His mind filled with his fathers’ stories of monsters in the wood
The wilful child started out to see if these tales were good
...
a poet can write about a pebble and make a page of it
he'll tell you all about the texture, and any lumps or bits
he'll tell you how it feels to touch, and smell and see and taste
but by writing much about a pebble, an hour of time he wastes
...
Up the steeply sloped road, i tip tippy toed my way away over the hill
then i spied i a view, so i stood stiffly still 'til i'd greedily had my fill
...
people keep thinking, for this is all that you've got,
not the treasures you surround yourselves with
...
Not again! The Russian always turned up.
Like a bad penny; come in from the cold.
...
I used to live on the roadside and make random art from rubbish i found.
Here is an ode to this peculiar passtime of mine, and a small nod to Mr Schwitters too.
...
We hide our true nature behind our deeds and possesions
even unto our deaths.
...
Rain hits the road like fireworks
Wet sparks flashing lighting up the earth
...
Its something to do with the sound of tapping of fingers on keys as the words keep a wrapping themselves around me and i try to get free but the rhythm wont let me be. Its something about the noise as i shout at the people about the things that enrage me these days. I try to escape the cage, of the black and white page that ive been trapped inside since an early age but the elongated sentences that ive been dished out from the judge of the poetry slam, has made me turn out the way i have become, not a complete bum just a bit of one who fights with his tongue cos he cant use a gun and couldnt afford one if he wanted. I write automatic like a kalashnicovic machine gun would spray in a driveby, and when i read out loud it seems that im about to pop, but i dont i just keep my head afloat above the waters of chaos that try to drag me down and down as i splash my way around.
Its something that bubbles up from inside me, and i try to hide see, but often it finds me at three AM with hand on a pen and im at it again, not making much sense but not sat on the fence either, im right there in the middle, a poet who scribbles his random meanderings in no sort of order just comes as it ought to, and i rearrange later the scraps of the paper that i find just lying around. Theres many to be found in the pockets of my mind and the drawers of the time that ive wasted, and i should be frustrated by the way that im going, no sense of me slowing down as yet, i have big breaks but my mind still aches with craziness deep and i often feel bleak but i know its just the void a filling.
...
star guided i walk, this world is mine
strange night mist shrouded time
...
Graham is the musicless musician, the philosophy physician, also known as the Jack of Piel, the former poet to the King of Piel Island. (Hows that for a title) . Often spotted wearing a ludicrous hat and riding round the Cornish coast on his Penny Farthing Chopper Bike or performing amazing feats of juggling while perched atop his enormous ego, Graham is definately one to watch out for. Graham is available for bookings, and performances do you require a poet? why you would need one, who knows. but if you do.... email: justice-poetic@hotmail.com for details 'Don't be fans, be fantasists.')
Daffodils
There’s no such thing as a lonely cloud
Wandering round here
They’ve all got friends and relatives
Bringing up the rear
And as for hosts of Daffodils
They’ve all been picked by tourists
Who spent too much on waterproofs
To afford a bloody florists
There used to be so many
That Billy wrote a poem
About the thousands he could see
When he used to roam
There’s plenty though, in the yards
Of rich aristocrats
But it won’t be long ‘til they’re cut down
To make way for holiday flats.