Flat Coke

The first time I started this poem,
The bubbles made me choke...
Look, I know I promised you I wouldn't glorify capital,
Not even as a joke;
But then I learnt how good it could taste,
And after that we broke (up).

Empty Recycle Bin

everything in a 'for dummies' font
and all those sneering at the typeface instead
the recaptchafication of the modern illegal internet
and moving away from the term 'fileshare'
the leaflet offering £50 in vouchers for one person
when it should be prize enough to be listened to
the poem I write in half an hour between tasks
chronicling the dislikes that kept me going during the last one,
and inventing new ones to hold me through
whatever horrific tedium comes next

Review of Blitzortung, 02/06/2017

I am watching it roll in, on the map:
There goes the Surrey Hills Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty!
A red circle engulfs Chelmsford;
Ilford is neath a priapic flame, angled towards
Nearby Noak Hill, which gets nailed!
It's Outstanding Natural Destruction on this app.
Thank the heavens for windows, and for all
They're doing to destroy those windows.
We have double glazing, to protect us from storms,
And storms, to protect us from canvassing Tories.

Cack-footed

A runner I know tried to write a poem using his GPS watch
He glided effervescently around a map, until
When viewed online, his run read POETRY in capital letters.
It took a few seconds to work out;
The P wasn't initially clear -
and that's the most important letter, at least to me -
It looks like bad form.

Reverse postcard

One strange thing that happened recently:
Dad's put speakers in the kitchen, connected to the TV.
I went to make a cup of tea,
A traumatised voice begged me not to

I read Alice Oswald's Falling Awake
Before falling asleep, and dreamt
How she might read it:
Thought you might like it.

I haven't booked train tickets to come and visit you,
I've been expending all my energy
Opposing Dad's speakers in notes
And writing protest poems.

I loaded up the browser just now
I went to buy them
A cup of tea
Begged me not to

On first hearing of the Anthropocene, but not yet knowing what it was

It's very sunny this morning
there's spring in my steps
until I realise that you're flying to Cuba -
look, there you are, trailing cloud -
but at least there's still a lot of day,
so much day, in fact.
This is how it feels, walking home as everyone
else is on their way away.
I am getting close, though
you are getting farther away
but not less close, right.
I'm living all of these assurances.
There is always a sunny break and
the prospect of poetry, until the
clouds come and everything gets tired.

Dad asks me if I'll go to a lecture on faith
and climate change this evening. 'I can't,
but let me know what they decide.'

There is a dusky harlequin finding its feet on the windowsill;
half-eaten by dust, it can only take off on
to its side. Within seconds of being blown back
up, it's on its wings again. I can never get a lady
bird fully upright, and though I would love it,
I can't stretch this out into a short story.

Checking departure listings to find your flight,
I'm imagining how excited I might be to be preparing for
a BA flight to Moscow at 8.40 am.
This kind of thing is exactly why I am grounded.
My Wikipedia history will never be anything
other than poem fodder.

A notification tells me it's less than one minute until
my alarm, Get the first shave, will sound.
'Do you think you will ever satisfy any of your ambitions?'
I ask myself as the countdown continues.

Sunday 26th February

O embassy of my soul to the lounge
Who does not disappoint me like Kipsang with wild claims,
Before disappointing me with only a Japanese soil best,
Which holds less currency than a world lead for 2017

O liver in a room with a window view
Of a crimson flannel causing a branch to flail
At an obscene gradient, blown up there by less-than-all, but still some-powerful-
Storm Doris, despite the tree having done its best to survive
The twin affections of February and the A23

O kindness who did not borrow my laptop this morning
To watch illegal movies, but instead who hid it in my bag,
Exactly where I'd left it, proving me the true criminal

Had an incredibly vivid dream last night in which I was playing right-back for Leeds United, at Selhurst Park. I contributed to the build-up play for one of our goals. We went in 3-1 up, although I don't think we conceded any goals. At one point I tried to make a cup of tea, but had to throw my mug and saucer away when play switched sides. As we went off for half-time, I became distracted by a presentation of the youth teams of River Plate and Boca Juniors. I was very excited to meet the River team, especially because the players were all junior versions of recent River legends, including Hernan Crespo, Marcelo Salas, Pablo Aimar, Marcelo Gallardo (I think), Falcao, and someone whose name I've been struggling to remember, but who looked like a young Rafael Nadal. After shaking hands with each of them, I went down into the changing rooms; it took me a while to find the home one (because I was now the Crystal Palace goalkeeper), and when I did, it was empty. I emptied my bladder (the changing rooms were bleak and a third taken up by cubicles), before two kids rushed in to tell me that the second half had kicked off. As I was scrambling to get back out to the pitch, I woke up.