“All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” Samuel Beckett K.P. Under this tilted roof, as designed by me, here briefly sheltered, but no deft-certificate, no kite mark of designer, unlike your good self – certification as artist, qualified by eye and time; but I...
We must build dikes of courage to hold back the flood of fear Martin Luther King, Jr. I no longer understand this aberrant world – I am standing – ill – aged and weeping in confusion Please – for me – explain without repeated cliches then I might hear you and avoid a crossing On...
What is the point of lettuce? A taste instantly forgetted: the crunch, and soft chew, does little for you apart from being the ‘L’ in sandwich. Mike Bell Poetry Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time, and then take a nap. By then he should be...
Another day of distances at my complicated desk, workings-out/drawings-up, a world, yet to be seen, here conjured, cuff-rolled under my sleights of hand; I am a whore for every hour at this, my digital alchemy, turning fixed ones and zeros into other fools’ short gold: And when their rush passes, designs met, now unamended, I...
4th February 2017 To she who mouthed an obscenity (because I parked in a Family Bay): I hope we get to meet up again, as I didn’t get to fully explain: There is no excuse for what I did, especially as I didn’t drive my kids; instead it was me picking up paint, these days...
Here’s my retreat, here’s where I go, this mug, this refill of purchased repose; Louche between low chats of fat latte ladies, opposite capped men, brusque and too matey: Aglow screen readers, the Twitter typed lovers, drugged kids in buggies, under suffocate of covers; a blind date, or business, a couple here meet, slow in...
One could stand by herself, being a Pedigree model, but her voice had gone, her real hair discoddled, knots of locks trimmed by nibbling vermin. Two dolls from the loft in one box, both hiding: I brought them down, as found, unbidden, with rolled back eyes: old toys, MADE IN BRITAIN. From the same place...
Recall is now grey scale, but I once dreamt in colour without any gnaw of limp, or hint of restricted reach: back when stiff was good: And I would wake to this: Eight AM, clear-road Sunday: Floored up the A316, in my stripped-down Landie, roof-less, screen-dropped, me, blown, almost removed, with the doortops off: I...
There to see my Father,
propped-up in a polished box,
one that my eldest brother,
chose, on the basis of, what
...
I have my inner tremor,
my lower jaw mumbles,
my right hand joins in,
connectedness concurs
...