I build my poems with words. Letter's
gathered from language like a
road sweeper would chip paper's
rolling through streets of thought.
Then curse as soiled verbs cling
to their familiar nouns like fingers of chewed
gum on a blackboard of sidewalk asphalt.

Rhyming couplets too large for
this vaccum machine sit motionless in shadowed
doorways, stinking of piss drinking with their spell check pals.

Those rotary brushes don’t care,
gathering the ‘gentle’ and ‘cellar’
with the ‘twat’ and the ‘curly’.
Digested into a stomach of reason
and rhythm or assonance rhyme.

They become words later spilled
onto a pile of linguistic compost, with
vagrants and crow’s picking for
gilt edge tat like, ‘humpty’ and ‘dumpty’
to get them through their day.

In the evening when birds sleep, hiding inside the silence
creep the poets with their trowels reflecting. Where they will stay
and rummage,
until a warm sun of achievement
fills pockets never likely
to be filled
with gilt nor gold.

What a beautiful poem, Darren!

A real joy to read. I totally agree with Sophie, vivid images. I especially liked the idea of 'linguistic compost'. It put me in mind of when you have lots of ideas in your head for a poem but can't quite get teh right words down on paper. Brill!

Fab poem Darren, what an interesting concept.

xxxx