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Insulting you in paint colours

First date
Dead trout
Mouse back
Ham hock
Salt ram
Crom fog
Wax mertle
Filing cabinet
Cissy pale
Dove tail

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Secret machines

You click woods, gulp wave breaker, cliffs,
white starfished flesh.

I can’t compete with the curvature of the egg earth,
the wonky wooden steps with not long left.

I barter with the sand hurling rocks in awkward arcs.

The gulls are at my back for food.
I am stone rich, keep secrets burried deep in f carrion.

I look long enough and see NASA trecking the horizon with their secret machines.

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.

About working in an office

You won’t find the filing cabinets under your desks
they’re on the roof; comment edited with bird shit and ash, and I can tell you
my forearms pulsed with the grey weight of maths.

I thought about going back but my feet got a system on the stairs
and the paper diaohorrea relieved itself into the sky cistern
like tax-back in December.

Double check your crib sheet,
there’s no mark scheme for the things I did last week,
the way I woke up wearing nothing but two eyes dressed like dignitaries.

I high-fived the bin man, made muppets out of mittens
and in a book shop left a kiss
in every copy of ‘self justifications of a prick tease.’

I wrapped spreadsheets round my wrists
and in the evening made out like a data medusa
neon snaking text off each hip.

I placed trust in the fist of a cold hard bitch
sent a small me to a squat party
without a taxi fee back to somebody who knows

how to make a lever arch file close properly.
Truth is, I Iike lists
I like scaring chaos shitless.

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Backstage, the poets wait like gladiators,
hydrating, meditating, training quatrains.

They look fit,
but the green room, in the mirror,
their eyes glint
and in the cortex, adrenalin is articulate.

Backstage the poets are sweating,
doing syntax sit ups, they practice,
as their lungs, half flaccid couplets
pump punctuation, image chains, acrostics
back into the atmosphere.

Backstage, the poets deadlift edit,
do alliteration arm curls,
cadence bench press
siblance star jumps.

Backstage the poets are doing social stretches,
making half friends for four days
they tell each other antonyms,
suggest line breaks,
praise rhythms, rhymes and lunges.

But each think, my metaphor is a winner
my metaphor is pretty fit
my metaphor has a bigger penis than yours
and could probably steal your girlfriend.

Backstage the poets are not gladiators,
they are just people who aren’t cool enough to have normal conversations.

More poems here. ABCTales is an excellent writing website. Join.