Richard Tingley

137.

Slight
Almost invisible
Barely a breath
A hairs breadth
A small hush
Gently pulsing tremors
Fluttering fingers

Crush Me

I don’t actually know what this is about, but it’s slight saucy.

136.

Bullied by
a small black Fly,
buzzing insults.
Made me cry.

Got his mates,
some bigger Flies,
that one by one
flew in my eyes.

Then made a Wasp
fly up my nose.
That was my limit
I suppose.

Before the next time
I had swotted.
Small black Fly.
Swiftly swatted.

Sometimes I just want to write something stupid and not sweat over things too much.

135.

Struck dumb by
flickering grey,
beige and vague
and dirty yellow.
Stuck in this
Society of Glue.
Barely moving,
moss covered
and dew soaked.
Stained by
inaction and
self inflicted
bed sores.
A sofa trube
lost in the
jungles of slouch.

I thought this would be an hilarious satire and clever examination on our society. I realise now, it’s just about me.
And it’s not that hilarious or clever.

134.

Glassy eyed
stringing along
unplanned and
vague ideas.

Satring at
blank pages
roaming round
the internet
hopelessly lost.

Sometimes it feels like
I’m dragging the balloon.

Meh. Sorry, not feeling it today.

133.

I wish I were as handsome
as the men on the cover
of cheap and lurid
Romance novels.

Stripped to the wast and bronzed.
Six packed up to the nines.
Shiny, shiny hair,
blowing majestically in the wind
as a half dressed
dusky maiden clutches
seductively at my
chiseled chest.

I catch site of my reflection
in the bedroom mirror.

Stripped to the waist and pale.
Fat and flabby up to the nines.
Salty, salty crisp crumbs
scattered majestically over my moobs
as my fully dressed
lovely wife clutches
a mug of tea watching T.V
in the lounge.

She has the volume turned up
and cannot hear my sobs.

After putting a shed up yesterday my limbs are aching and I’m feeling very sorry for myself.

132.

The shift of the shed,
caused the razor sharp roof to
slice
a thin peel of skin,
a strip of soft white flesh
from the palm of my hand.
Clean, no ragged edges.
As the tiny palm canal
filled with bright red,
I noticed
poking from the shed roof corner,
where the edge is rolled like an Apple Corer,
a pink protuberance.
Using my non-wounded hand,
I slowly remove the worm,
the shaved strip of my skin.
I stare at the dangling thing
and wonder, as I throw it away,
am I already food for Crows?

This happened today, I said Ow.

131.

Ear crackle static
Broad bass grumble
Tiny pop clicks shift
Left to right in
High level hiss
Low level fizz
Cut up audio junk
Jumps and kicks
Brain gristle whistle
Audio pitch click
Stick repeat
Stick repeat
Stick repeat
Stop

I have been listening to an awful lot of Matmos recently and I think it might have possibly rubbed off on me. I’ve been constructing this poem on and off all week, scribbling the odd line down here and there.
I think it works, it’s not really about anything but it’s nice to say out loud.

130.

Nine White Bean tales
in a tangle of silver chains
in the bottom of the Rosewood Box.
Nine souls sold to the Cider King
in exchange for nine more spins
on the Goose Green Merry-Go-Round.
Nine more turns in gravel grace
in smothered lust and warm embrace
before the box is turned
and the beans returned to ground.

I seem to be constructing my own mythology, or at least it feels like it. Crows seem to be important in this little world, and now I have a Cider King and a Goose Green. I’m not just making this stuff up as I go, there’s thought behind it.
Okay, I am making this stuff up, but there is thought.

129.

A gulp.
Luke warm tea
crunching on flakes
of limescale.

A taste.
Fresh blood
spat in the sink
from unclean gums.

A chance.
Bone fragments
stuck in the teeth
from midnight burgers.

A sense.
Sharp cold
on sluggish tongues
from a long weekend.

Once again another poem made up from random fragments taken from a variety of places. I really like doing this. I like making weird connections and seeing patterns between disparate words and ideas. Yay me.

128.

Perhaps drug delivery
could be administered via poetry,
a line per microgram
or a dose of per paragraph of prose.

Or maybe by
Specific Holistic Intake
taken by a combination
of smell and taste and sight.

It could be passed between two
by the gentle touch of fingertips
or the tender brush of lips
or the casual stroke of hair.

Anything but the current
stick of needle.
Bruised and sire from
stinging scratches, sudden stabs
itching points of pin prick pain.

However.

Current medical research
has no truck with romance.

What to say. I keep getting later in writing these. I need to start them earlier. I want to go to bed.