The ninetieth minute winner

Nothing beats

the thriving pulsation of fans’, joyous,

at the ecstatic spectacle

of a ninetieth minute winner.

I’ve been there many a time

scarf scrunched in one hand,

tightly wielded

as a makeshift, silent rattle.

It rattles only for my fellow fans to feed off,

and to decorate a ferocious wall

of delirium,

taunting those opposition nutcases.

You feel everything come up:

your spirit,

your passion,

your blood pressure,

your lunch – it all violently ascends, Greek pillar-like.

‘You’ll never get it’,

‘You have to experience it for yourself’;

All sanctimonious;

all completely right.

Never leave a game early,

as it can all change like that.

But once you’ve seen that net ripple

with time close to it’s ripened fullness,

you’ll never walk out of a game again.

Lock me in

and bury me here.

Heaven has to be

that ninetieth minute winner.

Sum total of parts; the ‘inside’ doesn’t matter (alone)

The inside of this dry.

There is not a drop of juice.

It’s plump and firm from the outside in,

but it is a sorry excuse.

This does not mean, that it’s not a fruit.

Of that, I’m fairly certain.

For if our essence was all that mattered,

then the show is over; close the curtains.

We should look at each holistically.

Folk must discover what they’re consuming.

Don’t let all the attributes blend into one,

or that will be love’s undoing.

Swilling together (beautifully)

We melt into each other nightly,

vanilla and strawberry, slurrying together with abandon.

This is how I think of us,

within my private recollections.

I have no problem telling you,

far from it.

That mischievous grin and dirty laugh

know more than they let on.

You’re a sauce pot;

making my heart stop;

getting it on until it all rots.

We’re a new ice cream flavour, hun.

Best on the market:

The pesto and pistachio one

that we got from

Clapham.

Sonnet twenty hate, or, the careless irony of green capital

Stretching with my belly out,

my skins’ sticking to the sofa.

The water’s boiled in the kitchen spout;

I’m worn out like a loafer.

The time seems to hardly move

when the Sun hugs the sky so tightly.

You can’t even hit your groove

when you’re in bed at 8pm nightly.

But I’m sure one day it’ll all be better,

and we won’t shield inside thereafter.

There’ll be nothing that can block or fetter

the waves of all of our laughter.

We’ll put our money into ‘Big Water’,

and send the poor to the slaughter.

Who am I to judge?

Is it too much to ask

for old-fashioned Priests and mothers

who don’t do Tik-Tok dances?

Maybe I’m just old school

but back in my day

that lot taught you

a very different kind

of shame.

Indoctrinating children into colonization brought horrific suffering

School boys sit atop the wall,

propaganda tracts in hands.

‘Won’t you all come,

where the wild tigers run –

for God’s sake, young man, heed the call!’

With their childish, merry glee

they go to tell their friends.

‘Won’t you come, too,

with me and the crew –

for adventure’s sake, chums, to the Sea!’

Soon, innocence trickles down,

at the scene they have wrought.

‘Won’t they forgive us,

and what our weaponry does –

for England’s sake, savage, for the Crown!’

Renegotiating her relationship with art

Scratching like a hamster in his sawdust,

that piece of chalk isn’t quitting, is it?

Dusting the brown card that will become your creation.

Hopefully the first of many for you,

how great it is to see you doing it.

You’re a natural artist, my Darling.

It’s in your blood;

it whips around like a viral hurricane,

swirling up your arteries

and expelling slates of beauty down your veins.

These chips of skill may look splintered and jagged,

but when they fall from the sky

they cut into the loamy ground and grow.

They grow massively and spread widely;

Small seedlings of creativity that get smoother

with each passing, maturing, hardening

design.

Just because they become less sharp

and resemble pebbles found in mountain streams,

the ones that have been scrubbed down to an uber-natural gleam,

they still settle and embed with the same vigour.

They don’t sink, they flatten the soft lush grass, now.

The smoother they become, the more area they lay claim to.

One day, a beautiful patio of emerald tokens of your skill

will adorn this fertile, virgin land.

I look forward to seeing it

because it will fill my soul with its grace.

Your grace.

Crafted with your patience and with your dedication.

If nature is to die for us,

let it be your imagination that succeeds it.

Continue and persist, my Love.

Casa No-mor

Winners reel off

like tickets from a doctor’s office.

They fall to the floor gracelessly;

tossed aside,

kicked to the kerb.

Bright block colours

of the deepest, jarring shades.

Hot pinks and sickly custard yellows

illuminate the screens we shield ourselves behind.

We shiver until that next hit

as our wrist starts to ache

and our eyes bleed for delusion.

Flashing and dancing before us,

but our desire can’t be met,

we just huff like a dog, tired and bored

after frolicking in the sun, pretending to have a fun time.

The dog thinks he did enjoy himself,

man’s best friend doesn’t know us at all.

We turn back to the screens.

Waiting for the next one.

The next show.

The next winner.

The next bloody poem?