50PoWriMo - XVI

the boy whose hiding place was more exposed than he realised



he crawled beneath the leaves
         the top layer soft and orange
         the next crunchy and browning
         the last a filthy mulch
     he crawled beneath the filthy leaves

he tore apart the ground
         easing a crumbling crack open
         ripping into the fissure
         a muddy cast on his bleeding fingertips
     he tore apart the muddy ground

he curled into a ball
         trying to telescope so tiny
         anatomical origami
         folding limbs in tight creases
     he curled into a tight ball

he covered up his face
         buried in his clenched arms
         shielded underneath his hair
         and tearful, bloody mask of filth
     he covered up his tearful face

he couldn't hide his wings
         the tighter he curled the more they spread upward
         retreating back through his escape route
         glistening through the leafy blanket
     he couldn't hide his glistening wings

Stats - Day 9

poems written = 15

poems written per day = 1.6667
poems remaining = 35

required poems per day = 1.6667

50PoWriMo - XV

the last of the anonymous international playboys



mustachioed, track-suited, grey
and with total casual carefreedom
the man on the morning train
dons a second pair of glasses
to read his polish playboy.
all his fellow commuters
pretend not to notice
as they read their metros
with atypical interest
(and i get out my notebook)

50PoWriMo - XIV

we have nothing to fear, but ...



for
everything
actual,
real,
identifiable,
there
seem
endless
limitless
fancies

advancing
nefarious
demons
made
of
nonsense
still
terrify
even
rational
senses

Stats - Day 8

poems written = 13

poems written per day = 1.625
poems remaining = 37

required poems per day = 1.6818

50PoWriMo - XIII

i still couldn't



if i had a cape i still couldn't fly
if i had a grape i still couldn't make wine
if i had a paper i still couldn't lie
         in sufficient quantities to satisfy the masses
if i had a wand i still couldn't cast a spell
if i had a pond i still couldn't be a well
if i could respond i still couldn't tell
         them what i think of them
if i had x-ray eyes i still couldn't see
if i had goodbyes i still couldn't be free
if i had countless tries i still couldn't be
         the right sort of right sort of person

50PoWriMo - XII

plans



i'm a big fan
of making plans
i dream up a scheme every ten waking minutes
in minute detail
but my complete fail
is ever endeavouring to begin it
i am indescriminately capricious
i am flightier than david collins
i could make a billion wishes
i could be myriad things
but i'm insufficiently competent for most of them
and i'm excessively lazy for all of them

Stats - Day 7

poems written = 11

poems written per day = 1.5714

poems remaining = 39

required poems per day = 1.6957

50PoWriMo - XI

sauce




i wanna be a saucier
so flipping bad

careme and escoffier won't have nothing on me
i'll be the master of all their five categories
and more they could never have comprehended
as i crack all their classics and leave them transcended
my handwritten paraphrase of peterson's tome -
full of fuctions of flavours that make the mouth foam
with anticipatory drool just from reading it -
will have slavish devotees of what i decreed in it
my sauce gribiche
will make fish
kill themselves just to be served in it
(what makes them think they're deserving it?
i'll serve it up with sweatbreads)
til everyone who wanted to eat sped
to eat my perigueux
or my sauce foyot,
ailoli, remoulade, buerre rouge
sauce vierge, veloute, skhug,
salsa, pesto, meuniere,
sauce choron or sauce robert

lord of the liaison, ruler of the roux
i'll be the one they all want to outdo
but no matter the mastery my challenger obtains
you can't beat the man with sauce coursing through his veins




for the record - i sort of love the idea of being a chef but couldn't bear the lifestyle. i am, however, more than a little obsessed with the perfect sauce gribiche. oh, and the coolest position in a brigade kitchen is obviously the communard, despite the 80s pop implications.

also, this was another title suggested by Smedley in a blog reply (thanks). why not suggest a title for me to work on (please)?

50PoWriMo - X

serving



i work much harder
for this hour and a half
early on a sunday morning
than in any given hour and a half
of my working week
because the rewards are greater
than any pay

Stats - Day 6

poems written = 9

poems written per day = 1.5

poems remaining = 41

required poems per day = 1.7083

50PoWriMo - IX

five haiku in bed




i)
a lone firework's
lateness and isolation -
no catholics are killed

ii)
summing squares of primes
up to one hundred and one:
seven five nine nine seven

iii)
do you remember ...?
no, reminiscing is not
bedtime suitable

iv)
two seconds of prayer
for each person i care for?
far more than i thought

v)
downside of the love
i can't but feel for my child?
cleaning up her sick

50PoWriMo - VIII

i dreamt i met lennon's ghost and he was a jerk



i said "hey john,
can you sing me a song
about what it's like to be dead"
"of course," said he,
"for a reasonable fee"
"stuff it, i'll just imagine instead"

Stats - Day 5

poems written = 7

poems written per day = 1.4

poems remaining = 43

required poems per day = 1.72

50PoWriMo - VII

listening to 60s jazz with a 4-year-old girl






i)
can you see me dancing?
     i can see your head moving
is that how we dance to this music?
     you can dance how you like to whatever music you like
then i'll move some other parts too


ii)
is that a saxophone?
     yes, sweetie, that's coltrane
it's noisy but sort of pretty


iii)
that lady singing sounds sad
     that's sort of the point
oooh, the piano has the tune now, maybe that will cheer her up

Stats - Day 4

poems written =6

poems written per day = 1.5

poems remaining = 44

required poems per day = 1.6923

50PoWriMo - VI

face it




i've grown accustomed to my face
with this portion of it covered,
hidden in a hairy haven, encased
in comfy carpeting, shaggily smothered
feeling like i look like pharaoh sanders
infuriating my beautiful lover
who has told me with increasing candour
how much she despises
having to look at it and her
lovingly intended advice has
finally worn me away
and a number of devices
have left me cleanly shaved
as a gift for her birthday

trouble is my face appears
in every shiny thing and mirror
and i can't help myself but leer
the change in look is so severe
just as i feared
                 i look weird
and since my face had been sheared
it looks so much fatter than with the beard
i've grown unaccustomed to my face

Stats - Day 3

poems written = 5

poems written per day = 1.6667

poems remaining = 45

required poems per day = 1.6667

50PoWriMo - V

just a short one as i am temporarily unable to hold a pen



if, when attempting a task that requires a certain level of concentration,
your mind starts wandering to what you're going to write a poem about that evening and you fail to pay as much attention
to the task in hand as you should
there will be blood

50PoWriMo - IV

defenestration



like chopin's piano
like a cliched rockstar's hotel television
like applecores onto motorway verges
like pino pinelli
       (who should never be confused with gino ginelli)
like my highschool girlfriend's a level results
       with which she was so disappointed
            that i felt unable to be sad about mine
like my vomit that one time i drank cinzano
       that i subsequently had to clean 
            from my downstairs neighbours' window
like the ring that flew off my finger
       as i was gesticulating whilst dancing
            that i thought i would be sad about losing
                but, like the person who gave it to me,
                    i was better off without
like the surreptitious paper planes made in maths lessons
       as we competed over who could hit the cars
            of the most hated teachers
like the tiny torn pieces of the poem
       i wrote that girl that time
            as she demonstrated her general disdain
                for everything i was
like the girl on the something corporate album
like the scenario that plays out in your mind
       when you are on the receiving end
            of a game of "tell your mum i saved your life"
like an early draft of this poem
       that revolved around a weak pun
            about installing linux






first use of a suggested title - this one with thanks to Smedley in a blog reply