Thumb Poetry

I bought a Blackberry in the summer of 2009 and wrote short poems on it. I thought some of them were worth keeping. The Blackberry is dead now. It spent a rainy night somewhere in the woods of Surrey after a drunken night out and never recovered.

(1) Unpunctuated
Everyday
Ambient noise
Is hardly
An easy medium

Words are
Dropped in,
Dragged down
And drowned.

A few float.
Cling to them
For dear life.
Even false ones.

(2) Useless
It is always
A not there.
A blank page,
Or whatever.
It’s not enough.

Never enough
Nothing, though.
That is always
Missing, thanks to
These paradoxes.

More accurate
To stay silent,
But who cares
About the mark
At this hour.

(3) Woodcock
Words made dear
By laying samples
Of one atop
Another and other
Over and over.

Repeat and repeat
(Smoke a scented
Cigarette again),
And repeat again.
Find any clarity.

A hedonistic
Greco-Roman
Practice, this.
Done it since
My eyes opened.

Mom said this
Will ruin them.
Be it so.
Less distractions
To overcome.

(4) Afternoon Tea
A warm look
At signs of
Well wasted youth
Has tougher men
Thirsty for drink.

Finished pleasing
Others, the self,
And the needs
Of no-one
In particular.

The plot lost
In the circuitous
Time of work,
Two feet dangling
Above a future.

It’s all set
For the taking
Or discarding.
I’ll talk myself
Into it first.

(5) Women
Lost interest in
The little worlds
Girls create
And women try
To escape.

It must be
The time of year.
Nights grow long
And solitude
More inviting.

Maybe I’m ripe
For the picking.
Fermenting fruit
Tend to perk
Ready appetites.

(6) White Wine
Ecstasy is
Five pounds away
At the cornerstore,
Bottled in rows
Of stinky liquid.

You can stand
Next to yourself
Until there is
Nobody to stand
Next to left.

Sadly, this makes
Grammar studies
Impossibly difficult,
And most things
That require selves.

(7) Shroom Fag
A good hit
Tells you that
There is no
Real, sweet escape
From the present.

It is appalling
When it hits,
Because there is
That hit that
Does bow out.

I dropped ashes
On the floor
Like a baby.
Someone has to
Clean that up.

(8) And oils
The habits of sharks
This mad cannot
But steal attention
From all the lines
They have swallowed.

A slaughterhouse
On a cliffside
That throws shit
Into the ocean
Where be monsters.

Produce goes in
One end and out
The other and
The rest goes
To these dogs.

They will eat up
Whatever you want.
That doesn’t mean
You should open
Your big mouth.

2 Responses to “Thumb Poetry”


  1. 1 zumpoems February 12, 2012 at 00:37

    All very out-of-the-box poems. Love the way this collection ends!

  2. 2 nonvisedvoce February 12, 2012 at 01:14

    Thanks. The last one was inspired by an actual abattoir near where I used to live. They threw their waste into the ocean and it made the sharks on that bit of the coast insane.


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