Lost Words

I mislaid a lover’s poem tonight –
now undone over wireless files –
by the members’ club –
near my short-lived home –
I dropped the text – her words have gone –
my lust-spews lost her – internet-blown
What of un-doings can I now re-build
in this swilled night-time
with sleep to kill?
A recall of her squats –
her tight compressions
over my thighs – shoved without questions –
and my pained hands on her flattened breasts –
I type too fast to retrieve behests
Tonight I’ll dream of us reaching – fumbling –
fingering and buried – ever French-kissing –
but all those breaths are a short frustration
I’ll lose the lines in my translation –
I was stood naked on a littered road
and her lost poem lay folded –
still unknown


Lost Dad

Dad turned into a dog just before
the US-presidential election,
the world was changing so much
that anything, anything was possible,
like Dad becoming a cross-breed,
like Dad then shitting on our lawn,
(Dad never, ever, did that before).
He turned into a beautiful mongrel,
possibly part-Labrador, part-Poodle:
‘Stupid, with good looks,’ was all Mum said.
But what do we do about it?
I spent a few days hugging him,
trying not to catch his sad eyes.
What could I do? I am only sixteen.
Mum was rubbish, she told no one,
not even Gramps, who knows everything.
We were confused, in our own little world.
Perhaps the re-count would happen,
and prove that Russians fixed the election,
and Dad would become Dad again?
Not likely, according to the feeds I grazed upon:
Yes, I do RSS. I AM a child of the internet,
we don’t all just do Insta-snap.
I sat at the window, the grass grew high outside,
Dad’s peeing on it made no difference:
Mum got a cute lawn boy in,
who complained about Dad’s shits.
Try scooping them up each morning!
On the seventh day I bought a lead for Dad,
Mum was still in denial, so I took him out:
Opposite our house are the best woods ever,
once you have crossed the dangerous road,
the one Dad forever moaned about.
But now he strained at his lead,
desperate to cross, no matter what.
He responded well to my commands,
which I had looked up on Google.
He ran off, like a furious sprinter:
Dad had never run anywhere before.
I watched him spin on the loose dry leaves,
chasing the wind-blown ones,
and then he disappeared, forever.

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Today, quick-twitter,
do this one fleet tap,
retweet this quick poem,
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I’m a Celebrity

I dreamt Ant and Dec
were happily hosting
‘I’m a Celebrity..
Get Me Out of Syria’:

“It was tougher than
I thought it’d be,
drinking foul water,
eating what we found,
which tasted so sick,
but I am so proud;
my camp mates are great,
I want them all to win,
but I’m a free celebrity,
and their future is grim.”

She smiled in her moment,
prime-time TV,
whilst crossing back
to reality.