Poet Deploriate

Where whimsy meets cynicism, the gherkins rebel and the kids are all right. Poems from a top hat. Collections available here: http://goo.gl/FdvoTz Email the poet at poetdeploriate@gmail.com.

Grid city secrets

In grid cities
there are no
flatiron buildings
with scorchmark shadows
only triangulations
like a tilted bottle
of midday perfume.

Life as a career

If life is a career
then my position description
needs some clarification -
one day I am a mail clerk
the next a managing director
the next I am locked outside,
passcode changed
and email shuttered -
to be honest, it’s all a bit much
and I think a pay rise is in order.

The dandy Russell Brands

On the floor below
is a house of dandy Russell Brands -
off the rack but selling a pattern
for dapper, self-made men -
I am not a man
(I am a hat)
but if given a choice of lining
mine would be a black hole
sumptuous and dense -
in meetings I could swing my wings
and devour business cards
of suitable stock -
and perhaps my newfound gravitas
would draw people
(my own orbit is for lesser bodies
it is one that syncs and floats)
and we would move slowly
Zeno slowly and -
if we found a perfect moment
I would let the wind flappet my jacket
and hit pause -
we could enjoy the endless anticipation
of a sunrise at the
event horizon.

Little mermaids

Little mermaids
walk on knives -
calves flare and gill
hands fin pockets
as they find
it is just as hard
to breathe in
this new ocean.

The transom where tornadoes live

The long-held breath
of the room exhales
the world’s room
responds in kind -
but coldly;
they greet at
the transom
they meet for
a dance -
arms twined
hair aswirl
then retreat
into their rooms -
one open, vast
one a confinement -
and I realise
I am the wind divided
I am the tornado that
never forms
never touches down.

Shorthand for old age

Briquette toast, fired
shudderingly forked;
tissue in sleeve cheeks -
gobbing goldfish;
drawstring mouth -
cocker spaniel lips;
weeping scent -
twine-kept violets by
the wheelie bin.

Silence, recursed

What if all the silent people
are waiting -
having created an opening
for someone else
to fill -
but all others have
to give
is yet another opening.

She laughs at his jokes

It is winter
(although it
could be
any season)
and a woman -
with a generous
and unearned laugh -
donates her soul
sets herself bare
gives her warming
cape of self
to the man she
walks with
to wear over his
mantle of ego -
he is warm and
masculine with his
layers of comfort
as she shivers,
stripped of
her own fabric.

Boxed in

The three woman
are accidental
pallbearers -
as they
a pram down
the steps of the
GPO, the only
smile I see
is in the


Chocolate bars -
a design of
someone who knows
the abyss -
they are moulded
into steps
that get
you across
but never up.


The hula hooping
on the pottery wheel
the one-way voyage
on cellophane seas
the sedimentation lines
of tannin and grinds -
so much went into
the flip, accidental
breakage of my
coffee cup.


At my fingertips are
my very own
hedge mazes
mountain ranges
tree knots
pond ripples
crop circles
Wedjat eyes
Stonehenges -
and ink stains.

Winter, in bed

We are
chopsticks in bed
for the steam-filled
that has slipped
beneath the
soup of the covers.

How to pack oranges in multiple dimensions

I went to a lecture about
packing oranges
in multiple dimensions
(the audience was dispersed,
seated in distant prongs
the 5 side of a die - not
a sphere-packing exemplar)
and learnt from a
pacing man, someone
trained in the trappings
of genius
but not Powerpoint
that fruit sellers
pyramid their wares with
mathematical intuition -
that yet there are
gains to be made
in this world of
propped oranges -
that from the third
to the fourth to the fifth
(it’s not a minor lift)
the space between oranges grows -
Aliceinwonderlandian stuff
this diastema of navels -
and I left of a mind
to invest in
property in twenty dimensions
and relationships
of the same.