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Poetry Page

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'Insects On The Skyline' by Clive A.M. Griffiths

I felt a sudden tug from the future,
a moment that so consumed me,
leading me to hot and cold places.
Cars passing by, hissing of tyres,
floating cries on busy pavements,
songs of drunks, the buffeted clouds,
shrouding a night's thickened air.
Through a tunnel of alcohol haze
disarming me, I stirred once more.
I had cried until you were gone,
slowly fading until falling apart,
aware of a bruised heart beating.
I passed that lemon glass building
beneath one silent star, for asking,
searching an old heart's chambers
at a night's cruel and late betrayal,
I found one kind of emptiness there

Stalking giant insects, dark lines,
perpendicular high steel structures
casting vertical shadows up to the sky,
grew higher to the night, unknowingly
intimidating me, calling in the night.
I shrank back to smallness unknown
beyond sight, or anyone's imagination,
to blind my mind without celebration.
No refuge lay there, no peace train,
city cranes raised their stalked heads,
screaming out for branded overtures
seeking safety, release from a plight.
I held back the night, my bowed head
shrank back to a familiar smallness,
beside crane sticked insects, prowling,
quietly, observing their sinister city.
I tried so hard to hold it's lame hands
kneeling on cracked paving joints,
of these aged tear stained pavements,
kissing the lined old face of a tired city.

'At Your House' by Lisa Jones

I'd arrive at your house,
sleeping bag trailing behind me

and settle with a bowl of red jelly!
while we put our hair in rags.

Giggling to the night cold,
pausing to pout on stolen cigarettes

we'd phone up boys and
eat those biscuits Mum never bought.

At your house! we'd drown in cheap cider
and run around in dares on the warm tarmac.

Laying like lions on your living room floor!
we'd talk in the dark about girls we hate

and with 3am energy!
dance to the Beach Boys until your Dad came to shout.

When the last rumour slipped into sleep,
I'd find comfort in your breathing as it lifted and fell.

Stretching into the cartoon morning,
we'd sniff like Bisto kids, our breakfast softly wafting.

Hopping, rabbit-like in your downy cocoon,
you'd proudly show me your rubber collection.

Nibbling lazily on a piece of toast,
curled under the table, looking at your treasures.

Your Mum would say to mine, "good as gold"
and we'd grin slyly and nod like angels.

I'd love to see those memories now,
like the movies we watched, at your house.

'A Day At New Brighton' by Clive A.M. Griffiths

It was an early start
That is when it happened
Dad fully decided that the sun called
Edging it's face at our window
Teasing a child's expectation
Summer high sky had emptied
We walked "bagged up"
To the bus stop outpost
Past the silent terraced houses
Full of unsilent children

After which it seemed forever
A green bus crawling across town
Dawdling at each and every bus stop
Coughing up hills and idling at corners
Until all sweets were finally eaten
Then we talked, magicked up our senses
To anticipation of the river
Our long famous river
Called us to the longest day
In a summer kaleidoscope
When that ferry crossed the Mersey
I could smell the sea spray
As the ferry dipped it's nose
Under that restless white wash
Her bow lifting, then lilting
It's uncertain way to the shore
Where those millions of grains of sand
Awaited our day's play
We ran onto a different world
Diluting under the sun

Now it seems quite strange
Those black and white images
Wide spaces, numbers and the cockles
The length of that journey
The strength of our parents
The sense of all that goodness
Our childhoods bathed in another world
That our children will never touch
It seems right, and fitting
That world, under that sun

'bruise, shoes, lights, dirt' by Lisa Jones

I stand in the sweaty basement
running ice-cubes along the back of my neck,
the heat gushing, waiting to perform.
I make my Marilyn walk to the concrete plinth,
a willing sacrifice in black mascara.
Strings tighten and chords gutter out.
I wrestle the heavy guitar over my pelvis
and feel the beat in my belly.
Blood thumping, black-out-time.

I glare into the crowd,
fucking the nerds and mullets
with a dead eye stare.
I'll be their motorcycle crash.
Will they soak up:
fear, surgery, desire, pop stars
and the stale smell of the city,
or will they remain:
TV, BB, X-Box, P.C.s, Es, txt msgs, me;
blonde, breasts, a guitar
and no apologies.

I pause, tasting metal
and give them my crooked rose;
'If you wanna get ahead, put on your lipstick'
and smear outside the lines with red paint.
Tasty.
I eat up their looks of confusion
as I sweat, judder and smash glass.
'V isnt she pretty 4 uz?'
Never.

Falling to my knees, pulling at strings,
I bash out tuneless, white noise
and become open mouth, bruise, shoes, lights, dirt,
smothering them with my beautiful instrument.

'Sweater' by Lisa Jones

She sleeps with his clothes, not with his body,
an empty smell and the creak of a black leather jacket.

They lie in a strange shape, mangled like a body from
a motorcycle crash, offering no solace, no conversation.

Shyly she slides a finger between the cool, metal buttons of his flies,
wondering what it would be like for real - hotter.

At last she sleeps.
One pale arm slung over her forehead,
the other looped through the sleeve of his rough sweater.
Still alone, but still breathing.

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