Crap Poetry

I have no idea how to write a poem, or what a poem really is, but this isn't prose, often no more than a bunch of words, or just a fragment of an idea, but for now I'll call them poems.

All my life

Find what pieces
Unneeded I,
hamper, trip and trap,
To leave behind.

Not what I want,
Not what I need,
Told to bring,
But only
The seed
Of a future
To one day plant.

So, bit by box
Junk and jewel
Memory, heartache, madness,
And love.
I Leave behind
Or lose
Or throw away,
The must I must do if I am to escape,
To find what I really need.

And so
Free at last I thought,
No ballast of love so long to lift,
On morning wake
I see you there,
Sunlight curtain proud,
Know at last
All I ever wanted.


Every room,
Every bed,
Every table,
Every corridor,
Every journey,
Every conversation,
and every moment
Is now just like me:
Missing you.

Poem to a Son

Who are you
My son
Half-way-man. Riddle. Who goes there
Knock-on-wood I do
Fourteen times
As into that head hard I try to see,
Through soft greasy hair that over once
Measuring jug
Eyes battened down against the suds
Water elbow hot I poured.
Robbed from a long emptied bath, in a long emptied house in a life I could not sustain.
Who are you
My son
Poor Boy, your affliction
Cut cloth, chalk marks astray
— distracted —
Am I a riddle to you too
‘Love me do ya’ I often wonder
Do I love you
I wonder if you wonder too,
That time you told me you were scared,
Hard father who’s only way is up
Instead laid in the shade, me sat grumpy close but with no hug of understanding.
“It’s OK” I should have said.
No disappointment could you ever be to me
Only me to you, a dad I sometimes feel undeserving
Who just wants you to know
that I do.
Who are you
My son
Question I can answer
As together, on Space Mountain
Our mountain, the only one we need to have climbed
I almost choked with tears
As — the carriage dropped — I heard you behind me
A sound
No teenage grunt
Nor cool sedation
But laugher
Bright as lightning
Fresh as the daisies
Like you once made, long ago
Fourteen knocks back
Atop my shoulders
As I squeezed your baby legs
My boy.

The Moon

Old lady fingers - witch thin,
Tingle numb they tap.
Logging in & logging out
Each day
To count all that means everything.
Tip tap tingle
Head thumping
Never to stop.
Moving & shifting
Numbers numb
Sterile and empty
As she.
No arms that rap
Nor fingers that stroke
Sunset over still water
Delicious midge bite.
Nothing more now
Than pixels.
All she dreams
Realties once dreamt of unwanted now
As with iron heart
She fakes each living moment
A way to find a bridge to the next.
No spirit.
No poetry.
No art.
Emotion and truth of her buried eight feet down.
And no song
But that of her accountants heart singing.
Mother to a million
But as lonely as the moon.

Poem to a Broken Rib

A bruise no more,
Once I felt your love press
Felt its rise,
Felt its flutter,
Felt it die.

Memory now that beating,
Across the border
Where only I could be felt
My heart,
Morse through skin and sweat and bone
Each thump a testament to what we hoped undying.

That once, when kisses and tingles where enough,
No need then for turbo beats,
Nor sessions of Gold,
Before thin times of lonely skin and bone,
Before Fit-as-fuck,
Before you became

Then, close, inside,
Where you twice felt it break
- at the start
- and in the end.
Was that pain I most remember,
That I sometimes still feel,
When I recall.

Laid hard on that cage,
I felt its prick,
That single bar bent back,
Misshapen in your perfection,
By violent fall,
A bone so hated,
That once poked my heart,
Perhaps now pokes another
A pain remembered still,
A bruise left on parting.


The Mountain does not love you.
Nor does it care
nor does it hate
or wish you harm
or wish you well.
The Mountain does not betray
trick, or beguile.
Say yes when it means no.
Act out of fear.
Act out of love.
Pull you in then throw you back
reject you
nor lead you astray,
or lead you home.
The Mountain does not dream
does not desire
does not want to fuck
or lay in your arms
make plans
have a life
or recollect
mull nor regret,
wake with tears in its eyes,
stop mid sentence when one more word is one more to many.
It does not feel anything.
The Mountain cannot be saved by you
it dies slowly,
shattered and scared by age,
feldspar, quartz, aragonite, calcite moving as swiftly as the stars - painlessly,
each grain washed away
and stone tumble
a lost heart beat.
Yet unaware, vampire old, it does not feel nor fear death nor the time passing.
The Mountain has always been there, and always will
a lifetime together.
Your footsteps.
Your blood.
Your treasure.
Your sacrifice.
Unseen, unfelt, unknown.
But there is no history between it and you
no drama or recollection.
Good times or bad.
To be remembered in old age, or forgotten.
No memory of you
no sad wakings
or happy recollections.
You mean nothing.
The Mountain has no answers
no insight or revelation
no wisdom or stories
no path to take,
no kind words
or harsh.
But is will also never judge you,
never break you
nor do you harm
break your heart
or wish you unwell
nor plot
or scheme
or go crazy.
The Mountain offers you two gifts and that is all.
First the gift of certainty in all these things, that it will never change.  It neither loves nor hates, but only is.
The second is that all the things you may find upon its faces and walls and couloirs and slopes,  the love, wisdom, pain, longing, regret, friendship, death, hope and humanity are not Mountain’s gifts at all, but yours.


10,000 miles
And half a life
I can still reach up
Right outstretched
And feel
That Fabergé hold
On a wall no longer there
And pull.

Poem to Black Hair

What I love
As we walk
On my shoulder your head gently rests,
Pressing close
As if to lean
As if to whisper
As if by accident
- and only for a moment
You stay
Hair thick against my neck
Bramble tangle and moor wild
Wool warm and mint tingle
Like you.