STUFF

I sometimes preface my free verse poems with ‘I was in a weird mood when I wrote this.’ I WAS in a weird mood when I wrote this, but it was pre-lockdown. Now we’ve all spent far too much time at home with our STUFF, I don’t think it’s weird at all.

Stuff

STUFF trailed its tarnish across the Orient
then braved the oceans in first world gladwrap
like delusional human traffic.

STUFF squatted in a whorehouse warehouse
waiting for empty shelf-space, and the footfall
of an empty passer-by.

STUFF showed ankle in an email,
shoved its tongue in my High Street ear,
seduced me with sweatshop promises.

STUFF demanded its keep in energy,
whined for drawer space
and then crawled, feckless, onto my table top,
cheap plastic legs akimbo.

I looked it fresh in the eye and asked:
What do you want of me?
STUFF shrugged.

 

First published by Snakeskin Poetry.

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Upwards


Maybe it’s the dim midwinter light, but January seems to be dedicated to  taking a rather harsh view of ourselves. In reality, most of us are already doing our best with a lot, and need to be taking on not more, but less.

Well, at least until cloning machines are up and running.

Upwards

I am scaling a mossy wall
whilst plate-spinning
and playing the bagpipes.

[On distant asphalt, a
side-plate smashes.]

Before I know it, it’s January 1st.
“I will now also paint
the wall as I climb!” I proclaim.

[My bagpipes flail
like a spent lung.]

The wall giggles.
“You should have just vowed
to grow more hands,” it says.

[I kick the wall.
Descent is rapid.
Cancel the paintbrushes.]

 

Geek notes: I don’t often post free verse here because, er, domain name. But I do enjoy a little tango on the free side from time to time. As far as I’m concerned, keep it surreal, and it’s OK.

 

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Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash