So I took my poem down...

It's been a while. NaPo got in the way of my musing. I also took the previous post down as I got a pub for the poem featured in it, 'Bellwether-by-Sea', a satirical take on Hove's status as a marginal seat. Well, it was marginal at the time I wrote it, but towards the end of the month everyone was reckoning it was a shoo-in for Labour, which proved to be correct. 

You can read it in issue 17 of Alliterati which is devoted to political themes (if you don't mind squinting hard enough at the pdf format and fiddling with the little magnification widget). They've chosen a dessicated typewriter font that seems to be in at the moment. All the other contributions, including some intriguing art work, look effortlessly cool next to mine. My poem is trying a bit too hard--like Ed Miliband in those televised debates. It also seems too polite and neat for words. If it was having tea, its little finger would be raised and the sips would be noiseless. (Not sure if that analogy applies to Ed, as he's famed for his inelegant scoffing.) 
Anyway, within this Alliterati gathering, so to speak, everyone else seems to be biting into the rims of chipped mugs, squeezing out the last drop of soured milk from the warped carton (well, the mag began life as a student rag after all). Hmm, does milk still come in cartons? Perhaps not, too nineties for words. Anyway, I'm very proud to be included in the magazine--an old rat bag like me who can recall actual milk bottles made of glass. Oh yes and they would fit snugly inside duffle coat front pockets, if I remember correctly.

Here's another poem to make up for the one I took down. It's about election night, a rather singular take on it, you could say. I was followed recently on Twitter by a Lib Dem policy wonk called Nick. Hmm, don't they have any other names? Yes, they must be desperate for followers of any ilk, so I tweeted the link to my soundcloud reading soon after. Hope he got off on the last few lines :)

Nocturne written on Election Night, May 7th

I watched Cameron's car,

the armoured Jaguar taking him to the count,

as it purred along Oxfordshire

country lanes pitch black and as smooth as

Guinness--red tail lights flashing--

and this time we were the passengers

cocooned inside--trying to read our destiny

in the passing shadows.

I fought the desire to gather the dark silence

of that road and coat you in it

spill the questioning bleakness

into your mouth--a passionless

droll slit--my tongue gaining entry

like a ballot sheet needing to be folded

over again--stamping you afresh

with a meretricious kiss

forcing you to concede as we laboured ahead,

our physical union bound by

a coalition of drunken senses

blinkered by carnality

making us inseparable in that uncertain night--

desperate to escape the gloom

cast by the last exit poll.

My tongue was too engaging to ignore--

offering to lick your stubby pencil

held on a tight leash just before

you marked your cross in the booth where no one

could ever swing a cat--and then only then

was it free to spool around yours,

a fluent consort for the counting hours,

making each of us drool over unexpected results

after the joint declaration--

as partners in the last dance

before the Lib Dem House of Cards

collapsed and a weary Nick

was left standing alone

in his boxer shorts.