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Rich Hues Jul 2020
A twisted
Of grime,
No metre
Or rhyme,
An artform
For those
And the
Who lack
Rich Hues May 2020
Beneath the salvaged chandelier from a great ocean, liner,
I sip Earl Grey tea from the finest, bone china
With a polite little man in half-moon specs
In the warehouse of treasures that he collects:
Of hallmarked silver in glass, display cases,
Porcelain figures with colourless faces,
Pearls, ivory,  pallid pieces of jade,
Diamonds set in a Damascene blade
And before a naked Apollo in snow white stone
Plundered by the Goths from his temple in Rome,
The polite little man in his tidy bow tie
Kisses me on the lips as he
Unzips my fly.
Rich Hues Dec 2019
Of crocodiles
And betrayal
Boudica clad
In chain mail,
Cleo   uncorks
Another bottle,
Scythed chariots
Going full throttle,
Gems   and   jewels
And golden bangles,
Crowns                  set
At     jaunty     angles,
Tales    of          lovers
And   kingdoms  lost,
The       clever      men
They double-crossed,
But the sun-god sinks
The       wheel    spins,
And        in   the   end
The Patriarchy wins.
A poem about Cleopatra and Boudica sharing a bottle of wine.
Rich Hues May 2019
The cornflowers,
Dance for Alice Weidel,
In a new world built
Of blood and BRICs,
Beneath an axe bound
By a bunch of sticks...
Young men marching,
Dressed in black
Because while you weren't watching
We came back.
Cornflowers are a symbol of the far right in some European countries.  It is a poem about the return of the fascists.
Rich Hues Jan 2019
A heart carved into the bark of a tree,
A bark from my dog by the side of my knee,
The light had faded,
So too had the hope
Of the boy in the boughs
At the end of his rope.
In  hindsight a little similar to Belle and Sebastian's ' we rule the school'.  Not a deliberate copy -possibly subconscious.  Possibly also different subject too.  29 jan 2019
Rich Hues Jan 2019
She has a kind face and wears glasses with a tortoise-shell coloured rim,
And has a tortoise-shell coloured thing on her lip that could really do with a trim,
Which, when she is thinking, she flicks with the tip of her tongue,
And she says she's only fifty years old, when really she's sixty-one.

In bed she wears a laced corset of patent, red leather,
That concertinas the skin on her chest where it presses her ******* together,
And although she's more than three times my age, she says it isn't a barrier,
And it's not just because she's very rich that I say yes when she asks me to marry her.
Rich Hues Jan 2019
In Manolo Blahniks,
While her chair wears her jacket    
And her fingernails play Orpheus                              
   On a cigarette
            A cold goddess in stone                
And a flounce of french lace,
     Gravelled footsteps
                            don't lift

Her resting-*****-face.                                    
So I announce
my arrival                      
With an unconfident cough,
                Her eyes still
on the sunset,  
             She tells me to...
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