Poems

Blu’ Nunn. 

 In a sinkful of passengers there is only two deeply definites,

  the booming B8 eyes of a Small Heathen reclining

  in the good sanctuary of my heavenly storm in a steaming teacup.

It is somebody I almost know.

  I used to babysat him when he was a mere tiddler stewing

   in my afraid, we were cell-mates making eyesores of ourselves

  gnawing each other mental, trapped in the rubble

of dreaming of legging it out of here,

and still from the distance of a runaway, I recognise

my inner pipsqueak silently billowing the pain of his car crashing blues. 

Some bloom from behind pale shelter, sun-tanned by therapy,

whilst other should-be raptures shrink like rainbows caged

in a zoo, but here, all this constant confusion and clash

is miraculously muddled together to bring you “The boy from Plastic”.

And in that vibrant puddle of mankind, child scars, and

what dad said, the bulbs that never ever go out are them eyes,

though very steely hardknock blue, they are pacifists.

    Exterminate Members of Boy Bands. 

 Pouring down the dumb-dumb bullet sky

 have-a-go mourners climb inside their

 onion sunset eyes to hide from the inevitable

 that a child could’ve told you

 

 Chasing the profits of prophets chic-ed in used

 seventies lizard skin ,is like borrowing a mute blokes’

 opera voice to joyfully holler of all the art

 that lies sacred on the lips of creation

 

 Which leaves us deeply in the cheddar plugged into

 the cul-de-sac scrubbed clean by a PM’s vote grabbing denim,

 trying to catch before they’re dumbed senseless the falling swirl

 of gutter angels sweetly soul singing of the shite we’re in.