halfbakedpoemz

A sticky pub table, A storybook, a fable A day with nothing to do. Bald cunts laugh behind us The sound travels sidewards  Then suddenly we’re laughing too The weekend is golden and long And on your lips a homely song  We’re glad of this break, that much is true. From Blogger iPhone client

Flagpole, wrestled into Martian dirt Waves our closed-door country, built from clay-mounds of Hurt  Your hand at the door, before  gentle chorus, we weep- As is our custom, cousin, I lay my sword at your feet. Grazing each other’s wounds and licking them clean  Picking ticks from your hair Scraping skin off my teeth. Homing pigeon, tremble in my palm  I’ll pry open your ribs to breathe.  Then I’m familial, pliable, filial-   But you cared, so you can keep. And it’s strange, passing strange Both strangers in a strange country- Substitute the milk for eggs Finding what you need in me But beyond are the rogues, callous-handed thieves Lingering gazes and eyes that don’t see And from my tear-stained turret  A vision of worse places to be When you stole away to foreign shores flattery, sweet-faced novelty Gluttoned on attention and laughter You spilled your guts about me Now you darken my door with guilty glance- taking your chance  You bastard, yo...

BOOK REVIEW- THE GALLOWS POLE BY BENJAMIN MYERS The Yahhhkshire Moorland. Squelcheh leaves. Mulch and muck. Fookin political uprisin’ and clippin’ coins, becos the Moorlands is common lands for the men of the countreh.  Funnily enough this isn’t an actual quote from Myer’s historical crime drama, but I think I sum it up quite nicely. The novel is more Yorkshire than a Yorkshire pudding dipped in a Yorkshire tea and served with Wensleydale. And what a joy it is. A huge Shane Meadows fan, I got a few eps into his prequel/adaptation on the bbc and picked up the book from a vintage shop in Haworth, when really I should have been thinking about the Bronte sisters. Although, I certainly think Gallows Pole would be up Emily’s street. The novel is based around a real-life criminal gang, the Cragg Vale coin clippers, who, led by ‘King’ David Hartley upended the 18th-century economy and stole back some autonomy from suffocating land laws being imposed on the Yorkshire Moorlands. Myers’ inter...

BOOK REVIEW: EARWIG BY BRIAN CATLING Hello. Turn of events. I’ve finished the old A-levels and delightfully have sweet FA to do (well, almost) but am going through a real poetical dry spell. It’s this bloody heatwave! I’ve tried to write- but its all roses are red, violets are blue tripe so, if at first you don’t succeed, stop flipping trying. Instead of mooching about all day on instagram reels, I’ve been mooching about all day with a stack of books from WOB- that’s about 5% more productive, so why not give it an extra 2% and mooch about on my iPad tapping out some reviews.  Anyway, autobiography out of the way, I never thought I’d feel strongly enough about a book to actually write about it of my own volition (No, A-level English does not count) but that was until I came along to this delightful book. At precisely 150 pages, this slender, neat novella is the equivalent of a cat-scratch across the face: sharp, unpredictable, and leaving you to wonder what on earth it was for....

The legs of the synchronised swimmers, Coming up for air simultaneously.  The steady procession of rain, Pooling in the wrinkles of our anoraks. The sliding second hand on mummy’s watch, As time sneaks imperceptibly by. But I was lost in the Victorian railway, Between rising steam and flaked candy paint. Your hand over mine, falling into step, All a model-train memory: The rain The music The air The name Your hand  Your voice- And its sadness, a frequency I was too little to tune in to. From Blogger iPhone client

 I managed to get into drama school, and now meditate on future career prospects. Probably won’t be raking it in for a good while yet. Made up my mind, come to a decision. I need to choose a career, stake my claim for dominion. I could be a rocket scientist, a nuclear physician, I could fizz, buzz and spark as an electrician, A journalist scooping for the latest edition, A private pilot, spewing carbon emissions, A chemist neatly packing your prescription Or the founding father of a strange new religion (And its staunch defender when it’s met with derision). With a good pair of glasses I’d pass for a statistician Or marry into wealth with a thoroughbred patrician If I got better at lying, perhaps a politician? Something meaningful, that fulfils my ambitions. Actually, who really needs monetary provisions? I reckon I’ll just be an actor-musician. From Blogger iPhone client