where art collides philosoperontap

seriously large lumps of catarrrrrrrrh
coughs that reverberrrrrrate
cracccking ribs and
bending me double.
whisky and water, not really any help but
sounds good. probably needed
the hot lemon accompaniment.
the alcohol makes me wake up
in the night to go to the toilet.
in the morning I am tired and
still have the cough.

Oft mistook for a figurehead, Lizzie
walks tall despite her five foot something,
at the birthday bash, always a huge success
an annual event not to be missed,
friends gather to celebrate,
as they do each year, the homage on Boxing Day,
corks, deafening, pop and glasses sweetly ring,
the guests consume dutifully, and ease
themselves into another day of indulgence,
the old year merges seamlessly into the new.

or

When asked what it’s like to be Lizzie
She replied in a manner quite dizzy
On my birthday she said
It goes right to my head
This champagne that we drink is so fizzy.

It’s over, not in the Dickie Bird sense.
Scrambling breathless to the white tape we are.
Of the conductors in the audience, how many are tired beyond their memory?
How many different levels are there of conducting? –
Daughters to brothers, brothers to sisters, brothers to brother.
And why should you stray from the xbox and instruct?
Unlike those who play the games, do the twittering, enjoy the deadness of arguing, YOU are a team.
Have a family break. Enjoy the mix. It’s not eternal.

it’s an evolution,
progress? maybe!
momentary confusion,
when I was a lad
it was a lifetime away,
now frittered.
the brain dances
on that knife edge
of fulfilment.

Crawled up into Bethlehem, feeling ‘bout half past dead
Just really needed somewhere to rest my aching head
“Hey there Mr Innkeeper, can you tell me where I can stay?”
He just grinned, shook my hand and whispered “Allow me to lead the way”

I’d been walking with the Devil, walking side by side
He was filling my mind with lies and stuff pertaining to my bride
Innkeeper shouted over “Lucifer, leave that poor boy be,
She’s been true and she’ll produce your perfect match, presently”

Mary’d been carrying heavy, for the last few miles or so
Her time was coming up fast, she didn’t have long to go
“Joe, I can’t have my baby – not like this on the road –
I’m ready to show the world, the seed the Spirit sowed”

A bunch of shepherds ran into town, sweating hard from fear
“What been going down guys, what did you see up there?”
But they stood still with parchment faces, wouldn’t say a lot
Just stood around in wonderment, with eyes that had witnessed God

Two years later on, with my family on the run
Three kings rocked up on camels, they’d been following the sun
Their baggage seemed real heavy, they were all dressed mighty keen
The gifts they brought were the finest the world had ever seen

Broken words lie impotent upon the page
Dysfunctional vocabulary – hyphenation won’t fix
Anagram no antidote to illiterate ailment
Inarticulate phraseology a lacklustre lexicon of tricks

A short introduction to the Broken Words poetry night at Decimal Place, Burton Road Lincoln on 28th November, 2009.

life suddenly appears in slow motion.
the brain, inspirational but ephemeral,
leaves the body and floats above the table before us.
conversation, with no physical evidence of existence
remains a permanent fading record
slowing as the battery runs down.
the door shuts and the lights go out
freezing us in no time, timelessness that is.
finishing the glass, the reality of responsibility
raises its unwelcome head and leaves for the door
which, open, sucks me into the cold wind outside.
my coat buttoned up and collar raised I, head down,
return to normality and the noisy heart of the family.

Sometimes life comes at you full on. Maybe it can’t get any better or perhaps you get handed one of those hospital passes that smack you in the face and leave you wondering…

One sinking sip, another inhalation and a deep palateal reflection. Mesmerise into the darkness of the caramel. What a disguise! There is music but no road out. The talk flows around you just as the flavour rolls across the tongue; sensation penetration. Gentle inebriation.

A one way street named Hopback Entire Stout.

When his game is up,
And prompts no more debate,
And life’s unerring drive,
Ascends the green of fate,

It will I’m sure be said,
By crowds that filled the gallery,
That upright was his stance,
Whilst stood upon the final tee,

And when the last put drops,
Stewards will murmur from afar,
In marking of his card,
He played his round in level par.

Brussel sprout flavoured isosceles triangles
available from a good gastro geometric outlet near you,
banana trapezium, its full flavour slips down well at the gymnasium,
merry go round in toffee apple infused circles,
square noises chop through imperfect ponds and
glass fronted hurricane shop windows stir up
enthusiasms not yet tempered in pink.
Estate agents spin their ceramics on
bamboo pole extensions, losing the pattern
as simply as arboreal baby castanets,
discretion being valued as highly as
enthusiasm amid the placations of the assuaged.
The fire crackles on and the guitar rests
calmly on the spots of the sofa,
notwithstanding the variously striped cushions.