Yeti

Spaghetti Yeti grew grottos

yet he knew he was bound

not so much for this life

but spreading pasta love

in the lungs of bolognese

romancers spending

their nights in alleyways

slurping up the remains.

He wants to be the servery

the king of the culinary

cuts of strips and stripes

the layers of longing

caked in broody words

between man and woman

doubling in size after each meal

seeing each other as fools

and practicing the pasta weaves

on their veins to become circus tricks.

Yeti will lick these folk forever

and lust the catering career

until it becomes his…

Arguments With Oxygen

It’s not you, it’s me…

OK it is you, but can you blame me?

You don’t give me room to breathe,

Always there in the air

Never wearing the shapes I draw in you

Or the words I splutter out of my mouth

And whenever I think you’re listening

You blow the wind in my face

So I have to shout over a hurricane

to get a message through to you.

And you elude me in the most interesting places

Where I want you indispensable

Underground, underwater

In space, I have to fill myself with fake you

Just to take in all the beauty.

Personal space means nothing to you

We like to be claustrophobic as a race,

That’s why there’s pollution about the place

Traffic congestion and cigarette indigestion

We’re sick of you being the only option.

Maybe just a day apart,

So we can rethink our relationship

And evaluate why it’s important

To not suffocate trees or factory workers

Citizens of big cities and those wall flowers

That get punched on lunch break.

I’m not calling you selfish

I just could do with one day where you aren’t next to me

Inside me, over my head, under my footstep

Just a little privacy…

OK maybe that’s lunacy,

Just promise you’ll look away when I’m naked…

Staircase

Gateway to Upstairs,

personal Everest

for wheelchairs,

a piano’s worst

nightmare,

speaks the tongue

of ‘kadunka dunka dunka’

and is an ample exit

for a father 

who pretends to be deaf

upon his wife’s requests.

Book

A cinema made from paper,

found in wooden nooks

and usually only offer

private viewings.

Goggles

Television,

without sound,

only deaf speech bubbles.

All of you will be wet

while you watch,

except your eyes.

Unless you cry, of course.

Where We Lay Flowers

If I wore wasps in my shoes would I be more assertive?

Not distracted by the flowers on the zebra crossing

a beheaded bouquet of roses, onlooking

four bold tombstones of paint

I cross them like missing planks in a rickety bridge

drop into the graveyard and sniff the poppies,

azaleas piss stained and catching carrier bags

a waste bin for personal tragedies, daisies at war

with the rain drops, damps my scent

but your honey glazed door calls.

 

Stood, formal as a funeral on your welcome mat

I think about placing my shoes on my hands

and kicking the door down

But I’m holding down trodden dandelions,

you said you only like wild flowers after all

In the other, I’m holding my plushie, a microwaveable dinosaur

with lavender buttocks, that you gave me

to learn how to relax.

I feel claustrophobic in the sheet rain

laying with drowned bees

wondering how long they stung your letter box,

hoping you’d open up.

 

You only know I exist when outside represents spring

sun glossed, baking the lavender buds

You only know I exist when you find

the cuddly dinosaur on your doorstep,

laying with waterlogged bees and then

I worry you’ll accuses me of cheating on you.

Writing Diary, Entry 2, 01/08/2013

Bad news made me a desert today… And more cryptic. Hopefully, it’ll rain tomorrow while I lock myself in the library and dedicate to all that must be written! Have committed a final version of a poem to memory and submitted to a magazine, so I guess productivity was saved to some extent. Pressing on for tomorrow!