"brogues" poems
Barefoot, blistered and bleeding
She wanders in from the street
People stare, flabbergasted
Very odd, unheard of in fact
She doesn’t know her size
So like Cinderella, she tries them on
Randomly selecting pretty colours
Silvery, glittery heels
She twirls for the mirror
Sales assistant sighs
Wellingtons for the garden
If she had one!
Satin ice skates
She would glide on the icy pond
Pretty sandals
To feel the sand between her toes
Boring, black brogues
Perfect!
With no pennies in her pocket
She wanders back to the street
Barefoot, blistered and bleeding
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:59 AM UTC
He dreamed he was loved.
A love guarded fiercely, with passion.
A love that was not unconditional.
Not the blank slate love of a child
or an animal so programmed by instinct.
This love was willful and earned.
Having glimpsed an injured brilliance
beneath the flab and sweat and stench she weaned it to health.
Making it stronger, and brighter,
and more prominent with each passing day; until it erupted.
And he was transformed.
to embody that brilliance.
And she protected that embodiment.
Letting nothing call it to question.
She cared for him as he never could for himself.
She soothed and softened
and loved the deep furrow from his brow.
And her passion overwhelmed him.
And he wanted for nothing.
And when he opened his eyes
To **** and filth
with only the kiss of concrete
and the banter of horns
and obscenities
and footsteps.
******* FOOTSTEPS.
Heels pittering purposefully to mask exhausted uncertainty
Brogues, and wingtips clicking; with a cocky juvenile illusion of importance.
Boots plodding heavily under the weight of duty,
to build, and fix, and secure for the others.
And through a fog laid thick and throbbing
by poisons chased dutifully the night before;
he felt her fierce love for a fleeting moment
Guarding, and loving his shining brilliance
until it erupted from him;
With bile and blood, **** and regret
coldly rejected by his concrete companion.
And she was gone once again.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 11:04 AM UTC
horns squawk
rainforest avenues
exoskeleton
of cars
arteries clogged
with unlovely taxi cabs
fat green fruit
for sale
five languages
merge into a knot
hisses kiss vowels
kiwis apples pears
black guys basketball
debt rises like blood pressure
stocks tumble
but we walk
brogues clop on concrete
count brick after brick
sun cascades
over roof slates
mind cracks in slabs
(you say
Monroe stood here)
heat quivers
men are dominoes
suits for the office
a funeral
designer sneakers
daddy paid for
pigtails cheap thrills
violet octagons
on a stranger’s neck
(behind the closed doors)
today
I drink purple water
aubergine lips
remind me
of a Tuscany Superb
list the names
Houston Charlton
Leroy Sullivan
Perry Cornelia
Dominick and Jane
(ladders lead
away from me
close to
you)
and back again
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
You don't wear black face.
You'd never do such.
You don't wear white face;
Do you Kabuki?
Mime, non? Mime, oui?
But every March,
Millions of others,
Attired in green,
Some painted like Celtic warriors,
Affect terrible brogues,
And get sotted, some must disgracefully.
That's what the Irish do, think they?
I won't wear a yarmulke on Yom Kippur,
Not a burka on Eid al-Adha,
Or lead the parade
Up Fifth Avenue.
Slainte
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC
I woke ahead of the morning,
for reasons I hardly know.
I clad myself in fancy clothes
but for reasons I hardly know.
I put on a tie - attempted a knot
but failed as I waste more time.
I look at my clock, I look at my watch,
Wonder why it did not chime.
I gulp a steaming cup of espresso,
a shot of adrenaline pumped briskly,
I took my phone, dashed out quickly,
I then forgot my keys.
Found them seep in between the couch,
I had to sweat it out.
Crumpled shirt and an unbalanced tie
I foresee a morning shout.
I ignore a typical Monday dusk,
as I put on my cotton socks,
Slipped my toes into my brogues,
I took one last look at the clock.
I still had time, it is still early,
Perhaps a cigarette before I drive,
I lit one up, minty inhale,
the sun has started to rise.
I rushed in the car, started the engine,
and put my gear to reverse.
I zoom right out my greasy gate,
My tires, all four of them, bursts.
I took one look in the mirror,
I knew it's down the drain,
I might as well call in sick,
and tell my boss it's the rain.
Who would believe that all four tires,
would deflate so quickly at once?
It sounds like a bad joke by a bad comedian,
not believable - like a very bad pun.
I took one last look at my watch,
It's way past 'possible' o-clock.
I left the car to fend for itself,
I went into the house without my socks.
I jumped right back into my silky bed,
happy to see my five pillows.
I am not excited it's the start of the week,
but Tuesday can never be this mellow.
I shut the window, pulled the blinds,
Sleep deprived made me berserk.
"Mundane Monday", "Monday blues",
Whatever...you're the one at work.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
Hear the languished drip of water
See the velvet grass in glade,
Beech trees stilled in chill of morning
Textured blend of contrasts made.
Still, I crouch, in rough tweed jacket
Brown brogues scuffed and fern in hair
Whiskers twitch as rabbit pauses
Rifle aimed at bright eyed stare.
Moment freezes animation
Breathless in the misty pall,
Shocking bang as bullet flies
Blue smoke masks the writhing fall.
Silence caps a deathly moment,
Crunching steps retrieve the game,
Swinging for the breakfast kitchen
Roasted rabbit in the frame.
M.
Foxglove farm
Taranaki
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC
I do not think much my place upon this earth,
I am second, and you are first,
and when your voice is louder than mine
it is a familiar for me to sink and recline
into my chair, wilful to listen
to your unappealing, witted opinion
and programmed flair -
from which your talent glistens,
and has always been there.
Oh to be part of your vision.
I walk comfortable in high heeled shoes
that inscribe me a waggling soft tongue,
and when your pace is faster than mine
in brogues, and trousers that are looser,
I am simply undone,
at your ease to summon as the prime task-caster
of more tasks to come.
Your achievements are set with a slapped wet plaster.
Oh that you share a crumb.
And when you laugh, it is a big bellied echo
that chimes in my throat to strike and produce,
a small bit of fruit, just for you.
As I mimic your billow in an octave but lower,
that feels like part of the very same tune,
but my chuckle is actually a choke,
and what I could say would only provoke.
Oh you laugh much harder than me.
My almond eyes are softer than yours
and in the day you lock them only for an answer,
to some chore which requires a limited goal -
don’t get me wrong – I am no prancer,
my shoes are far too tight, and I’ve been taking the toll
of your papers, your personal sciv, your faxer.
A sniffing, weezling mole.
Oh I could dig deeper…
You **** much harder than me.
And when you *** you look in the mirror
at yourself in white unbuttoned shirt, heavy brow, so chipper
that when your sun sets it does in a vulvonic decree,
but you do not know that when I go home, I secretly scissor
in a way that would make your morning clippers shake violently.
Oh I love much harder than you,
I am better than you,
but somehow you are better than me.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
The story of you is a picture to my ears
of you being a bit of a pup,
wearing headphones to mass,
driving the same priest mad
who later showed you how to play a bodhran in an empty church.
Imagine the happening of it
of you, standing in an empty field
looking at a well, wondering hard
how the water got to be there
or your eyes circling wider
in memory of seeing
and touching girls yonis for the first time
you'd say “Ah Mam,
I don't want to go to Greaney's for shoes”
was Mr Greaney's dark and cold
with shelves packed thick with damp boxes,
white labels marking styles and sizes,
N for navy, B for brown, brogues, sensible,
that would have all the boys in school laughin at ya,
your ma pressin hard on the toes
to make sure you've a bit of room to grow into?
you talked to me late at night,
of young ones and of passing the seed.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
It’s 1:30am and we were at a cute little dance club in Dublin called “The Sugar Club.” It’s a converted movie theater with tables in stadium seating rows. That night was Salsa themed, and the regulars were stylin’ - the men dressed in white Havana or Colima, Italian Linen and women in bright salsa dresses.
The DJ was mixing a gr8 groove - with music from Bassia, Brazilian Girls, Kate the Cat, with some ElectroSwing thrown in from Tape Five, Pink Martini and Doja Cat (Yes, I asked the DJ for his playlist). The tiny, darkly-disco-sparkling dance floor was crowded and refrigerator cold.
We had a good time. Irish guys are funny and unpredictable, they’ll say practically anything, “Shall I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?” and those brogues make everything they say spankin’ hot.
We all danced a few times, but Sunny’s a gwyn who never seemed to tire. Guys kept asking her to dance and she seemed happy to oblige - I would have collapsed already.
There was a dead-fit guy, Rían, throwing a strong Chris Evans vibe, who seemed completely smitten with Sunny. He seemed a real dean but he didn’t 404 that Sunny’s femme-facing and that he might as well be offering lettuce to a shark.
We’d discussed the possibility that things might come up and decided to avoid delicate public acts of disclosure (Sunny’s gay, Leong’s a communist, etc..) - we’re trespassing different cultures on this trip, after all.
We explained to Rían that we were students, just in town for the Duran Duran concert, and consoled him with a couple of “Black & Golds” (Kahlua, whiskey and orange bitters) - he was a LOT of fun to talk to.
The bartender asked me if I was one of the colleens with “Margot Robbie” - he was referring to Lisa - which Anna found amusing - but I think Lisa’s way phater than Margot.
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 3:32 PM UTC
He’s got natural rhythm, a girl in a red dress, a suit of clothes, a hat and a silk vest,
A set of brogues, a packet of cigarettes, a 20 dollar bill with no regrets.
He’s got a fast mouth, a slick deck of cards, chequered blues and a V8 ford;
He’s got jazz, gospel, and ragtime too: a carpet bag and a jug for *****
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik!
He’s got it, he’s got Jake,
His feet will roam from town to town.
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik, Sheik!
He’s the devil with a big black snake,
Your feet may never leave this town; not alive anyway!
For he’s on the board walk,
She’s on the board walk,
We’re on the board walk now!
He’s got mojo, see him switch and walk, a winning smile, a stick of chalk,
He’s a hot shot, man about town, his skin is sweet and his eyes are brown,
He’ll strut that rooster, beat them gums, take cash or cheque before she comes.
He’s got jazz, gospel, ragtime too, a carpet bag and a jug for *****
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik!
He’s got it, he’s got Jake,
His feet will roam from town to town,
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik, Sheik!
He’s the devil and no mistake
Your feet may never leave this town; not alive anyway!
For he’s on the board walk,
She’s on the board walk,
We’re on the board walk now!
Song Link: https://youtu.be/l5papPgYaBc
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
I want to dance in Ireland
in crowded pubs with rose-faced men
drinking my sanity with whisky, wine or gin.
I’d listen to angelic brogues spin
cherished tales, which they’ll profess yet again
oh, how I want to dance in Ireland,
amidst such folks I call my kin
whose natural pride is celebrated then
I will drink back my sanity with whisky, wine or gin.
my euphoric state of ecstasy will win
my senses from my limbs like a nervous linemen
yet, I want to dance in Ireland.
like the rest of my swaggering friends
I hope to be three sheets to the wind.
for I will drink my sanity with whiskey, wine or gin.
and in good company my lips will curl to grin
certain of such happiness when
life has brought me Irishmen
thankful to finally dance in my sweet Ireland.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 4:26 PM UTC
I am more than my shoes,
Even the brown brogues I wear
Day in day out to work and which
Are rubbed smooth on the soles.
I am more than the cheap-end shirts
That hide my ******* and that you
Frown at, openly, at the shop, the park,
On the bus after a long day.
I am more than the number zero
That you can see, and the underwear
That you can’t, although that
Doesn’t stop you asking.
I am tough or tender, depending
On who we are and what you mean to say.
I am hard in places you have no need of,
And soft in those you don’t think I know.
I am butch, and I have blended every
Ill word, and unkind glance into the step
Of my swagger and the spread of my legs,
And the pride I put into loving my woman.
I am butch; I wear it on my sleeves,
And my calloused hands. The word is sewn
Into the hem every pair of jeans I own,
As it is on the inside of my thick skin.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
You and I are revolutionaries
Right up to the ruckus we cause daily
Switchblade tongues
And coal black lungs
And bittersweet intentions.
We are the voice of a generation
We the Degenerates
We the Proletariats
We the Lost and Found among the wreckage of the millennial metropolis.
Living in our forever 21 society
Governed by no laws and lack of sobriety
We the reckless
We the ruthless
We the key board warriors
Pixels and manic pixie dream girl *******
**** boys, man buns, Jordan's not brogues
We the soulless love makers
We the relentless heartbreakers
We the snapchat sexters, molesters
We the grotesque.
You and I know no boundaries
Lines crossed and used as skipping ropes
As ***** jokes, cut throat and savage
We the endless trouble makers
We who know the end is nigh
Hiccuping our ways through orchestrated lies
Screaming and bellowing our silent pleas to this world of terror alight
Setting fire to ourselves daily
We the terrified
We the unjustifiable
We the hopeful sad
We the gods of everything and nothing
We the repercussion of double standards
140 characters in every psalm
We the unforgiving
We the unholy
We the non believers
We the incomprehensible in the face of sin
You and I are not recognised by x or Y
We identify in binary with the wind and the stars
Honest realisation that our little lives are insignificant to the monologue of the universe
Lighthearted libertines light years ahead and behind
We the star struck
We the scientists and academics
We the prophets
The artisans
The beauty queens
The mystics and cynics
And I am the voice of a generation you rendered speechless
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
Occasionally, fashion shows start late because the designer is still working on the collection. There are some persnickety types out there who would happily keep tinkering until it’s markdown time.
Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli decided they would throw in the towel whenever they felt each item in their spring collection was finished just enough to reveal the beauty of the craftsmanship at the heart of a couture house like Valentino. They explained that they had borrowed the concept from the “Unfinished: Thoughts Left Visible” exhibition at the Met Breuer in New York, which showcased some 500 years of paintings still in progress.
The highfalutin’ explanation had one searching for examples beyond the brogues with exposed staples and undyed edges they plucked off a table backstage. But apart from a bit of sagging lining here and a few dangling threads there, here was a collection with that familiar Valentino polish.
The camouflage coats and military-influenced ensembles had a sense of deja vu, too, albeit with more irregular splotches and ruff-hewn embroideries. What felt newer were the monochromatic ensembles, layers of featherweight coats and zippered shirt jackets tucked into tapered trousers. They came in Army green, a deep blue or black — the latter peppered with silver grommets — and were chic from start to finish.Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
At the rumble of a badger's yawn
At the crack of a sparrow's ****
At the pang of his weakened bladder
That's when he makes his start
With the scrape of greying stubble
With the shine of derby brogues
With a perfect Windsor knot
That's how my husband rolls
At the slam of the paneled door
At the echo of a muttered curse
At the march of polished steps
It's then that I emerge
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
My old man
was always
neat and tidy.
Brylcreemed hair
(what was left),
smart suit,
shiny shoes,
brown brogues,
well trimmed moustache,
staring eyes.
Get your best shirt
and trousers on,
we're going to see
this new Jeff Chandler film,
Western, and put on
that bow-tie I bought you
and make sure
your shoes are shiny,
he said.
I went and got changed
and put on the bow-tie
he bought(how I hated
that thing) and shoes
buffed to a shine of sorts,
short trousers,
the next to best,
and I was ready,
kissing mother
on the way out.
We went in the cinema
a 1/3 of the way through
the first feature,
sat in the seats,
his eyes fixed
on the screen,
I looking around
to see who was in
and who was who.
I looked at him
beside me;
the neat moustache,
well trimmed,
the eyes watching
the screen,
a cigarette between lips,
smoke rising.
I recalled the time
at another cinema,
another film,
another Western,
and we were ¾
the way through,
when he ups
and leaves
in a sudden rush.
I watched the screen
and chewed the popcorn,
thinking the old man
had gone to the bog,
an adult thing
or so I thought.
Then 5 minutes after
a young usherette
came and found me
and said:
your father's with the medics
in the foyer,
he had a choking fit.
Poor guy,
I thought,
him sat there
blue and white,
not having had a ****
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
I wore the last present you bought me for the last day of 2014 -
A pair of brown leather brogues.
and it’s funny, because they blistered my toes and made walking agony.
Prehaps it was payback for walking all over you
Like you were a piece of **** an ironic message.
You did always hate feet -
Maybe it’s not just feet anymore
Maybe its me
A.R
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
Lovers entwined, like venomous snakes poised to strike.
The fascination draws them in, the magnetism enthralls. Her blue eyes, his laughter... together they are separate in their dreams of becoming one.
A lost gem he seeks,
she watches as the
flowers bloom.
The brown brogues shine once again, his suit expertly pressed, aftershave's applied... Steven is no longer just a Friday man; his time has arrived.
Old memories are tossed aside as the color of life reappears.
Passion strikes like Cupids arrow.... tomorrow is forgotten, yet their future is crystal clear.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 3:08 AM UTC
I chanced on her
In line at Giant Tiger,
A familiar haunt.
Her pose reminded me
Of a girl with
The bearing of old money,
And steady Oxford brogues
That walked home from the Village
Speaking ****** thoughts
With little thnking.
She removed her wallet to pay
With hands that once
Tied ribbons and wrote love letters,
Cooked and loved her family,
Enjoyed stability.
The line moved
And she dropped her card.
Such strange, familiar manners
When she stooped.
The waterfall hair line
Showed sun-worship thinning.
The transaction completed,
She turned to exit,
Without glancing back,
This all too
Familiar stranger.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
There's nothing left of me here,
only the ghosts appear,
they've barricaded themselves
in the abandoned buildings,
I see them peeking out.
The cities voices, familiar, shout,
even as they whisper.
There's nothing left of me here
or my ears would blister,
like they used to.
It used to be: find today's food for all,
then dinner from the bins
and tonight squatting the old school.
Being homeless is a full time job,
ruled by desperation and The Law of Sod.
From the street, the city stands naked,
free of it's dazzling attire.
Underneath all the buildings,
the foundations of history,
is the same boggy mire
(from which it sprang)
I wrote poems on these pavements,
some, simply, political statements, in colour,
but there's nothing left of me here,
the slabs have all faded, once again grey,
and this is all I have to say:
The city didn't notice that I've been missing,
it was lost in it's lovers arms, kissing,
a Time Immemorial embrace;
oranges & lemons
and the finest of lace,
a commercial covenant
with The Man With No Face.
The entire space was built
on the idea of exploitation.
There's nothing left of me here,
I left along the road of alienation.
A bankers brogues tread on beggars hands;
actually, this here is private land,
property of The City of London.
Well, I'm ******* gone, son.
There's nothing left of me here,
I'm done.
Nov 19, 2019
Nov 19, 2019 at 6:56 AM UTC
I have left behind all aquiescence, disrobed past
motives of pleasing the crowd.
I no longer dress in former passivity and never
defend any conformity.
Compliance, from now on, is simply not me.
For sanity's sake I sent flat brogues to charity
centres and became re-invented.
Circumventing subservience and any pretence
I wear independence boldly.
To any lesser degree of non-submissiveness my
control I shall never release.
Men refer to me now as "Miss Self-Assurance"
in tight nets and high heels.
So better not mess with my new-found feeling
on pure contumaciousness.
I might resent it, wear your ties for my garters
and not be too nice.
Beware this flighty new woman is known to bite.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
Ingrid's words
were muffled
when she spoke to me
by Dunn's hat shop
where we said
we'd meet
the day before
her thick lip
(where he father
had backhanded her)
moved slowly
does you dad
wear hats?
she asked
looking in
the shop window
no
I said
never seen him
ever wear a hat
not even to cover
his balding head
she looked
at the passing traffic
what happened to you?
I asked
pointing to her lip
my dad didn't like
the way I brushed
my hair
he said it was
too tartish
whatever that means
she said
tapping her
recently brushed hair
I tried to get out
of his way
but he caught me
with a backhand
I’m going
to the cinema
this afternoon
I said
there's a cowboy film on
and I want to see
how the good guy
draws out his gun
he does it
by crossing over
his hands
could I come?
she asked
Mum might give me
9d for a ticket
as long as Dad
doesn't know
she added
sure
I said
come to my flat
after lunch
we walked down
the subway
to get
to St George's Road
to walk along
to Bedlam Park
to try out
the swings there
and buy an ice cream
outside the swimming pool
(money I'd been given
by my old man
for polishing
his brown brogues)
I studied her
as we walked along
she talking
of her old man's temper
and how he punched
her mother
for letting
his dinner get cold
I noticed her
faded grey dress
the flowers red
against watery green stems
grey-white
ankle socks
black scuffed shoes
her thin hands
gesturing as she talked
and the slight smell
of dampness
as I neared her
the bruise
under her left eye
fading
like the morning sun
where her old man
had thumped her
for something
she hadn't done.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
At the rumble of a badger's yawn
At the crack of a sparrow's ****
At the pang of his weakened bladder
That's when he makes his start
With the scrape of greying stubble
With the shine of derby brogues
With a perfect Windsor knot
That's how my husband rolls
At the slam of the panelled door
At the echo of a muttered curse
At the march of polished steps
It's only then that I emerge
Feb 6, 2025
Feb 6, 2025 at 3:56 PM UTC
GOING BACK INTO THE LIGHT
Every year your memory
fading
'til you are nothing
more than
a figment of my imagination
than the man
you were
to me.
Photographs of you
in an old shoe box.
I can't bear to look
at them
size 9
brogues...tan...if I remember rightly
the photographs I mean
the shoes long gone
one at a seaside
sailing out to sea.
Each year I take a photo
out
( Polaroid of course
a craze of yours ).
Set it in the sun
let the summer eat into you
giving you back
to the light
that made you
when the shutter clicked.
Here you are
now
nothing but white
nothing but white.
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 10:15 AM UTC
Size 12,
I've put on a bit of weight
Certainly haven't grown,
But really, I've never been a size 12!
Shiny and new, worn once
Probably never to be worn again,
They will always be the shoes
I bought
To go to my mum's funeral in.
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 6:08 PM UTC