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So, another day of it.
The clock an instrument that ****** you
with its skeletal finger,
and now the night crawls up, covers
the town before dinner, the cold
licking your skin the way it can
every October.

You haven’t been yourself.
You’ve been stumbling,
legs like lead pipes, head
pulsating, unmissable signal.
Stand -
a conker crack scurries
     across the skull.
Sit -
pulse in ear, gut gurgling
     just as a long-blocked sink.

Sleep is a taste of petrol,
appetite so far gone
you expect postcards.
But at least the night crawls up,
delicately, coldly.
Written: October 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for university - a rough attempt of a pastiche of TS Eliot's work. Comments welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Woman, name unknown,
     I think of your marigold hair, marigold hair
and bare feet in the grass.

There was a voice: do I ask?
   Do I disrupt a pleasant scene
or would I ***** like a thorn?

The dream, to speak your name,
   become accustomed to its taste,
like drinking the sun through a straw.

Alas, if only I’d thought before,
   my mind wandering, thoughts bouncing
conker-like, hard and loud.

I wished to cradle your smile,
   a great beam, lychee pink,
dismiss the crowds.

The chance, sinking, my body
   stifled by unseen vines,
your name a hush of water in my hands

but your hair, bare feet,
   like a summer breeze
in the freezing core of winter.
Written: September 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for university - a so-so attempt to imitate the tone of Thomas Hardy's work. The inspiration was his poem 'Woman much missed.' Feedback welcome, though this poem is unlikely to be edited much going forwards.
A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
At some point
before dawn

I navigated my hand
into your hand

and now we swirl
like shiny balloons

from one lucid invention
of the night to another
Written: September 2018.
Explanation: The third in a loose series of three small poems with the same title. Each one could have been put together as 'one' piece, but each part also feels standalone to me. It is recommended you read all three. Feedback welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
It is easier to imagine
than feel the real thing

but the real thing
is not your imagination

swell of a voice
like a bullet of sugar

too much and you’ll sink
in a lake made of smoke

a blueprint of love
splashing on your tongue
Written: September 2018.
Explanation: The second in a loose series of three small poems with the same title. Each one could have been put together as 'one' piece, but each part also feels standalone to me. It is recommended you read all three. Feedback welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
If pink
is the softest colour

I shall bathe in carnations
every morning

the steam from my herbal tea
dancing out the open window
Written: September 2018.
Explanation: The first in a loose series of three small poems with the same title. Each one could have been put together as 'one' piece, but each part also feels standalone to me. It is recommended you read all three. Feedback welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
all the places I’ve never been
cannot exist

they are just curls of ink
repeated tens of thousands of times

an image is somebody’s own
slant on the city

the pre-storm sky
bruise of cloud

a second-speck
that cannot be mimicked

I heard you were on the move
again

I gnaw the inside
of my cheek

the letters form
monosyllabic words

you have the real thing
I sleep with a globe
Written: September 2018.
Explanation: A so-so poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
somebody strikes a match
outside the corner shop

at the park the team are using
jumpers for goalposts

you put your lipstick on
in a hurry this morning

dropped your Tube ticket
somewhere at Caledonian Road

a teenager sings Dancing Queen
wears an Adidas sports bra

the old man is sleeping again
you saw him two days ago

phone’s on 22%
brother’s birthday is tomorrow

in a second-hand shop
with its own brand of smell

the spines are cracked
the pages have yellow breath

lunch is barely a fiver
the guy on the till is called Brian

if you could you’d tell
a person how you’ve looked

for this one story
but there are too many shelves

and no person
to help you look
Written: September 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time - feedback welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page. Please note that 'fiver' is a British slang term for a five-pound note, while 'Caledonian Road' is a stop on the London Underground, or 'tube.'
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