* Portfolio From Last Semester *

The Length of Love

Warm greetings, neat house,
colourful windmill in a pot-plant by the door,
children’s paddling pool, half-full.
Three sets of shoes by a welcome mat,
swing-seat on an American style porch
tantalisingly ominous,
like the friend who always egged you on
to eat the worm experiment.

Warm smiles, gestures,
smells like baby rice and flowers,
Rusk crumbled on a kitchen floor.
Snack. Coffee. Conversation.

A baby monitor turned on, silent.
She tells her man to bring the baby down.
There is a creaking,
bumping,
he hums quietly to her.

His noise fills the kitchen,
joining homely, satiating smells,
the relaxing whirring of some machine
in another room.
My cousin is cradled in her arms,
oddly distorted mouth,
ugly face,
unreal.

I cannot understand,
smile warmly all the same.
My cousin with her happy face
lies, inanimate.
She will not grow or change
or die. In twenty years of my own life,
her absent breath, her foot-and-a-half long
body will still be here.

I stare,
she stares back.

Do Fish Dream Of Scaly Sheep

The creature is staring, eyes shimmering with reflections of light.
Danger! From out of my hiding place, blunt teeth bare at me.
A second creature, bigger, towers over the bowl as I swim.
The little one (a baby?) strains its arm to sprinkle in the food.

Cloonk.

OoooOaAauuuUUuoOooo.

I sink, plummet, spin off until I cannot move. The bowl shatters.
The world is closer. The smaller creature is leaning closer, reaching out.

‘MUMMYYY!!’

The creatures shriek reaches me, its sound penetrating my head.
In the midst of chaos and noise I, alone, am quiet. Detached.
I watch myself sink into a smaller bowl, a vibrant mesh of scales on clay.
Water rippling over me, I sink all the way to the ground.

Male Pride

With just a bit of extra care you’ll find
a man’s pride will enlarge to twice its size.
Some people say that pride can make you blind,
to waste your life away and fantasize.
A man’s pride can’t be tied or sacked or squashed,
re-sized to fit, chopped down a bit or lost,
it is a finite counterpart to life
and one which, when abused, will have its cost.

There is no prize for pride, no nice reward,
instead a stork will leave a little gift
- A fag burn on your pride - a rusty sword
- a present that will leave you sorely miffed.
Get out that greying cum-stained sock and pray
that not one little bastard will have stayed.

No Shoes in the Kingdom of Souls (or soles)

Where are you going?
Where are you going with no shoes?
I am going to find a friend.
going in circles - the wrong direction -
shivering on bare legs.
I am trying to keep walking,
keep upright.
I am a chilly bug in my
half-a-dress,
bear-hugging the wraparound words

‘Where are you going?
Where are you going with no shoes?’
Wandering through Liverpool town
steadily getting colder
feet getting wetter.
Picking up strange, obvious men
who ask me

‘Where are you going?
Where are you going with no shoes?’
Go home – get some sleep –
put some shoes on.
These strange men are no company,
in their flaking shadow of an existence.
I ask myself

‘Where are you going?
Where are you going with no shoes
no tights – no jumper
or coat?’
I am an icicle draped in skin.
The inside bites.
And keeps reciting

‘Where are you going?
Where are you going with no shoes?’
Drifting like morning before it paints the sky.
I am dark blue by black as the
not-so-silent night passes.

I am going.
I am going with no shoes.

Comment from Alicia Stubbersfield: You were a great asset in the workshop group, contributing thoughtfully and perceptively. your commentary reflects this thoughtfulness and the clear, imaginative way you approach your writing. The poems are varied, imaginative and show a range of poetric form + content. There is evidence of an individual voice and they are a delight to read.

Mark awarded: 75% (1st)

Comment from Janette Stowell: Mark agreed (I love these poems!)

I'm pretty happy with that outcome for my first year. You may agree... xx

* Scream *

Scream at me,
just scream.
Scream as loudly as you can
at me,
for me.
So I can hear that scream
and know that scream
from other screams.
So scream the loudest scream you ever screamed
and stop.
And let me scream
at you.
My loudest, baddest, highest scream.
One constant haunting noise.

If we had no words to utter
in the silence of our lives.
No words to break the rhythm,
speak out, communicate.
That scream would be those words
we didn’t have.
All the things we couldn’t say.

So scream at me,
just scream
loud and,
high and,
let it last as long as your breath,
so I can hear that scream
from other screams,
your primal howl,
at me,
for me,
to know that sound
that cannot lie.
Wordless passion breaking through
for me to see.
I love you,

scream at me.

* My Ouchie *

Oh how I hate Macdonalds coffee mugs :(

* It’s in the Beard *

Dear Charles,
the brain needs a beard.
So you;
the best beard in the business,
can stroke while-you-think.
Stare, fascinated, at ladybird porn
and take notes.

It’s been two hundred years
since your life.
I cannot grow a beard like yours,
I’ve tried!
These beardless days are dark and dodoless;
filled with electric evolution
and prosthetic limbs.
Chainsaws closing in on forests.
Endangered species list evergreen,
flowering.

Others imitate your genius in vain,
stuff animals – observe their shape.
These copies do not know
it takes half a lifetime for a good beard to grow.

Not being Archimedes
you retained your dignity.
Not being Freud
you retained your sanity.
Not being Descartes
you grew a fine beard
that clung to you while
your faith slipped away.

Gods beard was far too pure to care.
It’s safe to say
you loved your fluffy facial hair.
Choosing to study finches
simply because
they found a nest in your beard,
lived there for years
as you stared down your crooked nose
into their home.


This poem is for a workshop I'm doing here in Liverpool - it is to do with Darwin 200 and combining it with performance poetry - this is one of the poems I will be performing in a group of people from 14 and older around Liverpool and once in London.

Im so excited! Its not until September for actual performances though xx

* The Munster In My Room *

My room munster... I knew it was there and I found it!!!

Sexy, huh :P xx

* More Food And Gone-Off Potatoes *

* Scissor Happy (Poem) *

Their Shock
As I snicked off the first lock
I snapped their faces
Framed it.
Placed it on a mental mantlepiece
For fun.
Soon they would accept what I had done.
I care about the second glance,
The extra stare
And the anonymity of wacky hair
No questions asked.
Just faltering
The prejudicially raised half of a monobrow,
And walking past.
But in that single moment
That scissor happy shock
They looked - they saw me - and they forgot.