Tame the night,
For darkness eats the world,
For darkness eats the eye.
Lash with light
Till the dark flood high above
Retreats to give way to
An eye bright.
The eye leads its people to the light
By projecting below it
A tower for them to climb
And to see the world beneath them.
The tower wears globes as pearls
Like a tree bearing ripened fruits
For its people to eat
In beds, in mirrors, in eyes.
Darkness eats still. Darkness eats always.
Now darkness shares its meal with light
So they eat the eye together
But not in the same manner.
Darkness swallows its food
Through its transparent lips.
Light roasts its food
Upon its glimmering teeth.
Ashes like fissures
The world is never eaten,
Always vivacious, always growing, always
Too vast to be measured
Too deep to be exhausted.
Yet it could be collected
Dust by dust
By walking in the body of darkness,
Or by tearing off the light of light
Then walking into the body of darkness
To retrieve the eye, then the world.
Grasp not. Stand not. The dark flood lifts you
To a meal preserved in the body of darkness.
Eat now. Eat always. You plate. You kitchen
Which should I choose?
One is smooth and darkly shiny
Another as pale as milk
Yet another is deep red velvet
This one is soft blue silk.
How can I pick one from this array?
All enticing all alluring,
Tempted by all,
Constrained to choose one
What can I do?
“I’m spoilt for choice”
I close my eyes and pick
A random chocolate
From the selection box
Northumberland singer-songwriters are able
to articulate things the rest of us are barely capable of.
In some pubs it’s impossible not to order
Scampi Fries and join in with a conversation
at the next table with a group of people wearing
band t-shirts and old jeans
who you agree with about cricket.
We’ve not seen each other for months,
the three of us. We talk about new jobs
and old relationships and each of us
has to say ‘just in case you haven’t heard …
this has happened.’
In the urinals there are framed Where’s Wallys?
At eye level and imagine not trying to find
that stripey lad and his dog. I am drunk
on 5.4% golden ale and I find him, standing
next to the ferries wheel, his hands in his pockets.
We’re all looking out for you, my dude,
All of us in this nice pub that I know know the name of
And that I’ll never come to again. At every urinal
we have all been allocated a task. Right now,
we have someone to look out for.
I’m in t’ local super market
Doin’ mi weekly shop,
‘E’s decided to tag along
‘E does this quite a lot.
So thinkin’ I’d make ‘im useful,
Fer crisps I sent ‘im lookin’,
But an hour n half later,
You’d think I’d asked ‘im to cook ‘em.
Finally ‘e caught me up,
On mi way to t’ check out,
I thought ‘e’d ‘ave mi bag o’ crisps,
I was wrong, in fact, ‘e ‘ad nowt!
‘Wer’s mi crisps?’ I asked in a huff,
‘Well, I didn’t know what sort’
‘Don’t be daft, crisps are crisps,
What else?’ was mi frustrated retort.
‘Ah but that’s wer you’ve got it wrong’
‘E answered wi’ a note o’ triumph,
‘Ther’s all sorts on them shelves back there,
Come see fer yourself, I’m no liar!’
Ther’s Hula Hoops, Snack a Jacks,
Monster Munch and Quavers,
Frazzles, Wheat Crunchies,
Ringos and Space Raiders.
Tortilla Chips, Wotsits,
Poppadoms and Pringles,
In multi packs, family packs,
Mixed flavours and singles!
Chilli chicken, smoky bacon,
Spring onions with soured cream,
Nacho cheese, barbequed ribs
And flame grilled steak from Aberdeen.
Sea salt and balsamic, Peking spare ribs,
Pulled pork and hot chicken wings,
Caramelised onion, mango chutney,
And loads more sweet chilli things.
I’m going cross-eyed down th’ aisle,
Shelf after shelf of bags of snacks,
Every flavour from every dish,
And all I wanted was a bag o’ crisps!
“—Scrambled or fried?”
He taps a beat on his notepad
with a pencil too small
for his grip
and cracks a smile,
while his eyes pinch,
squeezing out the white until
only the black beads linger.
“Scrambled or fried?”
The beads press
down into mine
and the smile cracks.
The reply claws my mouth,
and hides in my throat.
Too much choice can be far worse
Than having no choice at all,
While trying to assess the pros and cons
Your brain hits a brick wall.
If ‘This’ or ‘That’ is all there is,
If there’s just a choice of two,
Then deciding which one is right
Is so much easier then for you.
But on those other occasions when
Choices are so more complex
Your brain box goes into overdrive
Then it crashes and rejects.
You reread all the options offered,
“How can I choose what’s right for me”,
Goodness, there’s a dozen different options
No wonder I’m all at sea.
There must be a logical way to deal
With having all these choices,
But logic was never my strong suit
I’ll not know that the right choice is.
So if I come around to visit
And you offer me a brew
Just ask me “Tea or coffee?”
And I’ll get my answer straight to you.
But if you say, Darjeeling or Earl Grey,
Camomile or perhaps Green Tea?
A Latte, a Cappuccino, or plain black
Then you’ll only flummox me.
Limit me the choices offered
And I’ll be one happy guy,
If there’s many things to choose from
Then you’ll need to clarify.
Let’s keep it simple’s what I say,
Don’t offer so many choices,
For if the options are cut back
I’ll soon know what the right choice is!
WARNING: This poem contains content relating to eating and dieting, which may be unsuitable for some readers.
Who makes my choices? Is it me, is it my parents?
I don’t know anymore…
If I decide to wear a dress I’m trying too hard, right?
But if I wear what’s comfy I’m not trying hard enough.
I’m going for a meal with friends. Do I eat pizza or do I stick with a salad?
After all I wouldn’t want to be called fat but I don’t want to be called skinny either.
Never mind I’ll just stay at home…
I’m feeling confident today, maybe I’ll post some Instagram pictures.
Actually, I don’t want to be an attention seeker, but if don’t I won’t be popular.
In today’s society no matter what choice you make you are judged for it…
So, what’s the point in trying anyway?
Because my choices aren’t mine…