Soundtracked by slowed down 

Faux sentimental pop songs. 

High street dealers 

Sell caring and sharing

As this year's must have,

Like the latest trending toy
Or 52 inch plasma toaster
That burns pictures of Christ
Onto 8 bits of bread at once.

And as a nation we tacitly accept

Our festive fate,

Join shopping spree
Queues to buy stacks
Of plastic to appease people
Who pop round once a year
To get pissed for free
Then swap shiny boxes
Full of last minute tat.

I feel sick to think,
This festive day's hi-jacked,
Swapped like unwanted gifts
For a day of waste for waste's sake.