Spent the last couple of days working on a Creative Writing project for Uni, where I took some poems by First Year Students, that I kinda-liked-but-weren’t-that-great, and tried to make them sing a little better. I was reasonably happy with the results, and I loose them upon you, the unsuspecting public.

An Honest Confession
An overgrown beard
Foreign skin
A cotton kufi
And, then your

The sudden tension in my muscles
Isn’t my fault-
Blame The Sun,
The Telegraph and The Mail.
They taught me
(Media Special Ops)
Your face, your look
Your colour.
Symbols on the red-bannered Flag of Terrorism.

I’m sure you’re a decent bloke
We probably have a lot in common
Maybe you’re a Blues fan too.
Why are you reaching for your pocket?
Those headlines flash through my head:
‘Train Terrorist Leaves None Alive’.
Should I jump on you? Stop you? How?

You pop a Polo into your mouth, then sigh.

The Spider
Craning over the cliff-edge
Of a high chair,
I stare into the empty sink,
Except for the spider in its depths.
Climbing up the edge, then slipping.

(I don’t get to play, anymore.
They hide away in their room,
Clutching secrets close.)

Run water into the sink,
The spider dances
Just to stay still.
Trails of legs scribbling-
Mum says my writing’s like a spider’s.
His legs trickle out across the page.

Over the rush of water
I can hear the sounds.
Elastic bands snapping,
Over sore, red hands.
The crackle of Mum’s voice, Daddy shouting-
He never shouts at me.

(Mum’ll come to the sink soon,
With her eyes like shampoo’s been rubbed in and
She’ll dab at the rivers running down her face.)

I make the tap a river
Over the stupid spider in the sink.
Anyway I think it’s probably better
Down the plughole.

(And again, I feel: why don’t I put up any poems that are properly my own, that I’m really proud of? Because, A, I’m not writing any at the moment and, B, I feel like doing that means I can’t submit them to magazines and such. Which I should really get on…)

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