"brighton" poems
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
43.4k
The air is perfumed with fresh rosemary's
And the wild springs with lush berries
Their presence colours the nursery with a sweet loom
It bleeds into the forecast for tomorrow's gloom
Nostalgia hits hard, heartbreaking and eerie
For a day when I wasn't paranoid and weary
Well, I'll be down by the Brighton pier
Watching birds float past in lonely fear
I'd love to turn away
The pristine sun shines like Hades
The outside scent is yellow, maybe
Little daises laugh in the foreground
Gardens sow a loving sound
Once I could see hope in the trees
And the love that whispered on the breeze
Now the trees foreshadow longing
And the gale howls with wronging
I'd love to turn away
The intimacy in my yellow tinted flowers seems to have faded
And the soft orchards have been invaded
My words burnt in a smouldering pile of dust
And steaming with the heat of my lust
I told a crowd I had something to say
But the people turned away
away
away...
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
These oceans are named Between.
Yes, I know them all.
They've separated me before
By water's solid wall.
*But I imagine when I
Jump and make a splash
At my local Brighton beach
That ripple travels
To your shore so
You're never out of reach!*
And at these rugged shores
That ripple reaches land.
As good as any letter penned,
A wave; an outstretched hand.
*Like a message in a bottle
I hope it reaches you
Every nuance of my love and care
Dripped in oceans blue*
Much more comfort in that
Bottle, than the one before
Me now. Its insides shared
With me; still I am emptier
...somehow.
*Well you can't run on empty
So let me fill your cup
With seashells whispers
Wisdom pearls
And jellied joy to
Fill you up*
A whispered wish
An uttered prayer.
That space that pushes
Here from there to
Disappear; give room for
Place to share as lair,
There's places everywhere...
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
With each
CLICK
Our breath is held
Will he,won't he
Will he, won't he
The suspense is killing me
And....SHIT
Door left open still
Pestered by the plebeian chill
In this gay little coffee shop
Surrounded by the unrecognised talent of Brighton:sketch artist staring at me, writer on his laptop, songwriter etching vigorously with his pencil.
All of which aren't closing the door.
The eyes roll.
Labouring my body up, hammering my legs across the floor, turning the factory handle.
All is ask is for some carrot cake,filtrate water,polo jumpers, avocado salads,tiger bread, slimmer trousers, slipper sock , a toyger.
Click
And then images of Kim Jong un pass through my head.
If I ruled you'd all be dead
Firing squad for an open door,
Loud music on the train'll be no more.
Stop the screaming misbehaving brats
The rabble of Spanish students
All this PC stuff on the news, train seats filled with cans of *****
Suddenly
The artist strolls up
Let's down his cup.
Closes the door swiftly
And slips back in his chair
Oh, so there is a god.
I guess Jesus didn't lie.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
.#metoboot.
X O X
O X O
X X O
who the ****
was i supposed
to be calling?
#: but there's no
phone-number
and there's no
telephone...
let me just call up
a trend...
a meme...
funny funny...
not so funny...
it's still amazing
how existence drags
essence along with itself...
and that
essence is neither
a priori, nor a posteriori,
to compensate
existence,
being neither of the two.
since why should
existence be a priori
to essence,
or why essence
should be a posteriori
to existence...
oh... wait...
why essence should be
a posteriori to existence?
that part...
so why does the notion
of knowledge exist,
or the fact that some
100 year old old ****
gives life advice
about how he has
a 20 year old lover,
and he shoots a down trip
of ***** of 1cl
each day?
it's still a drag experience,
no, not Brighton drag queens...
existence drags essence
into its ontological conclusion...
mors mater...
muttertod...
matka śmierć...
mother death;
and? last time i heard?
she's the ultimus virgo,
she's the (do you couple
adverbs with verbs,
or verbs with nouns
in german? can you couple
adverbs with verbs?
ah... ad- Latin prefix:
toward... sure... an adverb
+ a verb sounds better than
an adverb + noun) hence?
letzemaljungfrau,
ostatnia niewiasta,
the last (or the lasting) ******
she can't exactly fake
******* over someone
to a dead pulp of prior to
tadpole whipped / egg white
cream.
*
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
+
A bed-sits high and dry,marooned on a sandbank of night.
As radio 4-casts its nets to isolated ships like me that rudderless drift on into the light.
Still dark outside,no sounds,save the distant echoing bark of a hungry fox ----streets away.
Another dawn ripped blackbin bag of a day creeps and ouzes in
Heavy unfocused lids fogged in the steamy smokeyness of tea and a first fag
plenty of time plenty of time.
Time before the world wakes to the morning pips and its flushing, brushing, rushing sounds
A greyness gathers just beyound my pained curtains, as with a silent sigh a roosted blackbird clears its fasted throat.
Then as if by magic I 'm carried, scimming high above and beyound this mooring set in a silvered sea,on a welcomed mantra known to all.
As if a calling pray at day break,following each word in a moment subline
Un angle vole un angle vole.
Rockall - Malin - Hebrides
Humber - Fisher - German bight
Thames - Dover - Wight.
Each single secert understood and noted only by a few as I glide over in paced, pausey surf rolling words
North northeast - 994 - Falling slowly - Low pressure moving away - Gales 8 very poor - Backing 3-4 later - Mainly good - Becoming variable - Syclonic later - Increasing 6-7 mainly west - Swally showers for a time - Fair - Good.
Oh so good, each pure English comforting sounds heard over lapping waves of air.
The bushy wet nosed fox sulks and cowers away from the breaking sun, as the blackbird draws a dewdropped breath though golden nib and tapping gently, call a hidden choir into song just for me.
Reminding me of the things I'd for gotten I care about.
Sharp timed unwelcomed pips flood the ears to prise open sticky eyes from promised dreams and spoon-cuddles warm
As I set forth on wetted pavements, ready to decline into my charted day.
Yet smiling as if blessed and no longer alone
But filled with early morning salty thoughts of strangers
I
have
yet
to
meet
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
When I saw you and our eyes met,
Something sort of sparked,
You had me lost, captivated,
Our talking didn't stop,
You took my hand and showed me,
The world in another light,
Held me on the beach,
To keep me warm that night.
The night was over way to fast,
I wish it never stopped,
I lost my heart on Brighton beach,
It's a stone there being washed.
I took a train to see you,
And you made time for me,
I fell for you deeper and you told me you loved me,
My stomach did somersaults,
My heart could of stopped,
You actually took my breath away as you tied my throat in knots.
The magic didn't last though,
Off course it never does,
If you believe in fairy tales,
You're in for a shock.
I saw the way he looked at me,
He passed it into her,
His time for me grew smaller and I knew it was lost.
I asked what was happening,
He lied for a week,
Too coward to break the heart of a girl like me.
He told me I was crazy,
I made the whole thing up,
All the while that ***** was gargling on his ****
I hope to never fall in love,
For my soul mate I've lost,
I don't want to be ripped up again,
For paper I am not.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
I arrive at the barbers
for my weekly, my usual,
and you are there,
sitting in my seat
crying. I lift you up,
cape and all,
take you round the
corner, where you tell
me you are sorry
but we have to go to
Brighton now, even
though it is 6pm on
a Friday and we won’t
be done until 2pm
tomorrow. Is it a ruse?
I think so, because
suddenly we are in a
part of London that
looks like Montmartre
(or it could be Richmond
masquerading as Venice)
and we meet a man
called Tricks who says
he’s the new chief now
because he knows the
location of all the bones.
And then there are
scanners at airports,
walk-in health centres,
families in North Carolina
with names like Kayleigh
and Shauna. And when
we are done meeting
them we are back, you
in the chair, glowing blue
under barbicide lights.
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 4:10 AM UTC
I met Netanya
at the rail station
it was January and cold
and she was dressed up
in the blue overcoat
and headscarf
and I was
in my combat style
overcoat and hat
you made it ok?
I said
yes he asked
where I was going
and I said
for a walk to get him
out of my head
she said
we got tickets
and boarded a train
and off we went
to Brighton
the carriage was crowded
but we seemed alone
or so it felt to me
will he imagine you
going to Brighton?
no he won't think anything
too busy watching TV
and drinking his beer
she said
she held my hand
and talked of her kids
and her father
who wasn't well
and looking forward
to meeting you
she added
I looked at her
as she spoke
her hair dark and curled
her eyes bright as stars
we made it to Brighton
and got off the train
and walked down
to the seafront
hand in hand
the sky dark
stars
moon
and lights from shops
and pier
and somewhere
out there
I thought
another life
another world
buzzes on
while here we walked on
along the seafront
taking in the scene
the smell of salt
and sound of sea
crashing on the shore
and her hand small
warm in mine
and the sense
of life going on around
and I feeling
(oh)so fine.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
That last time in Brighton
Back in 1980 was a dead
Lost. The old haunts seemed
Changed, the restaurants
Closed or changed hands,
The seafront less friendly,
Less romantic, the glamour
Gone, all high dreams spent.
Pity really we ever went.
But we did, you at least,
Trying to bring it back to life
That old love, that closeness,
That cold-night rush-to-coast
By train romance, that last
Time just memory, being put
To rest, I guess. Even that crap
Hotel had closed down where
We made love on those *****
Weekends, where one midday,
We unconcerned about that
Office block across the way,
With office workers, maybe
Spying, as we had *** that day.
Yes, the last time in Brighton
Was a lost cause; even the sad
Photographs we had taken there
Showed the dead love in faces
And eyes. The clicking camera,
Someone once said, never lies.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
Gazing south as if some wise, well worn fisherman,leaning against the wroughted railed pier in all its victorian, gordy, standing, splendor.
Warmed and held by the summer sun as close as shared spoon-cuddled arms.
On thermal air, calls and laughter rise from towelled steaked plots
blinding and shading the razor sharp hungry sea-gulls eye from flakey white flesh in all its golden battered salt-shuck sharpness,
competeing on the nose with hand-held melting creamyness, as they waft and weave gently by.
Below the slatted sound , the magic hypnotic spell of lapping waves lift and tilt me on a day dream of youthful lost love.
To a day we made our sun run in all its lazyness, dimming the enviour moon in its wake and kissing still the hands on the pasty-face black towering clock
As time slipped way and was some where else.
With worn drift wood and tingleling toes you defaced the sand with a graphity the council tryed but couldn't erace.
And there it lies still, benieth the smooth pebbled shore,
kissed each day with salty tears and remembered sighs.
A fearful screaming siren pieces the soft English air, Its doppled blast, chilling, pushing, demanding its screeching way through the brain, to some others pained, tear filled day,
then fades on the breeze.
A sun blushed child frowns through pink Brighton rock lips and eyes as blue as the sea, a secert smile is shared as if in that innocence I knew that one magic day she will run on skipping painted toes and giggles sweet to etch for him in soft blank sand her love on this dreamy day beach.
So off the sea and off the pier I strole, absorbed and lost among the tripping faced crowd,into the sun dipped west and home alone.
Yet knowing you will remain forever mine, held in crystal dimonded grains, whilst around the bitter -sweet changing tides ebb and flow
down
through
the
years.
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 1:41 AM UTC
I'll go along with the thought, 'work makes you strong' just as long as I can
but,
sometimes, I feel pooped and can't jump through the hoops and that's when the dreaming kicks in for this man.
I spin in the frame of life's arcade type game and I'm lost in the wheels,
it feels
like,
riding a bike and not watching the street but meeting the idols I'd most like to meet,
like,
Gulliver,Gilbert and Sullivan,Jimmy Durante,Popeye the sailor and the Tailor of Gloucester,
lost in the throng and unaware of time carrying on,I get older,no wiser,no miser am I,
I give my dreams freely to those I love dearly.
This arcade game plays on though the moment is lost, and reality arrives if only to remind me, that life goes along and in it you'll find me,playing the machines,winning more dreams,sailing through the streams of unconsciousness.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:00 AM UTC
I'm Bored in Brighton
Can't you see?
I'm locked here in this mansion
with just my family.
I'm Bored in Brighton
Yes, I've traipsed the streets
From Church to Bay to Hampton
I've jogged along the beach!
I'm Bored of Brighton
The Daimler's in the drive
The staff? Well they've just up and gone
All this to stay alive?
I'm Bored of Brighton
The twins are going mad.
And Rupert? Rupert's all a-moan
It's just so terribly sad!
I'm Bored of Brighton
The cavoodle looks a fright!
O heck! O no! It can't be so!
My Lulu's ...they're slightly tight!
I'm Bored with Brighton
You people are the pitts!
Try Lockdown in a high rise
And don't give us the pip!
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 7:30 PM UTC
I tip my hat to Kierkegaard
Who was there when things were hard,
To Mr. Hofstadter
Loading my cannon with fodder,
To Willie Yeats
Who showed me my poetic cognates,
To the Buddha
Who, mentally being a barracuda,
Illuminated what patience really means,
To Graham Greene's
"Brighton Rock"'s influence on Morrissey,
Which made me smile at the sea
And recognize "in my own life
What Robert Browning meant
By an old hunter talking with Gods;
But I am not content."
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
By Petal Pie and Sverre G. Holter.
These oceans are named Between.
Yes, I know them all.
They've separated me before
By water's solid wall.
*But I imagine when I
Jump and make a splash
At my local Brighton beach
That ripple travels
To your shore so
You're never out of reach!*
And at these rugged shores
That ripple reaches land.
As good as any letter penned,
A wave; an outstretched hand.
*Like a message in a bottle
I hope it reaches you
Every nuance of my love and care
Dripped in oceans blue*
Much more comfort in that
Bottle, than the one before
Me now. Its insides shared
With me; still I am emptier
...somehow.
*Well you can't run on empty
So let me fill your cup
With seashells whispers
Wisdom pearls
And jellied joy to
Fill you up*
A whispered wish
An uttered prayer.
That space that pushes
Here from there to
Disappear; give room for
Place to share as lair,
There's places everywhere...
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
Brighton
that last time
late August
1980
treading
the familiar streets
looking
for the lost love
you drained
looking
for the way out
she
holding on
to what was left
walking along
by the beach
remembering old times
especially
the first time
in evening’s glow
of moon’s light
and heart’s hold
knowing all that
is bereft
even the old restaurants
have gone
or closed
their doors
you sensing
the emptiness
the slipping away
of the love
she clutching
at straws
of familiar places
and old time
memories
even places
where once
you’d stood
embracing
and kissing
now hollow
with that
secret love
missing
street after street
passing hotels
you’d made love in
and slept
the night
and laid in bed
now shallow palaces
with empty rooms
instead
she thinking
something could
be saved
you knowing
all is dead.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:12 AM UTC
her endless summer dream
gathers dust on its sand encrusted photo of
beach blanket love affairs
jet planes departing for distant lands
she had her five and dime sunglasses
and a transistor radio
tuned to the cheerful forever summer song
still has that picture of her in the fall of 66
hamming it up for the camera with her Stanley
he passed a while back
now she shuffles up along the seawall
with her big hat and her bags
candy for little ones
a kiss on the cheek for the nice
young man who brings the paper
its miami in febuary
its endless summer
its brighton beach's southside
and i know ill have to stay
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Even in the train it is cold.
Netanya snuggles closer to me,
her eyes searching me,
her hand clutching mine.
Had a job getting out,
she says.
Does he know
where you are going?
No, I just said
I was going out.
Was he suspicious.
Who cares?
She breathes out,
her breath like smoke;
it fills our area
of the carriage.
Why Brighton?
I like it there;
it reminds me
of my childhood.
She lays her head
on my shoulder,
her hand holding mine;
warmth moving
through mine.
Outside it is dark;
evening sky menacing.
How are things?
We rowed,
we always row.
I look at her hair
on my shoulder,
dark, wavy.
Won't going out
for so long
make things worse?
I hope so;
I hope he moves out,
hope he moves away.
What about the kids?
They'll understand,
kids do;
they like you.
I look out
at the passing view,
lights in the distance
from passing
villages or towns,
trees swimming past.
We arrive at Brighton rail station,
get out the train
and walk into the town
hand in hand.
We must come here
and stay the weekend.
When?
When we can.
I look at her beside me.
She's serious.
What would he say?
He'll say nothing.
He thinks it's just
a mid-life crisis
and I’ll get over it.
We walk down
to the seafront;
the wind and cold
biting at us.
The sea's rough.
I like it rough,
I like to sense
nature's power,
she says,
snuggling
close to me.
We go into a shelter
and sit down
in the semi-dark.
We kiss and embrace.
No one is about.
It seems far
from my usual world,
kind of surreal.
Her lips are on mine.
Feel her pulse.
Her living through me
and I through her;
I feel along her back,
feeling the smooth coat
she is wearing;
my fingers sensing
and imaging
what ever is beneath.
We sit there
for what seems hours,
kissing, holding,
looking out
at the rough sea.
Was I being
someone else
or was I just
being me?
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC
Occhi verdi come il silenzio, ostinati nel vuoto di forme angeliche e trasparenti. Finti giroscopici frammenti moltiplicati a dare geometrica forma al mare. Bianchi cristalli fragili ed invisibili. Osservo le onde, le persone e la musica. Ubriaco di volti e suoni. Incastonati nella mia storia. Semplici ed incomprensibili.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
I walk in splendid isolation along the tops of
My south country hills
As usual the Mollie dog at my side
The lashing rain has kept all but the most intrepid
Sitting in the cosy warmth of their homes
They're happy to breath warm stale air
But what I'm breathing is cold and fresh
To my right the tourist traps of Brighton and Worthing
To my left the beautiful expance of the Sussex Weald
Would I want to be somewhere else?
NO
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
Look upon the shanty town of plenty town
where 'those'
people live and those who have will
seldom give,
In shanty town we barely survive on
humbleness and outright lies.
Look,
now comes the infantry,
marching three by three.
What is it that they see ?
but more and more,
they've seen it all a
thousand times before,
poverty in every doorway.
No gay hussars ,these infantry,
they come not to set 'those' people free
but to shoot them down.
The don in his board and gown may
be bright and know a deal
but this is the place where his
hypothesis is real and lives are at stake.
In Oxford where they take a break from studies
which the privileged make their own,then
go home and make some English tea,
I guess that's being free, for a fee, but
we don't want no chi
We
Just want a chance to fly as high as others ,who
in shanty town would want to do the same?
From Belize or from Tobruk,Brighton,Glasgow
we don't give a flying... tuck your
wings in guys and watch the bullets fly,
watch your dreams die
hear your kids cry
nothing's changed except
the rules.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
brighton,
you made me feel
like less of a cage
for one night
my bars were branches
i have since, however,
thrown away the key.
you,
wore your heart on your knee
we spent three months
in bed
until i found you
washing your sheets
of me.
11am,
you made me impulsive
i knew nothing but your name
we shared our skin for three & a half hours
until i faked a text
and rushed to leave.
one night stand,
and sit,
and all fours,
we were eachothers last resort
it seemed
the whole time
i felt like the aftermath of a catherine wheel
all my charred skin wanted
was to find something for breakfast.
we
found comfort together
2-3 nights a week
only,
momentary comfort left me
with uncomfortable shame
maybe that's why i never said your name
always tried to hide my face.
promised land,
your arms were meant to be a haven
i was supposed to find god in you
we ought to have been scripture
but i am not a holy temple
and i stopped praying years ago.
october
you made me shine
from across the bar
it didn't take you long
to get me into a taxi
didn't take you long
to stain my skin
didn't take me long to let you in
now every time i see you
i know i'll never be clean
again.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:18 PM UTC
Where the sea-gulls hang in the sea
and chatter always
Where the water is fresh enough
to thump in your heart
like a new body
shaking when you leave
Where they still sing and wait for your return
where we find life and shape and humour
in this life
like a hand in the dark that’s a friend
guiding your palms over your work in the
different homes that guide you in
and away
as green life shatters against
the waves
And jack-knifes when you take your eyes off
for just one second or ounce
of time
of all the pearls that have been found
by the men and women who know how to dive down
of the cost we hang around them when polished
and no longer wet
of the joy carrying of them to the person
you found them for
A gift
rolls back to the waves
to where it was taken
in the smile
upon the neck of that person
Looking good enough to dive back for
and eat on a perfect neck
anytime
they’re worn
and seen by the warm hands
that placed them
just
there
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
Brighton on the seafront is shining like a silver dollar in the sun
And she is dancing to the rhythm of the seagulls and imaginary bass drums
It is winter, should be colder but the gentle breeze is warm
All around her is her own hair like the breakers of some pre-raphaelite storm
I see Bassie Gracie, Brighton by the sea, hey Gracie
She plays reggae, she plays ska, she plays jazz,
she loves them all, hey Gracie
I am walking back along the sea front, back the way we've come
The sun's kiss grows weaker and I miss her but that doesn’t get me down
For the rhythm of her baselines entwine the ripped fabric of my mind
And every time I see those breakers I'll remember that pre-raphaelite storm
I saw Bassie Gracie, Brighton by the sea, hey Gracie
She plays reggae, she plays ska, she plays jazz,
she loves them all, hey Gracie
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 5:23 AM UTC