Re-Direction (New Site)

Hi. Thanks for reading. You can now find all the poems that were on here and others over at

http://danjenkinspoetry.weebly.com/poems.html

Dan

Ellington Jameson Jenkins

Tight eyed in low light

the room bops the disc spins

the corners curl upward on parted lips

loose-necked the head swims

one hand, one wrist and one forearm held

at the height of the lowest true rib

you could trace a line from the elbow

to the middle finger tip

and call it

the only straight thing in the room

and everything's in shades of woodgrain

and you could scream from the pit of your lungs

but no cry of ill or of passion

can slide past the piano, the brass, the bass, the drums

and I'd only burble a reply if it did so tight eyed in low light

the body bops in ever decreasing circles and the trumpet warbles

'til the sunrise sends me to sleep.

Junkbox: Performing Poetry Workshop (Sept 16th 2010)

I... that is, me, see,

I feel the...

I feel the express need

To tell you, you

To tell you all about me, me

All be it, cryptically.

See, I...

It, it gives me great pleasure,

To confess, yes, pleasure,

To confess how much I enjoy tea,

Sexually, yes, tea.

I taunt it.

See, it...

It likes to be stirred

Yes it does, it does

It likes to be stirred till it's done

By plastic stick or by spoon or asbestos thumb

Yes it likes to be stirred till it's ready to come

to your lips and be held on the tounge.

So I don't. No, no I don't.

I dip. Yes, I dip.

Just the tip,

Just the tip so the milk doesn't mix

So the milk get's to split, get's to splinter and spread

Till I go in again, first the tip, then more,

The all the way in,

Spelling my name with broad strokes

The alphabet trick at work.

Junkbox: Bad Poetry Exercise

The wind came fast

Like bullets or Kenyans or men who are nervous

And was tasteless

Like mullets or minions or two-star room service

On a night that was cold

Like an old cold pole

Holding up something important

I squeezed your left hand

Like a grand hand band stand

And promised I'd see you in four months.

-------------------------------------------------

The Moon

The Moon

The Moon, The Moon, The Moon

It reminds me i'm going to be with you soon.

The Night

The Night

The Night, The Night, The Night

I find that it's glowing with twinkling lights.

The Stars

The Stars

The Stars, The Stars, The Stars

In time you'll be showing me your fantastic arse.

This Verse

This Verse

This Verse, This Verse, This Verse

A sublime piece of poem that couldn't get much worse.

Dissecting A Headline

You would have thought he’d never be given a chance

I am still none the wiser to his incarnation

I bounce between theories, no grounding in fact

That he bore from bad choice or misfortune

Perhaps just a stab

A dart on the door of a trade running thin on good names

Or, like the spider and bat before him

Nomenclature came, riding on the fallout of a brush with a pest

CHILD PORN MAN SHOULD NEVER HAVE WORKED WITH CHILDREN

And I agree. What special powers have they got?

Winter's Roar

I was here, forgotten, when foot-fall waned

And rainfall peaked, yet still you came.

When Winter’s roar kept life at bay

My thousand naked arms remained

Straining under the heavy grey

The earth was hard, yet still you came.

And then, when Spring’s enforcing will

Broke from ‘neath my cold new skin

Gasped and quaffed the pelting rain

You came again and stayed within.

Decisive Action

When the invasion of Iraq

Was announced to the world and my Nan

Instantly reacting, calm and decided

Grampa Ken was sent out

To buy a tin-opener

In case the electric went off

Dead: Two

Wind that catapult chord son

Wind that catapult chord so taught

And tight as God is dead

And check those numbers thrice boy

You get those angles right, so

With full respect to Newton’s laws

Send me to the night

Dead: One

Harvest all that isn’t pickled, tarred and marred

From living

Have me

Over a bench

One last time

Limp and pale

I want to go

Over Pennard cliffs

A hurtling, plummeting rot

Ejected from a wheelbarrow

Just before we run out of grass

If you love me enough

To fly-tip deadweight

Get to work on those upper arms

I’ll buy the van

Here at ‘Reflection’: The corner of Portrait and Bio

They go often, seldom meet

take souvenirs of worth

reflective, potent

with potential for growth, though

must suffer Hollywood

amnesic clouts of happenstance,

the bum’s rush victim

Self inflicted and operated

a back scratch turned collar snatched

Synergy of leap and hurl

Blow life's currency

swinging blindly inward to

the beat and strum

of self loathing and other

wankery trifes

Wield drills and spades and toothpicks

hack by blade or handle’s bludgeon

subject roped

supine on Excalibur’s sheath,

score with searing fountain nibs

The cracked blunt spines

of wizened tomes, bruise

but unearth no unknown.

Paw their scrapbook’s lemon juice script

stare blind

blind in deep, deep empty chests.

So assemble each other in sunlight and dust

embrace a foreigner filling a lover’s skin

stretched and ill-fitting

tailored by failure to find.

Your Friend

Your dear friend, and so clearly your friend,

spoke light, swift converse like

swallows' flight

soft and pointed, lay the words

"You love her."

I did well.

Backfoot pressed, I did not reel,

stayed vague, lied to neither of us

and did not resist.

Never resist. My friends to resist

is to cartwheel through no man's

and they will cut you down

with eyes and silence.

I did well.

Fell back, made light.

Ghosts of words who mill

as flocks or mobs,

trouble as your fear

of birds and people,

froze, preserved

to spare my evening...

and will thaw,

pour in and throughout

fall with the weight of the oceans' fingers

who rise and spread and rise and spread

then crack, dig and claw foundations

flush out roots to swallow your falling mass

or crash your outposts, any head or face

of rock you jutt against her swell

is weathered by parts over aeons

to the building grits

of glass and castles.

I did well, still,

damn your friend.

Spontaneity

He considers spontaneity.

Thinks about leaving.

When he does

He will take off his socks

Roll them in to balls and

Place them in his running shoes.

The contents of his tattered leather wallet

He will arrange on the bedside table

Unnecessary receipts

Old train tickets

Credit, debit and membership cards

A condom.

He will put the wallet in his left pocket.

On his phone

He will record a greeting to inform that he

“Can no longer be reached at this number”

Turn the phone off and place it on charge.

The shoes

He will place together

Heels to the step at the front door.

He will lock the door and post his key through the letter-box

Feel the world rise through his naked feet

Spread his toes

And go.

He thinks about leaving.

He considers spontaneity.

We Met At The Breakfast Club

(for Mr Burton)

Toaster hands

can't bathe

or hold a knife

and will certainly not

be giving me a second

hand-job

but she has
a warm touch

and an easy-out
crumb tray

The Break In

Teabags

pile up in the bin

we huddle round

drawing hard

one armed hugs and

rubbing backs

waiting for the pigs

to come

and all they did

was scold the

girls

suggest insurance

Late Night Shopping

Studied eyes are weighing up the poultry

This endless wait can cause a man such grief

Twenty minutes choosing chickens, and then

He turns to me and says he fancies beef

Needling bastard must do it on purpose

Blood near boiled, I clenched my fist and spat

Could’ve raised a cow and killed it by now

Just pick a meat and lets go home you twat!

Then We Talked About It All Week

On a hill,

on a tunnel,

on a Sunday.

We were host to the end of the world.

We were young,

we were stoned,

we were hungry,

and the three of us watched it in awe.

And the air,

and the traffic,

and the dead,

hung and stared as the sun shrank to nought.

Hung and prayed,

hung and wailed,

hung and waited,

on a hill on a tunnel on a Sunday.

Table For One In A Curry House Window

Atop the stairs

Captain Tragic's naked dog

mopes, glass eyed

he spies 'master' resplendent

in comedy thong

applying the coat, thus

"creating the role",

then shivers alone.

Us, window sat. You, bloated,

fork rice in my wine blurting

"TREE...BUCKET!"

and know

I'm laughing inside.

Tragic leaps upon the road, screams

"I AM SQUIRELL KING, NOTICE MY PLIGHT"

sits and beats between his thighs,

a plastic acorn drum.

'Tree Bucket' outshone

You press your nose to pane, remark

"There's a man-squirrel beating

his nuts in the street. It's almost

poetic" So I snarl a refute and futilely,

remind you "It's trebuchet, love".

Tweeded doormen name Sneer and Snort

chalk out the tarmac ‘tween concrete

lips, wave flags, drop their knickers

and spin as 'His Complete Works' steals first,

the rest of the canon just chasing

to place and Tragic still drums

in the settling dust.

I pay. We step out in the echo.

You stuff your mitts deep

blow mist tipped back on heels

grin "look at that moon!" to

the same old fucking moon then turn

sweetly, smile, take my arm, sigh

"Oh you're just annoyed because

you haven't written anything lately."

Ethereal Afternoon

when the speed of light slows

you watch from outside your own head

Scarlet O Hara drove me down to Bracelet Bay

to throw rocks at the sea for her dog

The lumbering hound pummels the sand

and her clattering rocks in the distance

She never looks down

I pinch fags from her purse

The cafe clamour traffics round us

Dog licks the window

her nails rap the table

I tap ash

Saw Thor stroll by outside

an ice cream in each hand

And she ignored him

From The Balcony Witnessed: A Smoke by Shore

They need not have known each other.

Your first bloke, solitary

showed only waiting.

Not impatiently, with destination.

Nor idle without direction.

Your second bloke

arrives and leaves without distinction.

More a suggestion, that this mood

accompanies all his travels.

And yet between, your fellows bob on land

The concrete swells where sea has stopped

transfixed, her daughters return o'er head.

World travelled, form-changed they fall

in shards on sand and stone, briefly

hold two men in shelter, attired

in shorts and sports vests sharing a light,

then pass.

In Which The Muse Pervades The Theme

That art of sound, of which you idly gave

as food for form by prompt of searching speech

in penance weak performance played,

is you.

Though left in dust your pick, your lucky tip,

a pachyderm now squats my neural sit

and rhythm, timbre, texture, pitch,

are you.

Please

Please

I do not love you

Enough (or at all)

Nor

Are you worth

A thing to this world

That this creature

Short of

Many Things

Should spend breath for whatever

Middle road damage

That makes you

You

So please

Not for me

And no, not

Not for you

For no benefit

Prize

Wage, worth or trophy

Just

For once

For Variety

Just don't.
 

Apathy

I saw him again at our cat's funeral.

Plucked out his eyes

and blue

tacked them to his fingers

taped his smile

upside down

on the back of his hand

then held his chin.

He wore this

till the plot was full.

Rain Check

It's just gone 9, as we leave down the path

Dog pulls stops then sniffs as I trundle on past

Down the street as I fiddle with gloves round the corner

adjusting my collar when...

Dusty awe, settles

on a slowing instant gaze

Lights

Street head flood big company signs

Like Embers in smoke or

'Close Encounters' on an old fuzzy screen

I know what they are but for now they are not

Just lights

But silent amber stars, resting

Nestled in a misty bedding

On clearer nights they hum as chorus

The denser parts buzz

Drops of cream on orange streets

With a painter's twitch of red or blue

Like discrete spills

Just for now, it is the valley's eternal slumber

The frosted glass of late-winter's night

Both a mask and its casket

Dog presses on

And so, do I

---

Ten coming to and full circle walked

We return at the hilltop

to jot pen to pad in my head

But gone is this spectacle promising rhyme

Now fog bogs the valley

The stars hang mute

And not in silence's melody

But the piercing ring of songs ended

Still, I smile

And knowing why

Look on

The whole dog wags and I

Consider a fleeting moment's joy, yet

 Poetic as a walk can be

Dog stinks of wet, and jumps on me

 So thought switches to you, my absent friend

And the rain check you took to stay home and dry

So to give me this evening to share with the valley

 And knowing I might preserve it thus

It is kept forever, for both of us.

Junkbox Collaboration

Drawn down and further ever on you fell like deadweight

and sank way below most objects of the same shape

lost like a ship, beyond the great cape

BEYOND EARTH+SKY

there's a man with a shotgun, perched, waiting

trying to break out of Nietchze's Moustache

with wire cutters, semtex and an ounce of hash (for the nerves)

The nerves he'd suffered with since the day his father beat that dog without warning then had several helpings at dinner.

But nerves or not, what else could he do? Desperation would see him through.

BETWEEN THE THORNS AND TIME WAVY OR GREY

you can hear the silent screams of

a poem that has lost its muse

Dan, Richard, James, James, Kelly & Hugh

Sand-eyed and Smiling

Just another flying Monday breakfast

half-packed, unwashed, in Friday's clothes.

Door slamming and sand-eyed, hot bread in hand

I began the hill

and remembered how your mother

would butter toast, tuck us in,

your father's merry, snoring head

tipped back and spent. The smoke thick air,

the cigar and liquor's dancing scent. Our tongues

and theories, sweetened, exhausted

slept well.

And remembered how your mother

would butter toast, kick us out

still young and years from hungover.

We'd breathe and smile in Saturday’s, Sunday's

morning light and frost, fulfilled.

Then learned, released

begin home.

Impolitely Blasting Sideways

She arrove in cartoon suddenness,

impolitely blasting sideways.

All shade and hope of dry was flung

from hand by soppering fiends,

my shield-stick cotton-jonny'ed,

gaily tossed from sight.

What really twast my tat was him,

hung there gurning lumine grin.

Shoes, mugged of shape and form the

cumulohoodlums

cheesed it. Leaving the starball mirthed,

hydrogen belching, worshipped,

dragging a fist of crayons

on his bedroom wall.

We are sixteen and you are THE DEATH STAR

We are sixteen and

you are big, big as half a door frame

maybe more

and about as deadly as your lemon cake

isn't mediocre

Yet, you are ominous with a presence

that fills your home, as does the smell

of talc, but

you are more powerful than we are willing

to admit.

Round as a rake and twice short

A pillar of grey in marigold and flora

When Glen said you were evil he didn’t

mean it

We were just bummed at how you exploded

like a carcathyst

when you found all our blow

You are growly now because “old age don't

come alone”, yes

we get it and no we don't want to hear

about how you used to be a wonderful singer

Still,

you are AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH like

THE DEATH STAR

and we are more scared than willing

to admit.

The Argument For

Smoke!

It's cool.

Choose a brand.

Choose your brand.

Roll your own.

Roll a friend's.

It's like wrapping a present

- and setting it on fire.

You'll die.

You’ll die thin.

mint.

It was brain sleep

Beautiful dreamless repair

But woke

not where my head had lain

nor (where had) the remainder of my being.

I surveyed. The room still on its side

Said nothing.

Stood and so reminded to breath

Inwards rushed the elements unseen

As backdraught thick and stripping, outs.

Furniture, fittings, walls and their cousins

Uprighted violent then tauntingly

Paused .

My pins trollyed.

The dresser inched forever forward

Over his shoulder, the mirror offered no answers

Fewer compliments

And with subtlety,

mocked my forehead's fabric branding.

Behind me and slowly, the door

Slid his hand in mine but betrayed by his hinges

announced a guest

And on my way down

I noticed

a crab sandwich had been looking at me sideways.

George

"Bye then" I shrug at first at least

from the step, looking out at the street,

nothing new. Same street as before

except for the cat,

the one from next door.

He was old though. We’d leave him things

but spurned from our bins said

he wouldn’t come again. So

from one box to another

Six years in one with atom, vial and hammer

now forever the other

Well, forever till worm-shit.

At the table then, late

sauced and in view of a flame I wagging

to ceiling said “this round’s on you,

all in on your name!” She dances

her shoulders, in eyelids and lips

then I echo her smile when she’s counting

my chips, “Guess you are as you were George”

and chuckle relief. “If you’d bailed me out now...”

I might have to grieve.

Tuesday Evening On Cromwell

I am comfortable as man here.

It could not be decided who had

un-shirted last or first but the

acts were individual and genuine.

A summer-storm passed, humidity

seemed an acceptable scapegoat.

But to me, Mr. Lee Roth's presence

above the screen is disconcerting,

and I picture us permed,

sat on the floor with our pasta

and Die Hard.

Mike vs. 700 (a dream)

 

   
    From what I remember
    it started just
    past your house
    after I walked you home
   
    I was shedding cheese
    and feathers as I span
    so fast trying
    to impress your friends
    you hadn't met/then
   
    under day-lit canvas
    in joined tents those
    friends debate us bluntly,
    mine        laugh small
            encouraging
   
     |I hope they will be bored
             when I leave
         there will be stories|
   
    you tussle my mane dark
    red your boyfriend just
            stares/
   
    I was coming back in curiosity
    of what I had left
    but stepped out on the sand
               

    and    forgot/
   
   
    we chose our trucks, green
    named one passenger
    recorded his dialogue
    turned back and saw me       talking
    to my fingers/it was film-set sun
   
    high tan I stumbled
    at the sea dodging tides
    of popular culture until Tyson
    hooked me in path
    of a speeding Honda
   
    then it was calm for a while/
   
   
    I smashed up a gift shop
    with an old friend still
    in his school jumper snapping
    pencils as they kicked us
    out so I started punching
    a pig tied to a post
    hearing "open your eyes dickhead"
    saw a sign for the pie shop and
        my inked knuckles
   
   

    I was hungry        but
        the butcher had seen
        the whole thing/

Tricky

my love for you has no arms or legs

it will never leave

but then again

it can't dance either

Sea Kittens

"You wouldn't hurt a sea-kitten" they said.

"Fucking try me" I thought. Though

I wouldn't know where to begin

because, the classics are out.

It would be redundant to hurl one

in a canal. But,

I could wait in lay all snorkelled up

and as they go about their lives

clap the unsuspecting tails and burst the surface,

over-arming in twos to land

may reach the same effect. But,

not being adept to catch in hand

the dry or wet. I'd rather sit

line's length away and bait

with shiny jangly hook, then

when snared, yank with expert wrist-flicking

(I assume. I know nothing of fishing.)

Steal from the brine a sodden ball of fur

and claws, panicked flailing and tracing an arc

then spinning and slowing, hung-dangled

from a fibreglass pole like a Christmas bauble,

then

when fades its final sighing mew,

I'd meet in glance those tiny giant's eyes...

Tie myself in sacks of bricks

and roll unto my drowning!

Alright you bastards!

I don't think I could hurt a sea kitten but,

I promise you this...

I would never stroke a land-salmon!