Slept
One hushed minute is mine
around our slept-still house
as tea scabs cold in my mug
beside my unloaded bed .../
A Taste of Honey
Dear Steven Patrick Morrissey – mononymously known by your burly surname I fell in love with you in nineteen eighty-four – or maybe slightly before – when you sang a lullaby – Yes – it was just for me – played on an ache-laden Scouse-spun John Peel Session You were Alan Bennett – on a sweat-rinsed...
After Life
As does life death divides us into elements but to more soil split by flame or let to rot to parts of it all but not to old garlands met at gates or other such sainted barricades set firmly shut until our acts are cleaved into columns of further acts and divisions Mike Bell Poetry...
Nebbich
There can be no denial of whilst victims of and children of know those now-blurrings were man-made but it will pass that deniers will out last deep ink and then history will detach from our word of Mike Bell Poetry Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time,...
Divine
You travelled there alone – you said – to discover a hidden watercourse under Devil’s Dyke against received wisdom and geological sooth with a pair of readied rods – almost as ridiculous as a stooped detectorist with his singing pendulum We laughed at them But should it greet you? Mike Bell Poetry Mike Bell aims...
An Untitled Insect
It once had a name – by dint of those orange-tipped wings – and on my tongue’s tip too – a too-rare flitted hurdler of garden hedges and fences No one else cared Such is our loss of simplicity that even a vibrating bee’s hum seems misplaced – mechanical Our young dog was spell-bound by...
Sleep Walking
All simple pleasures of sleep have now been reduced over these past three days by work and their changes to that work as all my efforts are then undone to be redone before their deadline is met in that dirt of freelancing No paid sick leave for us workers of late hours and others’ foibles...
By Green Park
Day-glo tourists and hoary men – stiff in their dour ashen suits – not much has changed beyond Victoria’s cast arches – still a Queen and commoners standoff and watch each other from behind quick net curtains and wrought iron barriers as black cabs and red buses match those travellers’ hopes of a London of...
On at Eridge
For fuck’s sake then a rummage of backpack zips as his phone alert raises its volume during their fight And she asks him Where are you? Just left Eridge Where? Just left Eridge – On the train When are you here? In a few minutes – In a few minutes – It’s running late And...
07:33 Uckfield to London Bridge
It is a regular slog – a rub of bodies albeit freshly washed within air-conditioned warming-up carriages Out of Oxted and left to mute prayers and fingering keyboards instead of rosaries by that ticket- greedy high priest And a sudden tunnel is my utter immersion in this commuter hell – of sorts Mike Bell Poetry...
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