"newcastle" poems
god, just fill me
fill me with your love
fill me with yourself
fill me with anything thats not what i feel now
i know im selfish
im hoping you’re sad
hoping you’re distraught even
i hope you’ve cried
i hope you’ve mourned the things we never did
luna
no. no.
newcastle
edinburgh
god what’s the point
i hope you’re as sad as i am
worse ?
i hope i hope
i wish i wish
i wish tuesday never happened
the part where everything stopped
the part where the red string was cut
oh god, and writing this
writing this, i remember
“soulmate”, you said
“soulmate”, after such a short time
well if i am your soulmate, as you lied said
things will be okay
we’ll get back
back from the nothing
the red string was never cut
it has a knot, it got tangled
like the movie you never saw
that red string that ties us together
red as your hair
that red string
if you were right
you probably weren’t
it is tangled, never broken, never cut, always there
haha writing this
writing this has given me some sense of ****** up optimism
three poems in one day, god, how pathetic
all because of some **** you said in the early hours of the morning, delirious
delirious on us, just as i was
“soulmate”, you said
soulmate
I’ll hold on to that.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
When my father was a boy,
in the County of Tyrone,
His father owned a quarry
and he worked the fields of stone.
My Dad grew lean and hard
As he excavated stone
Yielding granite for stone carvers
And gravel aggregate for roads.
His hands grew strong and powerful
He had a muscular physique
He couldn’t read or write
But no one dared to call him weak.
When my Dad was in his twenties
He was working in the mines
Excavating British coal
at Newcastle on Tynes.
Later on in life
He was living in the “States”
Working in landscaping
on large Gold Coast estates.
When my Dad was in his fifties
He was digging graves by hand.
Once again in Fields of stone
a hard working Union man.
Each morning he’d rise early
And walk two miles to work
He never had an office
And he’d never be a clerk.
He rose to be a foreman
Working in that field of stone
And when darkness overtook him
It became his earthly home.
Now when I go visit him
I kneel and pray alone
Beside his Celtic Cross
standing in the field of stones.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^
<>
we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York
the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
you,
da Duke, Duke of York and
occasional poet...
in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,
occasionally
so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!
quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup
occasional
you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
technical,
who knows the Queens of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt
and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.
no, that is not a request,
naturally
<>
10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
Like Oedipus I am losing my sight.
LIke Judas I have done my wrong.
Their punishment is over;
the shame and disgrace of it
are all used up.
But as for me,
look into my face
and you will know that crimes dropped upon me
as from a high building
and although I cannot speak of them
or explain the degrading details
I have remembered much
about Judas -
about Judas, the old and the famous -
that you overlooked.
The story of his life
is the story of mine.
I have one glass eye.
My nerves push against its painted surface
but the other one
waiting for judgement
continues to see . . .
Of course
the New Testament is very small.
Its mouth opens four times -
as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster,
yet somehow man-made
held together by pullies
like the stone jaw of a back-hoe.
It gouges out the Judaic ground,
taking its own backyard
like a ****** daughter.
And furthermore how did Judas come into it -
that Judas Iscariot,
belonging to the tribe of Reuben?
He should have tried to lift him up there!
His neck like an iron pole,
hard as Newcastle,
his heart as stiff as beeswax,
his legs swollen and unmarked,
his other limbs still growing.
All of it heavy!
That dead weight that would have been his fault
. He should have known!
In the first place who builds up such ugliness?
I think of this man saying . . .
Look! Here's the price to do it
plus the cost of the raw materials
and if it took him three or four days
to do it, then, they'd understand.
They figured it weighed enough
to support a man. They said,
fifteen stone is the approximate weight
of a thief.
Its ugliness is a matter of custom.
If there was a mistake made
then the Crucifix was constructed wrong . . .
not from the quality of the pine,
not from hanging a mirror,
not from dropping the studding or the drill
but from having an inspriation.
But Judas was not a genius
or under the auspices of an inspiration.
I don't know whether it was gold or silver.
I don't know why he betrayed him
other than his motives,
other than the avaricious and dishonest man.
And then there were the forbidden crimes,
those that were expressly foretold,
and then overlooked
and then forgotten
except by me . . .
Judas had a mother
just as I had a mother.
Oh! Honor and relish the facts!
Do not think of the intense sensation
I have as I tell you this
but think only . . .
Judas had a mother.
His mother had a dream.
Because of this dream
he was altogether managed by fate
and thus he ***** her.
As a crime we hear little of this.
Also he sold his God.
2.6k
*one reason why you're not read with a volume you
expected, jedi-know-how, you'll be easily plagiarised.*
**when i first came to england i fell in love
with manchester united...
the 4 - 4 - 2 line-up**
peter schmeichel (dane goalkeeper),
then ooh aah cantona (eric cantona baseball cap),
original wembley white towers...
(white towers, charity shield
newcastle united)
so meh for the arch....
irwin... steve bruce... lee sharpe...
gary pallister... (7) eric cantona.... george best....
mcclair, ryan giggs,
cotton tomilisom, then roy keane...
then davies cole ****
the neville brothers...
scholes and david beckham...
**** stuck to azkazam fudge, it's still perfectly refrigerated
in kazakhstan:
steve mcmanaman will tell you;
it's a random barricade question worth a shot
in the rubric of a sudden challenge.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
I have laid claim to the Tyne Bridge - it is my home.
You can keep the streets, the shops, the bars
Share them between you
But please
Let me have the bridge for myself.
The bottle green arch of Newcastle,
And the stew of water that runs beneath
The sheer drop of air between them,
Lightly salted by the sea.
It is but the only childish affectation
To follow me and hold true
Through the contaminant of temporality.
Just please, let me keep it.
I shed the skin of adolescence
And left my school tie at home
When I made the journey North.
I arrived expecting transcendence
But instead I received the unwanted gift of the present.
From the clamour of Manhattan,
To the desolation of New Mexico and Peru,
The present will forever be the most effective ammunition
In shattering the stained glass of the world’s wonders.
I know this from the beauty of memories.
Those wonderful fragmented images of childhood
That so efficiently cut out the hours of exceeding boredom,
And the tedium inflicted by the men in suits.
And the future,
The future of flying ships,
The mining of the moon
And downloadable pizza.
But we know in truth, when we arrive
There will still be lawyers
And adverts,
Beggars on the street
And apostrophe’s used incorrectly.
I digress.
Let me return to the Tyne Bridge
My bridge on the Quayside.
For despite the bird ****
And the playboys that trundle over it day after day,
It stands defiant over deep waters,
Daring to cheat death
Or vice versa.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
A Barry Hodges poem by Edna
I remember a girlfriend called Mary
Whose ***** was exceedingly hairy;
She came from Newcastle;
And the stench of her ********
Converted me into a fairy.
Thus I rejected your Glorias and Glendas
In frilly white bras and suspenders;
And sought sweet catharsis
From the nice juicy arses
Of poofters and other gay benders.
Redemption came to me from Millie:
A big girl, a well-padded filly;
She was just a Geordie
And really quite ******
But her **** smelled as sweet as a lily.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:43 PM UTC
I met a man the other day--
A kindly man, and serious--
Who viewed me in a thoughtful way,
And spoke me so, and spoke me thus:
"Oh, dallying's a sad mistake;
'Tis craven to survey the morrow!
Go give your heart, and if it break--
A wise companion is Sorrow.
"Oh, live, my child, nor keep your soul
To crowd your coffin when you're dead...."
I asked his work; he dealt in coal,
And shipped it up the Tyne, he said.
2k
I was driving through Washington yesterday,
we started our trip in Renton and made our way
down to Moses Lake; and in the process,
we had to pass through the Cascades on our way there.
As we drove, I watched as the exits flew past:
Newcastle, Wenatchee, Snoqualmie, Ellensburg,
and as we sped past each of these, Mt. Rainier
loomed in the distance; her snow-capped peak
standing tall and piercing through clouds,
as the winding road passed through hills and valleys.
As I gazed upon the jagged sheetrock
towering all around me, I could not help but feel small.
We've been told our whole lives just how big the world is
and how much bigger the universe is in comparison
But I've always had a hard time conceptualizing
how infinitesimal and insignificant my existence is.
So to be surrounded by thousands upon thousands
of rock and stone that have withstood
floods and storms and winds for millennia
and still stand strong, well into the stratosphere,
is nothing less than humbling.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
Expert testimony has decreed yellow,
Who are we to speak against those with seven tongues and antlers,
You sleep as the muffin man creeps
Camera in hands and remnants of sickness past upon his clothes
Your eyes Otto Dix, your face like an anguished customer at Greggs.
He, the muffin man, staggers in the night and surveys these barren lands.
At what point will you release your patterned anguish?
Expert testimony has decreed yellow,
Watermelon and disorder for the masses in their lived fury
hunters of the lowest rung,
misery and handbags at the cumulative paces from Newcastle to Carlisle
Flawed Romans and tasty Saxons,
Expert testimony has decreed yellow,
Revolt! bring down the manor!
The muffin man in his element, deckchair reclined
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
Since I started full-time employment,
I have been seeking out moments of release
amongst the wreckage of the working day.
Looking for that kind of place to meditate,
somewhere to find a peaceful completion.
I have turned my attention to toilet cubicles,
scrawling verses over awkward thighs,
ankles bound by the descent of my boxers;
pockets of inspiration flourish as the by-product
of Newcastle Brown Ale and work stress
pollutes what's left of the open air.
But I don't care.
I never had a sense of smell.
And there's ******** flying everywhere.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
*looks like someone's dancing in their underwear...
touché - looks like someone's buying pints
of milk in their pyjamas.*
night privy, nocturnal India
i get to do the dance over your grave
while your relatives grieve a pointless
grief: just in the same way they grieved
a rotten chestnut, or egg....
maybe this sprout of anti-imagination
might be a floating limb of ambition
to being simply reattached - *the black keys'
lonely boy* -
spastic maestro number uno - chillies
and the Chilcot KKK inquiry -
got buff results with the whitey crew -
took out the trash, fed the gerbils,
saved a Latex ****** from the hood...
well... the Kentucky hooded brigade,
fully tent equipped parishioners -
and whenever you dress up as sheep
you better barbecue - c k q - what a long shopping list -
**i've got a love that keeps me waiting!
ooh oh oh oh!
i've got a love that keeps me waiting;
i'm a lonely boy"* -
to cue or to queue -
a forever question unanswered -
of simply quit... they call it the lack of
solar tattoo pigmentation -
i treat the argument for god
like i'd treat winning the jackpot in lottery,
it just has the prefix existential- prior to what's
being gambled: someone suggested respectability;
i guess that's fair enough - otherwise
i call it a fail with potatoes acting as bricks
in Northern Ireland... and a blatant lack
of back-up colonialism....
that ****** better sprech Anglo
or he's toast.... then came the Voodoo Vindaloo -
screaming: churn out the chillies into chokes! aah!
oh oh or excessive umlaut agitation -
poor tool tummy - when have you experienced
the ****** in surgical syllables taken
to the butchers for coarse timing
that never coerced?
i danced that dance, angry though,
when they played Pendulum's Tarantula
in a Basildon's night-club - you heard a roar
when spotted an "epileptic"
(both dittoing as said, and ambiguity) weaving a web of
personal space - truly and originally,
not your cup of tea - i'd ensure you as
respectably assured -
mind the Sundays and the roast beef and
the home office and Yorkshire fundamentalism;
Newcastle? Newcastle is too hedonistic.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
I held drunken delicacy in each step
as daylight bled
fairies on strings still dim on the walls
over people asleep barely dreaming
hungover from fleeting bliss
left us resting in heaven
bundled in blankets, nested in floral
duvets covered with stains of wine
---- fell asleep under the christmas tree
his boots half in the kitchen
I stood in shadows of his frail frame
he didn’t stir; still gone from drinking
and ***** things his mind was thinking
I had slept next to ---- on the sofa
he won’t miss me when he wakes
only an old bed sheet will greet him
adoration for him stained in my place
dripping from the curtain’s lace
with a tab in my hand I tread lightly
till radio hum broke the silence bore
good afternoon newcastle, it’s half past four
before hitting his head in a twinge
---- moans shut the **** up in a scottish lilt
I step out to the apricity; tender snow
rests around a milk bottle
likely to be forgotten and as I shut the door
I catch a glimpse of
---- whisper goodbye to me then blow me a kiss
Sep 16, 2019
Sep 16, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
*pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; fuck's sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*
a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem*, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **
**** retardo* and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
Ain’t seen you in ages
Let’s get married in vegas
Lunar phases, lunar ******
Space **** with a built in dongle
Stars at night super fast internet
Watch your favourite movie
Fastened onto a turbojet
Pornstars in your eyes
Scarlett Skies
Supermassive slack hole explicit
I’m just giving you sound bites, apéritif
Cosmic ****** if you must
Hot to the touch I’m growing up
While you’re looking down gasping
Hands clasping, rocket launch
Houston this missile is staunch
Better turn the lights off
Things are about to get ******
So is it written in the stars?
Or do I need to text an explanation?
Your eyes are reflecting the light
Stars twinkling so bright
So now you’re full of rocket fuel
Engines ready isn’t ******** cool?
Deep space walking, space dazzle
Starship cougar from Newcastle
Tell me all your secrets
The ones that cause you hassle
Those stockings look nice
Northern tights
Blasting them off into unknown heights
Outside the atmosphere air is light
Unidentified arousal phenomena
Explore her Andromeda
The Milky Way sprayed on her front
I must be blunt, space passport scan
Tells star bureau I’m an OG spaceman
Space duty frees large Toblerone
Radiation sickness and no suntan
Cosmic ****** if you must
Light speed chat up lines
In stardust I’m gonna draw you signs
Baby can’t get enough of my ***
So I showed her in IMAX
Double ***** cokes with treble ******
Jelly legs.
So is it written in the stars?
Or do I need to text an explanation?
Your eyes are reflecting the light
Stars twinkling so bright
Can we just take a moment
To admire the cosmos
With a cosmo
Can we just take a moment
To admire the cosmos
With a cosmo.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 4:27 AM UTC
It's a chapstick
lip lick
hit of a day.
Winter has come and
it's planning to stay.
I shall write in my diary only
the words that will fire me
up.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
*it’s not perfect... but **** me... there’s a life to be lived... even if it’s just defined as walking the dog, or drinking a pint! let’s just rearrange the solar system spheres with a game of snooker to make summer random with winter of the least expected follow-up.*
you catch me playing with my fox / cat
purring his ***** slingshot
arousal
just where the spinal cord in music begins
and the evolutionary testament ends...
you catch me there in the drift of night...
and i’ll bet you 5 quid to have found quantum physics...
a particular instance in a universe of innumerable
stasis plurals of decipherable energy
to pluck and theorise, like autumnal flowers readily drifting
from the tsunami of green of summer to brown mahogany of autumn.
here’s one for the puppet engineered to dance
tugged at with its tail the solitary cursor;
paw print dot dot dot? i had my two thumbs on it,
squeezing out the hallucinatory juice of neglect,
with scoffer ready bouncers of peeled wallpaper about to
tattoo me in political conversation of slime slogans to shout!
i heard squatters were about... i didn’t hear anything from newcastle,
i guess the second mongolian invasion / investiture
came from the north... rather than east anglia / saudi arabia.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
Meandering up Route 1
past farmhouses and roadhouses
through turning and lingering
late Autumn leaves
A pace less determined
than I 95 reveals
a harbor content
with its own
slice of the sea
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
Homeless guy
sits begging for change
where the streets
don't care for your name
lugging about
all he owns
home
a rough patch of turf
down by the docks
His plight ignored
shunned by those
that walk by with wrinkled nose
save the few
that flick him the odd coin
Guys got to eat
and the cold cobbled stones
ain't no solace
for a warm bed and a roof over head
As the emos and goths
passed me by
congregating by the flying v guitar
the hippies sat drumming
in a circle
singing
lets give peace a chance
As homeless guy
heads to Greggs
a hot drink
and a feed
the sun is setting
on the streets of Newcastle
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
The *******
Limping his way to town he was overtaken by laughing youth
He swore under his breath, sure they were laughing at him.
******* ******* ******* he said to himself full of self- loathing.
He could have taken the bus, but liked to save money his
Only pleasure in life except when he took the ferry to Newcastle
Where a ********** told him he was a beautiful man, and it could
Have been truth perhaps she saw in him the inconsolable truth
Of a mind full of hatred.
He liked to go to places where the dead were laid out he spoke
To them told them how stupid the looked, but his interest had
Been noticed and he was barred.
His father had died not that he felt empathy with this, but he
Stood to inherit some money and that made him glad sitting
Watching **** in his ***** little flat.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 12:28 PM UTC
Listening to Sting’s best:
Ten Summoner’s Tales.
Sting: there’s a lesson in arrogance.
Leaves his band, The Police,
Throws the blokes—
The blokes who carried him,
Put him on the map,
Made him rich--
Throws those same blokes
Off the back of the boat,
Jetsam & flotsam in his wake.
Then starts hallucinating that he's
Geoffrey Chaucer reborn, &
Self-finances a Broadway musical,
Itself a saccharine homage to
Newcastle upon Tyne, land of the
Genetic zygote he once was.
Needless to say: “The Last Ship”
Sank shortly after leaving dry dock.
Hey, Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner:
Who was your financial advisor?
Bernie Madoff?
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
I'm sorry I
didn't tell you
that I was back in town.
I was scared, I was anxious
of this time and space between us-
an aching silence echoed across the seas.
You know that all you have to do
is call out my name
and I'll be back
in a heartbeat.
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 10:41 AM UTC
this is a true story about last wednesday night, STOP
i wish people would stop KNOCKING on my door at 2 am
in the morning because through those hours, i am sound asleep
and i don’t want to answer the fucken door to you
because people don’t have respect for other people
i am trying to sleep to sleep and i hear voices
of people knocking on my door trying to get in
and i don’t think people are trying to find out what i am doing
i was having voices of people saying i am easy-meat
but i am not easy-meat
i just don’t want to have strangers knocking on my door
can i have a smoke can i have a beer, and you will get high
or do you want to party, mind you i like partying, but i want to
i remember answering the door to a person in Newcastle
because he thought i was easy-meat
i don’t want to be known as easy-meat, i want to be known as strong-willed
and i was totally frightened but if i don’t answer the door
everything will be alright
if i hear the words easy-meat easy-meat, you are such easy-meat
I WILL SAY NO, i am not easy-meat and i prefer just to be treated like a man who loves life
cause i do love life, so, stop treating me like easy-meat
i prefer to help people in my own time
not at 2 in the morning, though
when i am trying to ****** sleep
and i would prefer not to be treated like easy-meat
cause i am not
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
The city of ale
iconically brown
A bridge of millennium
sits on our northern town
Dreamed of the lights
from the fields of nothing
Drowned in the bottles
and couldn’t stop coughing
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
I need to clothe this manic obsession
for acceptance and digital affection.
The mornings turn to midnight
before I have started my day,
and the wind is blowing reminders of Newcastle;
the lack of warmth becoming prominent
in the absence of loving flesh.
There must be a better life somewhere,
beyond uncertainty and marketed freedoms.
Beyond where only question marks
punctuate endless months
of Novembers and displacement;
the chasm between who I am in the doorway,
and who I really mean to be.
I hear you are carving a living
out of the ways you almost died in the past.
You are signing forms for others,
you are making tea for trembling hands,
all the while wondering how it came to be you
sat on the right side of the table,
and away from the wrong side of the bar.
You told me an operator will find me,
a receptive ear to put me through
to someone who will know how to help.
In the meantime, you said, I should love music,
for when the shop-fronts have closed
and friends grow fat and indifferent,
Tom will sing Hold On until I can find sleep,
or at least a viable dream.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC