the second history

well aren’t i ridiculous
to act the way i do
against you

punching out in directions
breaking the broken
shifting in and through
hard rip into all of it

to do it my own way
pushing to make
dominance in reverse

slurping sounds
as it releases
reel to end
be kind rewind

wind it all up
catalogue it
placed in an archive


revisit to remember
why it was

tape 2
a fresh start
without your bullshit
a new time

The Victorian Pier

Sauntering on the planks,
boats out at sea,
umbrella in my hand,
the grey hanging high.

An old pebble beach,
strolling along the esplanade,
admiring the Italian gardens,
Victorian splendour in autumn.

Holes in my shoes,
the smell of rust,
the smell of salt,
waves dance below us.

Fishermen in the drizzle,
the Pavilion’s history echoes,
empty benches seat ghosts,
the pier their host.

The Dog Made Of Newspaper

Will we forever be haunted
by the dog made of newspaper?
Rustling and howling at our door,
keeping us awake all night!
He chases after butterfly clips,
he barks at cotton wool cloud
and follows us everywhere we go.
If he get in, he makes a mess,
ink and letters all over the furniture,
paper cuts all over the curtains.
We try to ignore him as best we can,
neighbours think we’re barking mad,
but they can’t see yesterday’s news.