Origami Swan

You lifted your father's burden above your head.

It stayed there for a second, then it crushed you whole.

Flat underneath the wheels, you waited days until

your breath came back. You filled your lungs with mighty song

and let the strangest note escape. It melted glass,

it shattered steel, it strengthened both the tracks

and turned each broken wheel and saw you stand up straight.

Emerging from this homespun chaos, you were two

dimensional, a sliver of your former self.

Paper thin, not seen sideways, you folded your body

into a hand-made origami swan and beat

your wings, a farewell to this world, and flew,

frail silhouette, in front of that late evening’s sky.

You flew until you could be seen no more, no more.

Pointlesly Exasperated

Because other drivers are cretins,

TV is insultingly banal,

the weather is abysmal,

pop music is dead,

tattoos are everywhere,

£3.50 for a cup of coffee is normal,

Madonna is still famous,

Beige-Paint-Chart politicians are all equally clueless,

#I’maSanctimoniousTw@co.uk is trending,

there is now a market for male grooming products,

Morrissey became an embarrassment,

and other people’s spineless online anonymity

encourages and enables them

to spit more poison than a room full of rattlesnakes,

making society just a little

more hateful, fragile and combustible

than is good for it.

Why do they all hide?

What are they scared of,

these Pseudonymous Keyboard Combatants?

They seem to have a lot to say for themselves.

Maybe they could tell us their names?

But no, they won’t.

They’d rather lose their tongues.

And so, away they post, post, post,

their pathetic, ill-constructed, ignorant remarks

masquerading as wit or political insight,

just something else to make me

pointlessly exasperated.

Cats

My head’s stuck in a place where writing isn't,

and so I think, quite foolishly, I’ll write

a poem titled Cats. Why Cats, though?

I haven’t got a single thing to say –

whatsoever – about cats which hasn’t been

already said by some other ‘cat poet’.

I interview my cat. ‘Hey, cat!’ I say.

‘What is it cats like most? I’m trying to write

a poem and I need a starting point.’

Cat is unhelpful. This is no surprise.

She sits there staring at the door. I spend

the next half hour as ‘Keeper of the Gate.’

I tire of this endeavour, lock the door,

and thank cat for all of her help. She looks

at me, then sits upon my open notebook.