Archive for gone

TASTE (& how 2 gettit)

Posted in poetry with tags , , , on February 16, 2018 by malartart

youre luvly in chains

the beds on fire

polo necks are so over

over your chest

hair trimmed

fruit fresh

its the bowl thats


can u count

count to 10?

the night is over

over and out

count backwards

and then forwards


& again? & again?

back to 10?

wear the blouse

shredded and dripping

didn’t mean to lose

lose my temper

or should i say

should i say?

that I lost it


that I (may) have

found it



loud moles

Posted in poetry with tags , , , on January 27, 2018 by malartart

they shout from down below

call out in cowls from caverns

wrapped in capes of their own


             the colour of mud

they shake belts of utility

cans of repellent fall out

and spray in an empty space

heroes are how they are

bombastically titled

I call them other

I call them older than antecedents

more changeable than alchemy

I am an old stick in the mud


I have nick-named them

loud moles

She’s Cut From Some Other Type of Cloth

Posted in poetry with tags , , on July 19, 2017 by malartart

Brought in the hatbox

Set it on the dresser where you brush your hopes

Helped plat your despair from two long faces

Span with care a bun from a hum drum of hair

Watched you clip in weaves of woe with frowning furls of curls

Whilst I chip away at what is so wrong with this shape you seek

Penny for your thoughts, you turn on a dime, and refuse me my pound of flesh

Aghast I am, taken quite aback, I put up the front of courage forsook

You pull, tease and tether and announce to the nether that I am to be cut out of the plot

Tightening the corset, heaving the breast, and begone before the sparrow knows not

But blinded by that shape, bewitched by the form, and out to sea from a mirage

I leave your best dress—recently pressed— upon the bed ready for when you return

Keeping the closet open, to get some much-needed air, the dusty dresses dance wild

As they are caught by the open window’s wind from a salty season in decline

The air that circulates the room heaves just like the pulse of a hurricane

Yet I stand here on guard for a year and some change

Hoping you’ll return to update fancies and change the clothes range

And wear something more appropriate, for now that winter has fallen

I demand you here trussed up and tied together into something much warmer

For I don’t want you to fall out of fashion

Or fall from grace

Or into another’s arms

Because then you’ll catch your death

2 Forward, 3 Back

Posted in poetry with tags , , on June 10, 2017 by malartart

                  documents leaked

        mopped up deceit

tell on me

             talk liberally

speak formally

            behind shirt sleeves

  converse conservatively

                        know your place


             labour under

                         the misapprehension

              of moving to the centre



You Were So Vain…

Posted in poetry with tags , , , on April 30, 2017 by malartart

I know it won’t exactly heal me

But surely one more beer won’t kill me

I drink to you after the fact

So much so, it feels more like

A delayed suicide pact

Mine shot himself in the head

Yours jumped off a cliff instead

Upon a record album cover well stacked

There’s photographic evidence to be had

Where all can be witness to the act

In the Seventies at Beachy Head

Virtual Vultures

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , on March 27, 2017 by malartart

The lamb only learns when it is loved from a distance

When cradled in arms, feeling cranky to calm

-Zyklon B to embalmed-

It forgets that it knows it ever existed in an instant

I don’t know who I am

I don’t where this is

I don’t know who you all are

But I’m beginning get the gist

I believe finite memory is more

And timeless is less

The mundane middle of Monday

Is where Friday finishes with a written test

But it’s a vexing mess that has no respect

Turns up ending with a blood splattered rest

I am my own Ministry of Militia

A bible basher with a bulletproof vest

Putting words together in new found forms

More real than reality itself

Stravinsky’s riot did me proud

M.C.’s bread is dipped in some funky mould

How dare you sow the seeds of the apocalypse!!

That’s the last job on my to-do list

Wasabi’s buck shot peppering, splits open new tins of green paint

Spraying nuance and subtly

Over a canvas of obviousness

Unique, original and never seen before

Are the curse words of the new generation

Picking like a virtual vulture over past digital corpses

So, gimme sum theeng new


Just leave me hangin’

Take a leap of faith with the future of us all

Or just

Bang the final nail into my compos mentis coffin

V. in 252

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , on February 1, 2017 by malartart


the o it seems

The over is gone

a Phantom tribute

He’s proud yet pensive; tender with

melancholy that might wound tombs and break graves

Dumbly from below

songs aren’t what they used to be; they care

deeply on heavenly floats

A killing not attempted but tempted; so

555 nights was enough

to keep this cannon booming

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