O hark, tis national poetry day...

... and therefore the lovely fellow Matt Witt at http://www.creaturemag.com/ has compile a three part series of poetry from various poets to celebrate. This is a lovely website, constantly updated, which gives a whole host of quirky and inventive artists the platform to show of their wares.

so delve in

http://www.creaturemag.com/creaturemag-poetry-part-1/#more-1620

http://www.creaturemag.com/creaturemag-poetry-part-2/#more-1640

and find me and a bunch of other chaps scribblings.

more tomorrow.

xx

just 'cause you made a sandcastle, doesn't mean you're some kind of king

and when I get there

still

token of a present that isn’t yet on the first steps

the thought up ahead

waiting to catch up with dreams and meaning of beings, beens

and or

or and

and has beens

syncopated frames colliding to meet

the maker of scenes side reel

and I feels to I feel to I feels

and to find real

I asked the mirror if my eyes could pluck from me

and the words fell to nothing else

and my screams went unheard to those ears

that face was just lines

that chin was just a shape

and movement was mimic

we saw through two eyes; not four

and spoke with one mouth

heard with two ears; and the other two deaf

breathed just one fresh air

and when the question sought answers

none came

the legs remained lame

the arms couldn’t lift themselves

and I could see the strings

my friend could never be as much as I saw him

and the words he said could never mean as much as I heard them

my company was never much as I gave

and my words were never as much as their worth

I bowed down for no curtsey

shook hands

p’d and q’d for no courtesy

my body spoke the wrong language

eyes can only see what they understand

the mind can only construct the pattern

my green is your blue

my hate is your glue

and our norths can’t meet

I grew from something else

and your earth is my death

your exhale is my breath

and as you stand

my right is my left

together we chased our own rainbow

found the pot was empty

and so sold the pot

climbed mountains with no view

ran marathons with no finish line

thought equally of ourselves as murderers and geniuses

learned to hate out obsessions instead of embrace them

and did the same to our relatives

I learnt not to hold your hand while you held mine

it didn’t matter if I lied if you believed me

so I just said that was how I smiled when I was happy

and you did it too

how can it be love

when it’s like this?

does hate end up loving all the time

no one ever answers these questions

so

bashing this wall for as long as I’ve been

looking so far forward that I missed the door right beside me

eventually broke through stone and concrete

reached through to pull the inside out

and found

just the same

and the wall suddenly seemed more beautiful

its reason was just to be; not to block

and I’d turned the wall into a hole

that opened to show that nothing had changed

so I picked up the bricks

began to build

one by one

stone by stone

and as the last piece was placed

I hammered in a nail

hung a mirror

and I looked at each other

(c) Dave Selby 2010

22/12/09

it was what i had been dreading

the phone too

it trembled and glowed

its blue light

at the shock of what it had received

she hates to see me chipper

because i was the one

and i don't understand

how hard it is for her

i reply

some bullshit

because i can't say

one of the many things

i would like to say:

i miss you

i hate you

i'm trying not to rub salt in the wounds

i've hurt you

i've hurt me

i still love you

so i say

i know, i'm sorry

and she says

no, you really, really

don't know

just keep on with your chipper

fucking mornings and gigs

and forget about me

well

i can't

i want to

i hate you

i miss you

i've hurt you

i hate me, and

i still love you

(c) Dave Selby 2010

nightly woe

lady of the night

get inside

for

it is cold

although, admittedly

it has been rather temperate

and

the weather recently

has more than made up

for the bitter winter months

still

your clothes are few

and you tremble

like a puppy

a cute one

who is cold

or maybe

(even)

scared

lady of the night

get inside

(c) Dave Selby 2010

Review

he ran his

small

fat

hands across the hair of her outer thigh

and looked into her

good eye

leaned in

and brushed his mid-life crises

against the rim of her glasses

by mistake

they didn't need words;

she didn't know many

and he

had a speech impediment

some people are meant to be alone

(c) Dave Selby 2010

the secrets of that ee ee ee sound you here on a stereo you left on

it is you

as much as you hate it

and as much as i can't help it

its you

as much

and paper and ink aren't enough

song is not enough

and damn sure text is not enough

and i'm not enough

and that's why it's you

has been

and probably will be

as much as you hate it

and as much as i can't help it

it's you

the space i feel in my bed

the stool next to me at the bar on lunch times

and i still buy the second shot

because if you're not there to drink it

then i need to

(c) Dave Selby 2010

she looked deep into his eyes

and said

i love you

and all she could see

was herself reflected

and she meant it

(c) Dave Selby 2010

flowers, anyone?

i only have one mood

and i'm not in it

i'm again outside it

looking in

trying to get it's attention

but it isn't looking 'round

i think it passed away in the night

'cause of the cold

(c) Dave Selby 2010

...and again...

i'll tell you why it didn't work

i always follow my heart

and not my head

and my heart was filled

with hate and shit

and is now dead

you always followed your head

and not your heart

and you're a fucking idiot

(c) Dave Selby 2010

Sun reported to not only be incapable of wearing a hat, but also not even own one.

Experts have stated today that if the sun were indeed to put on a hat it would surely be engulfed in flames on the surface of his 5500 °C (about 9900 °F) head.
Dr Hopson of Londons Royal Astronomical Society said that “it wouldn’t even work if the hat was made of, like, steel or something, ‘cause it really is very, very hot and would just vaporise. It’s even hotter than a really hot oven”.

Staff at St Brendan’s CofE School, have been asked to try to overlook the subject should it be bought up, to keep from upsetting the children. “The cost of recalling thousands of books to edit ‘The Sun Has Got His Hat On’ would be phenomenal”, says Head Teacher Ms Flaps. “The budgets for most schools are tight as it is, and it’s hard enough trying to maintain a general work ethic with these rubber headed children, without also losing their trust. We’ve done it with huge sections of the other text books”, she added, as she returned to her wincing students.

Terry Dilddleton, a local interior designer, sympathised with the Head Teacher, pledging full blackouts on every window, saying, “the quicker we can get around this, the happier the children can be. I’m not standing by while a child weeps, due to some big, hot, lying orange cunt in the sky. I fucking love kids”.

(c) Dave Selby 2010

when it comes in
you will

try

open up your mouth
see what you say
and at least give it a go

but it won't always
it won't

it won't always

if i had a pound for every time,
i'd still be poor
i'd still be here
and as much as i need to move
i'm still trying to figure the direction
and the reason
and the push
and why

is that enough

will that do

?

christmas 09

you shouldn't use church to apologise
because you won't mean it

when you're down
find someone else who is
and enjoy it with them
experiment it with them
explore it
make it an art
tears are a fine line
when you're a violent bystander
of your own marriage

open the presents
and then open your mouth
with your heart open
and throw the gift down
because if they really had thought about giving you this
piece of shit
then they're taking so much more

(c) Dave Selby 2010

you say you missed me

you say you missed me
so how come
every time you say that
i feel like i'm being shot between the eyes
and i feel a sharp shooting pain all down my left hand side

you say i don't say much any more
but when you said that
you were talking over me

you say i don't hold you any more
but if i grabbed you right now
in the way i want to
one of us would be very alone
and the other
very dead

you say we don't make love any more
by making love
do you mean
having a sudden fixation with downing rum
grabbing my crotch in public
looking at me
with your one good eye
and saying
"do you want to do it"
and me saying
"no
that would be more like rape"

you say you missed me
and every time you say that
a bullet marked love
spirals into my face
splinters my skull
and the blood of affection
spurts all over you

(c) Dave Selby 2010

the bad thing about your guilt

ltimately it doesn’t matter that you die, but it is important how you die and he didn’t want to die here. An incident with a knife or a stray car and that was how it happened on this side of town. He was more than aware of that. His parents had told him, the necktie wearers at the BBC had told him and the black ink of the newspapers had told him: be afraid. Every hoodie concealed a blade and these pubs on corners contained drink inspired men that laughed as they kicked your head towards brain damage. Sex fiends, paedos, drug users, rapists, murderers and drunkards roamed the tarmac looking for fun, and you and a have-a-go hero would be left face down in a road and maybe be there for a number of days before anybody bothered to identify you.
But this is the side of town you had to be on to make these kinds of purchases. You can’t just stroll into Tescos and get a gun. The painted ladies at the customer services desk were most likely to inform security and that’s not a good start. They have a knack of getting in the way.
A friend of a friend had given him the mobile number, along with a sneering, not knowing look that meant he thought revenge was on the cards and I’m the man who’s going to help sort it out. Prick. He called the number, asked for the item and received a bunch of crackpot, military jargon about what he was requiring it for that he was unable to answer.
“Automatic or semi?” “Pistol or revolver?” “.25 or .32?”
None of this mattered,
“Do you have a gun that will take off the back of a mans head?” He asked.
“Sure thing.”
“Instant Death? Big hole and no chance of living?”
“Sure thing”.
And this was where he’d have to come to get it. To get to death you had to walk through a valley of it and you might not get there, it might get to you first.
27a Staminton Road. First Buzzer. He pressed. No reply came back but the lock clicked and he pushed it open to reveal a steel door. He was in a fucking kook action movie, only here you could smell the piss and there was no soundtrack. A sliding viewer on the door opened and a pair of eyes spoke.
“You John?”
“Yep, although if I wasn’t, surely I’d still say yes.”
There was a pause, “You trying to piss me off John?”
“No.”
“Come in.”
The door opened and the stench of piss got instantly worse, he was glad it was cold out and he could pull his scarf over his mouth. But wasn’t every breath sucking the air into his scarf and impregnating it with foreign urine? He pulled it back down, he was going to have to deal with it. The T.V. was showing cartoons but no children were present, just a white washed brunette in whore fancy dress staring at the apex of the room, probably looking for a way out. It wasn’t up there, and it wasn’t outside those steel doors either. The only real hope she had was to take more drugs and travel around inside her head on them, and when they stop working, she’d still be able to OD.
They went through to the bedroom, although it was more of a storage space for boxes of broken electrical crap and there was no mattress on the bed, just a sorry, slumping, sweat covered divan base, complete with e-z flow air tears. The arms dealer reached rounds some boxes and pulled out a suitcase, opened it and revealed a pile of metal weaponry. He pulled out a revolver with a ridiculously long barrel and strained to keep it upright.
“Maybe something a little…lighter.”
The crook smashed his hand around inside the case and pulled out a small pistol.
“It’s a P99, you could take the bollocks off an elephant with one of these.”
“Why would you do that?”
“You wouldn’t, it’s just a saying isn’t it.”
“I’ve never heard it.”
“Well it’s not… look, do you want to buy a fucking gun or what?”
“Yes.”
“The Walther?”
“The what?”
“THE FUCKING P99, THE FUCKING GUN I JUST SHOWED YOU.”
“Yes, sorry, how much?”
“£500.”
“ok.”
“You not gonna bargain.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s a bit much, it’s only small.”
“Fuck it, I won’t need the money.”
“OK £400, I’ll throw in an extra clip for free.”
“Keep it, I won’t need it.”
He pushed the gun into his inside pocket like he’d seen it done in movies, and moved back through the front room. The girl kept staring upwards.
“She ok?” he asked,
“Probably, who gives a fuck?”
“That’s ok then.”
He let himself out, the security in these places left a lot to be desired. The door might as well be made of rainbows.
Codiene and whisky was his first choice but you have to swallow a hundred of the bastards to get it to work. He’d kept up the stories about back pain at the doctors long enough to work up the required amount, which was a real job, as to get the right strength pills you’ve got to act like your spine was broken in four places in a war and tears have to constantly wet your eyes.
He’d started at them with a real gusto, chomping them down like nachos but eventually the stuff makes you tired and one level above motionless and he passed out. When he woke up his stomach was in agony, but that didn’t matter, the problem was that he had woken up. He didn’t shit for 3 days and when he did it was an experience. It took 16 weeks to get that many pills together and it turned out to be a waste of time. Codiene and whisky was off the list.
Car exhaust and hose pipe was next on the list of acceptable ways to leave. His friends father had done it this way and it was always remarked that when found, he had looked very peaceful. But, he didn’t have a car or a driver’s license. If he went out to buy a car someone was going to figure that something was up and start mooching around. People mooching around can be extremely off putting in these sorts of deals. You only really get one proper pop at this, and if someone mooches across suicide attempts then you’re hanging out with cases up at the loon house, and you’ve got no shoelaces. Also he didn’t have a garage and what if school kicks out. Crossed off.
Next up was slit wrists. He couldn’t figure how anyone could do this, it was too much for him to even touch his wrists firmly. Sure, he was going to die anyway and should probably not be too much of a pussy about it, but when your committing this act it’s normally to escape pain, so why create more. Plus some poor bastard has to break the lock on the bathroom door to find out someone they care about has cut himself open because they didn’t listen enough. Why are people always being so selfish when someone does themself in?
“I should have talked to him more.”
“I could have helped.”
“I should have told him I loved him.”
Piss off, it’s not all about you.
Wouldn’t it be nice for the self-murderer to be relieved of the extra pressure put on him by the foresight of all those future spoken unhappy clichés? Loved ones can really bring you down.
So a gun it was, a last blaze of violent glory. Guns were easy, you didn’t have the problem of losing your commitment. One-second worth of commitment was enough. BANG! Job done. The only problem was when or where. You bump out of favour with a friend one day and do it that night and for all they know, blood is on their hands forever. Do it in a shared house and you’ve ensured the people you lived with that they’re going to get haunted.
“Oh that room…we don’t go in that room.”
Although it’s definitely an option if you hate your housemates. John wasn’t particularly bothered about them either way.
At the age of seven John’s parents had split. He was confined to watching every type of soap opera on the T.V. with his mother and didn’t realise she wasn’t crying about the plot line rather than the divorce until he was ten. Dallas just wasn’t that emotionally involving, but he didn’t question his mothers tears at the time. He’d never had both his parents sharing his time at any point so it never affected him. He had another house to be bored at and another Christmas present he didn’t want.
From early on he had “wanted” to be a writer but spent all his hours drawing cartoon stereotypes of Chinamen and gunmen on skateboards. The underside of his bed was a storage space of single coloured immaturity and nasal detritus. The spare pages of every book he owned were adorned with scribbles and the eyes never greeted anything pre-entered past them.
His mother didn’t know what to do with him and so put no effort into it and his father couldn’t understand why his son had turned out so worthless so called it a day on him.
He was happy though. So much emphasis is put on parenting, but why? Feed them, keep them warm and give them a bed. John was satisfied with this and you’re no better a person than he is; that’s just what people keep telling you. John had no real plan, but when you’re growing up, the adults will insist on wasting your time with the question of what you want to be, so return the compliment with a bull shit answer. Why not be the greatest writer of the future.
The next part of John’s story all happens extremely quickly and therefore there is little need for much detail.
He prepares himself a final meal, choice not important, so go on, pick your own. He puts on the forth movement of Gustav Mahlers fifth symphony and otherwise sits with very little movement or thought at the dinner table. This particular piece of music is twelve minutes long and gives him ample time to enjoy and finish his food a little while before it ends. He presses the off button on the CD player-the fifth movement is not so beautiful- and pulls the plug from the socket. He has set the gun along side the bed, so that he can be relaxed when the time comes. The doorbell rings, and for some dumbfuck reason, John answers the door. It’s the police. They would like to come in. Do they have warrants? Yes they do. John is trembling. He’s suddenly realised he didn’t need to answer the door. His stomach is a ball of hatred for him. The police find the gun. It was next to the bed, why wouldn’t they. John is in handcuffs.
“The judge won’t look kindly on this, oh no.”
“Mind your head”
“You have the right…”
John remains silent. Except for sobs. It didn’t work. It didn’t work. It didn’t fucking work. Why did he answer the door? What should he say? Will they lock him up? Jail or The Home? “You’re a silly lad Mr Williams.” “The judge won’t look kindly on this.” “They’re really stomping down on this kind of thing son.” And he doesn’t know what to say. Why would he, he’s the jackass that opens the door before he does himself in. He’s in a police car. There’s no rain. Why isn’t there rain? Didn’t this deserve some moody weather? No? No.
The judge didn’t look kindly on this sort of thing. The jury were told what opinions to have. The minimum sentence was five years. The judge liked the sound of eight. The sound of eight was repeated. Eight it was. Eight years. Sex fiends, paedos, drug users, rapists, murderers and drunkards in every room. For eight years.
Fortunately this isn’t what happens.
John walks to his room in silence, lies on the bed, picks up the gun, has one last thought about living, decides it’s not an option and pulls the trigger.
Common decency states that you should always leave a note to inform the finder of your empty body of a reason for your leaving, and John isn’t the type to break fashion.
Laid on his chest is an A4 piece of paper that reads in bold marker:
“GOT BORED”

(c) Dave Selby 2010

the sun

the sun came up
it always does
clouds cleared
you looked around
and everything was
beautiful

the landscape seemed
green again
the birds sang
a little louder

people smiled
you walked easier

then it set
the moon came up
it always does

(c) Dave Selby 2009