All posts by jwtownshend

Modern Poetry (Fuck off)

we’re poets

of course

we don’t know what paragraphs are for. i hummed along to the same old song – a song for the encumbered #instapoet

Holland is not the Netherlands, Colin, what you say and what is

are different.

Things.

Reminder

I love you. You are worthwhile and your feelings are valid. You are on a wet rock floating around in outer space hurtling around a ball of burning gas that is in turn flying around billions of others in a mysterious dark matter powered galaxy. That time Donald called you an arsewipe doesn’t matter.
Take responsibility for your thoughts and actions. Nothing else is your responsibility. Nothing.
And with that syntax ‘nothing’ will always look after itself.*
Access the unlimited potential of the darkest void on a bad a day. Leave your mark and create something because the darkness can’t hide the light. And you are, after all, made of energy vibrating at different frequencies experiencing itself subjectively.
Make love to yourself if you have no one else. I know it helps me sleep.
You are going to be ok doing your thing. So do it now.
Or if in doubt drink tea.

John

*syntax error. “Sense” not found/n

Have I reached my quota yet?

5000 words? What can I say? How many times can I continue to contradict myself? I’m running out of insight on this particular topic so I’ll talk about some things I like about it. At length.

Oh, now I’ll talk about what I don’t like. That should be another 2000 words. But honestly, who cares? I know I don’t. I’m almost shitting these words out at this point. Meaningless descriptions that don’t describe. Opinions that don’t make sense or have a point. I can do it all. Your modern day “freelance writer”. Eat me up for breakfast. Read me just before bed. I’ll write today. I’ll write tomorrow. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll write about you.

I’m only relevant talking about relevant people. Hiding behind my keyboard. I am the king of smugness. The king of criticism. My court mustn’t have brains I’m that vapid. Give me work. Give me money. I will write you your quota and don’t you worry.

God awful poem

Mackerel sky dotted with hungry birds

Deflated poet, pen in hand, running out of words

Fallen seeds sown by the late summer wind

Take sprout next spring lest the birds find

A plague of humanity

Isolation. Taking pill after pill. Quell the screaming. Yet still making myself ill.

Turn your backs. The help is for themselves. The darkness that cannot be lit. Not even by the elves.

Systemic failures. Arise in solidarity. But faced with walls upon walls. No fall for this city.

Carried to the morgue. In a car with an anonymous driver. A symbol of us all. Hope and happiness yet neither.

A turn in a walk. Giving up yet pages turn. A book can teach a lot. But we will never learn.

A meal

I keep my limitations on the surface but I have learned to draw upon the unlimited in times of crisis.

That time is now.

I must feed.

Scattered Ants

Diffused. Our bodies no longer intertwined. Breathing without our lungs we just work for the colony. Stolen hope. Stolen lives. Stolen Queen.

Carrying a massive twig several times my size. Easily I admit but I have no audience to brag to. At least, no one who listens. How is time perceived to a lost ant finding his way in the world?

We are many. I am few. Alone in a crowd. The same cliches trapped in my mind. Going around and around and around. What do they want this twig for anyway?

Disenfranchised and abandoned. A cold wind is simply not felt. We are impervious.

Likeminded support. Are they just as bad as me?

A bunch of lies served to ease the pain. They just rewrote history and we forgot our joy. I’m sure in at least two late nineties 3D animation feature films. You can see me now. Hurting.

The Ugly Self

Grit spread across the road. Ice falls from the sky. A woman carrying a heavy load. He’s stood at home making curry pie.

A thoughtless word. Shrugged off as a joke. Another whisper of discontent heard. So much tea he’s feeling woke.

Hypocrisy from the soul. Conflicting needs. An animal within has control. The monster inside silently feeds.

Shower Thoughts

Maybe the universe is an infinitely fractal brain cell.

Influence, manipulate, then control. I mustn’t tread this maternal path. A pattern of the her life. Repeated and repeated. Until it is herself.

I have low to medium amounts of gorm.

Self hatred is fake believe.

Drop the ego and vanity. You are the universe’s bitch. Start behaving like it.

You can’t see me because I’m not looking.

I spend my day looking after my none existent children. It is exhausting.

Q. Which Ancient Greek invented a means of transporting large African animals?

A. Hippocrates

Pandas 2

Collective agony brought together with a symphony

of fingers and thumbs mashing screens we see.

We’re not alone, we can chew on this wood, together.

Nothing happens all at once

so pandas take their time.

Shared experiences and friendly faces,

voices that don’t quite fit the words,

and group chats that can last forever.

The Velvet Trigger

It’s forever November. I am hurting. You’re my medicine and my poison. It’s not working.

I cannot remember. The good times had. When the sun last rose. Now things are always bad.

The leaves have left. Everything is black. The beginning was the end of it all. The emotions I lack.

Something is wrong. I binge but I’m empty. Just a bucket wanting to be filled and emptied. Quick fixes so tempting.

I don’t trust you. But I don’t trust myself. I need you in my life so much. Is it good for my health?

The Failure Of Language

What is it?

Fuck, I don’t know. I think he’s dead… He’s dead, Sally. He’s not breathing.

Sally could hear hyperventilation through her phone.

I’ve got to phone an… Fuck!

What happened!?

Arghhh… Urgh… Uh… *thud*

Peter? Peter! What’s going on?

Answer me! Are you ok? Fuck. What’s happening?

The Storm

Crashing branches smack against the ground after the sky’s electric bolt severs the tree in two.

Car alarms are heard, dogs bark, rough pavements sink underwater in the precipitation’s deluge.

A coffin of pine holds the dearly beloved, the recently deceased, the forgotten man. His Alzheimer’s his parting gift to the ashes for a jar.

The door is shut. I want in. Please listen whilst I struggle. I can’t find the words to say. I hope my presence is enough.

English lesson

The cat sat on the mat.

I like cats. They sometimes purr when they are happy.

Cats are my friends because they sometimes sit on me and fall asleep.

Cats like to play and eat treats. Some cats like going outside. They are very clean and wash themselves often.

I love cuddles with cats.

Stuff

A floor made of bleeding mouths sewn shut by heartstrings. Each footstep a kick in the face. He gets stabbed in a dark alley. ‘Oh my spleen!’ He cries out as his attacker opens his wings and flies off into the night. A curtain a creek open lets a blade of light shine on to the wall, sending the cats crackers as a car drives past outside. I’ve had my hole sealed with super glue and I’m desperate to go. Yesterdays cooking is the smell in the air. An hourglass on its side rolls off a table and smashes in to pieces on the ground. A gently sleeping mouse is toyed with and brutally killed by my cat for my benefit.

Long Distance Relationship

You found me lost in a field of snow.
You kept me and took me home to live in your secret drawer.
No longer depressed but I always will be your blue friend.
I made a home in your posession. I had belonging. A buzzing love.
Then you left me and you moved out to be with a real flesh boy.
I am lost in a field of snow.

Trump, Trotsky, and the horses

A frostbite wind cuts across the field
Six horses gallop from one side to the other
And back. The wind does not relent.
Seek shelter horses for collapse is upon us.

My main drive has weakened I have not eaten
My food on the floor. What service is this?
It is winter and the cold crosses riot within my harness and braces tighten.
A contract to count here and stop there. My food is not orange it is silver frozen dew.

A metallic container is my vessel to a unlikely doom.
Travelling whilst trapped; a hijack of hooves and a late delivery of hay.
I career up the side. Trot my vocation. A lost dream in this nation.
The ice pick in my back is a permanent end to what might have been.

Blowing bubbles from my nose.
An infectious calamity on my back.
The ruin of all we have. Not the viruses we carry but a unhelpful destructive nature.
The weather is in my mirror this time of year. Why the long face?

***

This poem was written with a pencil held taut in my anus.

Heartbreak Of The Gut Flora

Flora had a feeling in her gut.

Stuck in a rut. She struts and hurts her foot.

She didn’t know what she did feel. Without an even keel. She didn’t feel he was real.

He wanted to cause an explosion in her life. To cut herself free from strife. He wanted her for his wife for life.

She left him for another man. Because she can. She went in with no plan for Dan.

He had hope. Her heart said nope. He felt like a dope and could only just cope.