Words from the archives #14 Crows

Probably the first one I've written that's loosly about Morden since moving there 2 years ago.
More old poems and that, click here WORDS FROM THE ARCHIVES

Crows

The internet said en masse they're called a murda.

I'm murdering time. On the bench in the

common. Sat clocking the crows.

Bossing the green, on the

grass and in the trees,

keeping the parakeets

in check.

They move like a squadron, pepper-

potting across the common.

Communicating in crow

speak. Speaking about

me perhaps.

The internet said they recognise faces, I

wonder if they notice I've been

reading this book for the

last 6 weeks.

Yesterday I experimented, got in amongst them on the grass

with a bag of BBQ Hula Hoops. Within a few carefully

executed  movements, they surrounded me. I got

scared and did that half fast walk – half

run like I’m trying to clench my bum

cheeks under pressure whilst

walking to catch a bus.

This morning I heard them in the tree outside my house going

mental like pill heads in them 90's warehouse raves

blowing on them plastic horns. On the internet I'd

read about these so called crow courts and I

wondered if that's what all the noise was

when the noise just stopped.

It suddenly occurred to me that the murder might have

murdered and what had that poor crow

done to deserve it?

Sat on the bench again and I’m watching them

watching me, I think they know that I know

something about them. Though maybe

they don’t know that I’m no threat.  
I’m just curious, unemployed and

bored of humans.

 

Words from the archives #13 Toothbrush

Another one I found in some old phone notes, probabaly written on a tube somewehere in London.
Loads more of these lost poem thingies here; WORDS FROM THE ARCHIVES 

Toothbrush

My pens not a sword.

It's more like a tooth with which to 

chew the food I choose to digest.

Though most slips through.

Straight down the gullet.

To the pit of my stomach.

It's only then I think I should of chewed.

 

Words from the archives 12; Trap It

Don't think this one is actually that old. Though the idea has appeared before in a few other peices I'd started. The incicent I speak of has happeaend me to more than once in my adult life, and for that split second it's the worst feeling in the world. 

Trap it

I was walking home from work;

Tie and a shirt trousers and shoes.

Got to the cul de sac and

Some young boys were playing

football in the street;

full kit, replica tops, shirts,

socks and astro boots.

They must have been about 10.

I must have been about 30.

One of the kids has over hit the ball and

it's rolled over towards me.

I freeze.

I can feel my heart beat fast suddenly going up a gear

whilst time has slowed down.

Out of nowhere I can hear a crowd.

Some cockney sounding coach, red

faced bulging blood vessels in his neck, Chelsea

tattoos and a pink Ralph

spit coming out of his mouth is

screaming out at the top of his voice;

'KEEP IT SIMPLE KEEP IT SIMPLE!!'

I take a breath.

I tell msyelf;

'Don't try and be flash,'

'just trap it,'

'get it under control and'

'play it back.'

Just before the ball reaches my feet,

another voice, deep inside

the isolation unit of my mind jumps

up and screams out;

'THIS IS YOUR CHANCE'

'YOU'VE GOTTA TAKE IT!!'

Somere in-between thinking about

those two opposing views,

I've stuck my right leg out and

my right leg is confused,

unsure what to do.

The ball hits the outside of my

black leather lace up shoe,

taking all the power out and meekly

trickling behind me like water

drops dribbling out of a

tap in a drought, and

rolling into the road,

like my very own You've

Been Framed Video.

'Shit, I've fucked it' as I slap my forehead.

Just to rub salt into my wounds,

I look up, and the

kids in the replica kits are laughing, and

making wanker signs at me.

I put my hands up and say;

'Sorry boys, I just aint got it anymore.'

When I walked away,

feeling ashamed, I

realised I was speaking in clichés.

I never even had it in the first place

Words from the archives #11 Drunken freestyle

Found this one in a file called i Phone notes. Above it was a note that said 'North on the northen line.' Thought it was pretty funny reading it back. Maybe the 'August line was a typo, think it works though...

Drunken freestyle

Can I have a go

Not "let me" as I would of said

Demanding is for the likes of ...:..

I'm not them

Am I pacifying myself to avoid confrontation?

Am I pussying out?

Probably.

But who cares?

Who really cares what I say in a rhyme?

A rhyme that doesn't rhyme.

Fuck it.

I'm here on a tube half cut

Fucking up my £4.30 budget

I think I have £5 left

To last

To Sunday

I had the shits today

Sort of

Probably from the date expired food

What can I do?

I'm broke

But I've had a few beers

There's Nikes on my feet

A goi goi jacket on my back

And a nice house to go back to

I can't complain

And if I do

Then I'm August

Words from the archives #10 Catching Confetti

Again, another one written a few years ago when I was back in Horley, part of a whole bunch I wrote from around this period. 

For more old stuff check WORDS FROM THE ARCHIVES  

Catching Confetti

I remember the temperature of her body, stood

at the bottom of the station steps, warming

my hands on the tops of her arms. A

climate of perfection that would have cultivated passion, on

any degree of London's volatile thermometer, red

carpeting the path towards our first kiss.

That moment was a ship worthy of splitting tower bridge.

My rationale stepped down and bowed, to

an ancient force a thousand times the power. All

unnecessary thought slipped away, like

a spacecraft discarding it's redundant super structure.

A separation I rarely experience.

The road leading to this was long, and

Full of false starts. It

took hindsight to realised that at last I'd arrived.

We parted ways at the station. I

went up the steps and she walked back down the concourse, looking

as if it was a routine Saturday evening for her, and

I remained on the stairs trying to catch

every last shred of confetti that was

that memory.