Underestimate

Are you my fourth of June?
My supercollider?
My key in C?

If you can’t help but feelin’ –
for a golden meaning –
of human rocketry.

You’ll have to wait,
while I underestimate,
how long it might take,
to get to the fourth of June.

Pipolaps

In the dung jungle
the pipolaps sup shakes
from drums of rum.

99 London Towers

Waking up tired is as much about
contaminated pork and Greek opposition,
or the last conservative rout
as your physical position.

Rainbow

Prometheus stacking shelves.
Some glove puppet takes control.
He watches as we lose ourselves,
and theres no space for mock, or roll.

Dog violets on the lawn
and you say - I can't see you any more.
Darlin', I don't want you falling
down this low.

Norfolk is Waiting

Come up, come up, from your smokey homes.
Norfolk is waiting in her great heavy frock;
to ruffle your hair and cuddle you tight.

Night Scene

Sham and dry brass, a Louisiana funeral march;
here comes the hero, gambiting along the aisle
to lay the armour of angels at her feet.

And from the barstool throne she jerks the cord
that runs down, through his jaw and neck and collar;
and chokes his bleating heart.

The magpie tender serves and smiles for tips,
her anti-freeze eyes shine between dark locks:
each the gin-bottle colour of trouble.

A new child of rupture sweats in a long coat,
too close to a screen of signal and noise:
screams out the line 'Jenny was a friend of mine'.

Junkies of love and criminal jesters and the lost prophets of drink.

Lovers of junk and feral gestures and the last drinkers of profit.

Virion Poetry

I have put my words inside you
and they sit in your gut and germinate.
They grab the semi-permeable membrane
and osmosise their way into you.

They breach the peritoneum and run
free with the blood and the lymph fluid
drifting through the semi-lunar valves
and like cuckoo mitochondrea they sit
in the hydrophobic fortress of your cells.

They unwind your super-coiling soul
and open it to be spliced by their cystine mouths;
slowly turning, one base pair at a time,
the intein you: into extein me.

The 3rd December 2006

The new red shirts run through alleys-
not for Garibaldi’s revolution –
for Chavez’s re-election.

Rosalas dares residents to change leader;
replacing ranchos with oil barrels
and miles of guarded shops.

The rojito campaign on corners
dying their dogs red.

But if “Mi Negra” comes:
a free wage for every Caraqueno.

By winter will there be a labourer
in the heart of Venezuala?

Will hot rain fall on barrio roofs
where noone ever works?

inspired by Photos by Emma Lynch and text by
Nathalie Malinarich

Lemon and Gin

Sweet lemon and gin.
Her arm tattooed by the sun's
bright tracing in ice.

The Living Remain/Live Remains

Fatal accident here; children, flowers
and mothers in tears.

He smokes, naked, at night in a garden chair
as he wouldn’t if she were there.

Stammers ‘to the city please’; gold watch, old suit -
lonely, retired by degrees.

The act is done but the living remain.

Or your money back

So soon food is looted for vowels
and permission for ammunition used.
The alliterate idiot force fed
on rice and rhyme and stale bread.

And what is left to give
or inference to make that
does not fill me full of hate?
Roll up for the great poetry rebate.

‘Until 10.21’

Set to receive, message blocked.
The high clock waits and ticks –
moments, marked and dropped.

Impatience aches an LED red,
sweaty palm grip sticks,
set to receive – message blocked.

Masqued machine, time ripely judged;
empty cases of seconds picks
moments, marked and dropped.

Bad news – ich habe genung – I’m stuffed.
What is the word? Polemics?
Set to receive. Message blocked.

Dish-faced monitor finally unlocked;
‘Life is too difficult to fix’
Moments. Marked and dropped.

A hot cartridge of shock:
the power to reply cut off.
Set to receive message. Blocked
moments. Marked. And dropped.

Creative Camoflage

Deep inside I'm grinning
but I keep a frown in case
the evil powers are eyeing
the look upon my face.

Happiness writes white?
I'm off in blue, green and red;
in foot-wide waxy crayon
on the prison wall instead.

In a minor tone I'm singing
but in the chambers of my head:
there's a straight eight a-brewing
that'll knock the critics dead.

It's unseemly to be happy - in a poem doubley so -
keep your whistle in a locker and your grin tied down low.

Technical Testing

Ok, you may be wondering why I've all invited you here - it's because one of you is Mrs Valdemonts murderer! No actually, this is a toy blog to make an experimental UEA Creative Writing Team Blog. You should have received an email invitation bringing you here. Once you join as a member I will promote you all to administrators and you can feel free to create as much unmoderated carnage as possible. Hey it's only 0's and 1's after all.

Bloggy Poet

Hmmm... not sure I really needed to set this up - but well there it is.