Chloe

No many people could get away such a selfish ‘tude
To stride about carrying the scent of deceased fish
But when your still falling of the edge of boxes
After falling into a deep sleep, how could I stay mad?

When I return to the pits to refuel
After a hard day of doing a Oliver Twist
For a bowl of that employment gool
You always welcome me with a expecting look
Just a friendly reminder no matter how useless I feel
You would die of starvation if I wasn’t around

It’s always appreciated when you tolerate my rituals
The way I grit my teeth and scream into your ears
When you hide your feet in the fold of your belly
When your taking a nap on the armchair

When I return back to my studio
And I’m reeling behind the shower curtains
To apply antiseptic to my personal Picasso
You always demands a reservation on my lap
Treat me like your own personal Swiss-army throne
But no one else would fit the buck for you

Bitches gonna come and bitches gonna go
But you’ll always be the girl welcome in my home

*Written For National Poetry Month – 17/30*

It’s Hard To Watch People Squirm

Slumped with your pelvis pointing to the heavens
On a forgotten park bench underneath an oaks slouch
Caressed by the fog on a humid spring afternoon
I spot a familiar wince to trigger the mist in your eyes

There isn’t a grimoire in the land that could scratch the surface
Of the inner workings of the roulette wheel in your head
The one that decides how your going to see the world today
The one that despite all the drugs, steals control from your hands

Oh but I know that dice roll all to well
I was born with the same game of chance in my cortex
All I ever wanted was to let you know someone understands
I just wanted you walk the streets with a smile again

It was never an intention to be a pylon in your path
I just hoped maybe It’d steer you away from any more aches
But you just plough through me at top gear, as if I wasn’t there
Just to make your way to the next pothole to fall down

Oh how it ties my gut into a Shroud knot
When I see you shriek in pain from your pedestal
It’s an impulse to feel a twinge of guilt
Maybe I could’ve taken the bullet you aimed at your head?

What do I have to do to get your attention?
What do I have to do to not receive the palm of your hand?
I can’t be your distributor of impulses on the side
Is that all I could be for you to listen to me?

I never ment to make you cry
To make you lose your mind under the street lights
I just wanted to see these things though
I didn’t want leave you alone without knowing I tried

*Written For National Poetry Month – 16/30*

No You’re Right, Danny’s Just Moaning

To tell you the truth romance is just the easiest route
So that Danny can feed his hysteria the diet it needs
The voices that used to guide him have gone mute
He’s a scared little boy lost in London
Under the cover of darkness, eyes blindfolded
As the tarmac behind him starts to collapse
You better chart your own course Danny
Straighten up and fly right on pure guess work

Danny’s like a dog looking into the restaurant
Seeing Natasha and Benni share a vodka and coke
Danny starts to feel a twinge In his chest
Angus tells him to stop moaning and man up
Danny hears Terry complain about Mothers Day
Kerry runs off to V Bar without saying goodbye
Danny just wants someone to talk too
Johnny rings his dad from the pavement for a lift back

You see all Danny wants someone to come up from behind
Lock their fingers around his chest from behind
And to tell him that there’s no need to fear the silence
To tell him everything’s fine like a good mummy should
To tell him that they’re proud like a good daddy should
Henry just wants a bitch to suck him off
Henry sneaks out back, but he won’t be alone

Oh Danny would love to see if they could cope any better:
If they couldn’t ask mummy to raise that ego
If they couldn’t ask daddy to close the wound
And their cries left unanswered as the bounce of the walls

Danny wonders out into fields of green
Clutching his last can of Stella
Danny collapses outside his mothers grave
Before he drifts into another world
He quietly utters the following words:
“Where’s my mummy tonight?
I just want to hold her tight”
and with that Danny eyes start to close

*Written For National Poetry Month 15/30*

Wings

Oh it’s oh so clear to me now
I may of spent a few hundred million years
Scratching the desk and knocking over my beer cans
To cold call a league of philosophers at my door
Man the tantrums seems so silly now
When I’m arm in arm with comrades of old
Gliding down the streets screeching our anthem to the sky
Oh yeah it’s so clear to me right now

They told me I couldn’t find anything better
And too take the lashing like a good little slave
They swore it never got any better then this
I was lucky to even grab where I was by the fingertips
They promised they were right
Far be it from me to question your motives for telling me that
Is this what you have to do to people to stay confident?
I’m confident that’s the case

You had to make me feel like dirt
In order to make yourself feel alive
All I had to do start living my life
In order to make you feel like dirt

All you ever wanted to do was clip my wings
Use me to shield you from the deathray
You fired straight at the mirror
Hey no biggie I’m just damaged goods right?
Well I didn’t hear the others complain
The only one who’s complaining is you
As you lay yourself in the same mousetrap
Scrape another lover to use from the highway

*Written For National Poetry Month – 14/30*

A Matter Of Time

It always conducts a glissando up my spine
When I spot your clan tracking at my sanctuaries
I don’t claim to have the deeds to these locals, but surely you know?
I wouldn’t leave these premises just for your consideration?
Are they scouts? Sniffing for my co-ordinates?
Are you hiding in smokers planning your tactics
Using the finished cocktail glasses
As chess pieces like a military tactician

Are you under the impression I’m still enamoured with you?
I’m not saying the hypothesis isn’t true
It’s just when you find yourself stuck to me like glue
I wonder, what exactly are you planning to do?

Each heckle the dogs give me on the street,
Each Chinese whisper forcefully relayed to me
Each WooWoo beaker thrown at my head
Feels like the tick of the clock
I don’t think I could call in sick for this appointment
Not even if I wanted to
I can imagine you coming up to me at the bar now
With a familiar smile, and a view to kill

Are you under the impression I still think of you all day?
If you don’t mind I’ll keep the answer to that one at bay
But when you do decide for us to meet in your little play
I wonder, what exactly were you gonna say?

This Poem Has a squeal:
http://thetartanprelude.tumblr.com/post/83517596383/a-matter-of-time-pt-2

*Written For National Poetry Month – 13/30*

Own

I mean… I don’t mean to complain
But I guess lately It feels like I’ve dropped in your priorities
Like an old wooden beaded bracelet
Brought from an old gypsy stall
And handed down to you by a summertime lover
Once you found a way to fit me in
No matter the outfit or the weather
But I’ve fallen down the side of the bed
And to the back of your mind
You never really paid me heed since then

That was until you caught a glimpse
Of the girls who received my bracelets in summers past
Your eyes light up, I imagine like a housewife’s
Who’s discovered their fine china has a 4 figure worth
And suddenly you act like my new necktie
As you caress the base of my shoulders
Not unlike a fox skin you shoot the offenders a dead eye stare
They can’t second guess; is she wild or tamed?
Would she ward them off in heroic defence?
Or would the murderous intent of pride overtake her senses?

If I ever questioned your devotion before
I had no doubt that I was your man now

*Written For National Poetry Month 12/30*

Recollection (Prelude)

I’ve known guilt and then I’ve KNOWN guilt
But I couldn’t even begin to put the term into human tongue
When you tap my back, in the middle of 90’s britpop chants
And you greet me holding a gargantuan tome
Containing your photographic memory
Try as you might to rekindle a recollection within me
As you recall the times we strolled down your road arm in arm
I hate to break your heart twice over but it only brings static

I couldn’t say I have the foggiest
I don’t remember being enamoured with your frame before
Walking down abandoned docks, eating white chocolate magnums
Was that with you? With the blue bow and dolly shoes?
I can’t think of a face nor a name
Did we kiss by Dr.Chippys? Did we make love after the fireworks show?
Did you ever lie to me that Ollie Sykes could sing, by the river?
My pockets are overflowing with snapshots, but nothing to connect them

I’ll just have to take your word for it
Guide me with your palms and make me recall

*Written For National Poetry Month – 11/30*

Can A Life Be Well Lived?

Deep within the recesses of tonight’s summer dream I say
“Don’t looks some glum honey it’s better this way”
As you clutch your cyan tinted suitcase
While boarding the 7:12 to London Liverpool Street
My absence in your life in but a small price to pay
To ensure you can touch the stars you lust for at night

Yet in reality: I see girls discarding away dreams and ideas
Like a pile of first drafts overflowing from a bin
All because of that funny look their boy gives them
When they dare try to make a move in his presence
That may kick him of the top dollar spot on the throne
To die so submissively it breaks my heart

And yet even in a world where I can have anything
I’ll still let you go to makes sure you can have everything

And yet when I awake at the rise of tomorrows sun
I’ll be having breakfast alone again

I don’t think a life can be well lived
At least unless lived on your own

*Written For National Poetry Month – 10/30*

The New Life

To throw away old childhood heirlooms
Those cob webbed covered conduits of nostalgia
Into the incinerator never to act as the gateway again

That’s exactly what your demanding
When you hold out your hand by the garden entrance
To pull me away from another month spent reminiscing

But what of all the loose ends?
The stories left unfinished like a figurine catalogue
My fair murderer she’ll be left wandering in the crib

Oh what concern is it of yours?
If they want to pacify themselves on old dish water
In the face of the new life

I’ve grown soft from the old life
Where once stood armour lies a one street to my heart
That’s before I consider all the new information fed to me

Different names to scream
During the tail end of the journey to the north street light
And to express gratitude to midst a flood of impulses

Different wounds to lick
When the horns sound from the capital signifying their boredom
It’s reached it’s peak before I could even get used to their pillows

Oh what concern is it of yours?
If they want to pacify themselves on week old cherryade
In the wake of the new life

*Written For National Poetry Month – 9/30*

Read the epilogue to this poem here:
http://thetartanprelude.tumblr.com/post/84360470482/the-new-life-epilogue

The Symbolism Of Silence

I think the public image of personal growth
Has been incorrectly portrayed in the confines
Of a catch up conversation between disconnected pen pals
And with it brings a very venomous drawback indeed

Oh it shows when I’m sat slouched in my chair like quicksand
Playing Glass Harmonicas with my coffee mug
Trying to pass of asking about the rotas at your work
As a deep, meaningful and interesting conversation

Like the ones we had 5 am outside the abandoned estates
Putting the world to rights, as we deconstructed and dissect
The flawed expectations of outdated mindests of all the grown ups
But now I struggle to find the words to ask how you are

The person I long to talk too they’re dead and gone
Do you agree? Do you think the same things about me?

We were lost souls in a sea of possibilities
Being barked at from every angle to breast stroke
But young lovers will always be content
With laying on their back and floating in the ocean

But now we’ve both straightened up and fallen in line
Did we lose it? The only thing that kept us nattering for hours?
Was our sense of anarchy the only thing that binded us?
Now our paths are off in opposite directions, the distance only grows

Did you forget how to give people that look in your eye
Or do you keep it on reserves just for the next one too see?

*Written For National Poetry Month – 8/30*