Out of shielding at last
‘Out?: she asked with a gasp.
I think you’re being deliberately obtuse
For it’s not my mouth that been out of use
It’s the pubs that are closed
and the dentist too
No more people asking to use the loo
We’ve been busy during our shielding
Doing decorating and jobs that needed doing
In fact, it feels as we’ve almost caught up
Now I can get into church gain
something something something heaven!
A poem i wrote for my Mom coming out of shielding!
© Andrew Watkins 2020
Buoyed up by abbreviations
and a sense of only apathy
I wander to gaga
Send them into space at speed
and imagine they are treated
like some alien race
The talking bed who only speaks terrestrial
The kettle that only boils
The toaster on a short fuse
Perhaps one day they will learn
how to communicate like us
say the aliens over cheese
and alien crumpets
Somewhere on the planet
someone has made a discovery
He is human afterall
Perhaps he could interperet
between these contraptions.
and the home planet
and then lead a mission for the aliens
Then he would not be the lien
but a toaster human
A quick poem by Andrew Watkins © 2020
Ignoble journey
from magazine
to rack.
Up before dawn to line up outside
the raining shining hard on the pavement
Did I forget something or is it my brain?
Skyscraper babies
Cloning of our lives
Ourselves mere reflections
of a consumer society
gone wrong, consuming itself like a phage virus
spitting out excretions of individuality
to be consumed like cupcakes
bought at your local patisserie
itself a symbol of rebellious
machinations carried out
under the cloak of privacy
all that is allowed is fake
by those getting it right
themselves spitting bile
at those recumbent losers
who dare to question the status quo
Is it our passions alive with flame
or is it just a stupid game played out in the schoolyard?
where water flies and extinguishes doubt, reason, doubt
the one thing that sets us apart from the apes
is our art, our reason, our lives.
©Andrew Watkins 2020
A lost man, a sad man
a shallow man, a bad man
a quiet man, a shy man
a funny man, a queasy man
Which man?
A sharp knife, a bread knife
a paring knife, a life knife
a David bowie knife, tonight wife(knife)
a porcupine, a schnitzel
a Pop! goes the weasel
a morning, a snoring
and a bedtime drink
for breakfast, for elevenses
for a brunch for the senses
for women and men
of all ages
colours
race
creed
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Good Morning!
Andrew Watkins 2019
wHERE dO i BELONG?
LIPS COLD LIPS
INSIDE WHERE ITS WARM
OUTSIDE IN HELL
WHERE THE BRACKEN SPILLS AND CHOPS
LIGHTNING DRAGONS OF GREEN
SMOL BOTTLE OF POP
GREEN FROG
AND A DISNEY BLACK AND WHITE
pOP! gOES THE WEASEL
sHAPES FLUTTER AWAY
LEAVING LINES OF GREY
YELLOW PAINT EVERYWHERE
THE EARTH NOW MATCHES THE SUN
AND I FEEL WARM INSIDE
bANG! GOES THE GUN
aND i AM LOST AGAIN
SCREAM GOES THE SHOUT
WHERE IS MY CLOUT
MY COURAGE MY ALL
LOST IN A BLAZING SUN
tHE DRUNKEN MOON WAXES IDLE
IN A CLOUD OF MONSOON RAIN
AND I WANDER THE FOREST
DRIPPING WITH ENUI
AND BAT DROPPINGS
a WRIGGLY WORM SAYS HELLO
FROM HIS LEAF TOP, TOP HAT
AND CANE WAISTCOAT IN THE RAIN
hELLO! mR wORM i SHOUT
hOW ARE wE tODAY? i ask
fINE fINE fINE SAYS HE
tHEN a bIRD sWOOPS dOWN
aND tHERE iS nOTHING aGain bUT rAIN
i LOOK UP INTO THE YELLOW SUN
aND REALISE i NEED A GUN AGAIN
tO bLAST AWAY THE PAIN oN mY fACE
tO rEORDER THE UNIVERSE AGAIN
TO BURY MY PAIN
i AM THE wOOD. i AM THE FOREST
sOAKED IN YELLOW RAIN
DRIPPING ENUI TO THE GROUND
THEN i AM BACK AGAIN
AND THE WORLD IS GREEN
AND i AM PINK NOT WHITE
THEN THE WORLD TURNS YELLOW
AND i GROAN
AND THE WORDS COME OUT YELLOW
AND MY PAIN IS YELLOW
AND THERE IS A SONG ABOUT THIS YELLOW
BY COLDPLAY
wHERE IS MY GWYNETH?eVERYWHERE
iS sHE yELLOW TOO?
YES
wE ARE ALL YELLOW
Andrew Watkins 2019
describe me in lines
in colour surprise
show me the real
show me fantasy
just show me!
Those first lines
that stay with you always
are primers for the paint
that you buy later
That masterpiece you made
wasn’t all that in your eyes
yet they became comfortable
in time, you will too.
Lifes percussion is deafening
And hard to stand on
Just draw anyway and capture
What you have seen
That line you heard is not all; it seems
to know where you have been
and the heavy metal style
makes you feel mean
James Hetfield once said
I’m not getting out of bed
So the rest of Metallica
joined him instead
Trying to find meaning is tough
When others say it isn’t there
and you can’t see it either
and whose to say there is any when you draw
That’s the appeal I suppose
to waste time doing something you enjoy
and might bring pleasure to others
on a rainy day
But. There is a but. There will always be heavenly.
No matter if you live in hell
Describe me with lines
with colour surprise.
Copyright Andrew Watkins 2019©
I dry my eyes
and curse myself
Why am I here?
You came to me
On a Chariot
I was dreaming
of camelot
We danced in the dark
We shimmied ourselves dry
Well I did
I was smitten!
The old songs and emotions
cast aside
Now i sing the old
songs daily
and wonder
if you live fairly
Could we meet
under an anarchists flag
and pledge ourselves to
a life of chaos
and discovery?
and change the minds
of the garden fences
evermore?
Andrew Watkins 2019©
Spidery webs across the page
I look up and you are gone again
A ball of light is all that remains
Save the light of a conductors baton
all is darkness without pattern
That ball of light leaving lightning streaks
used to illustrate our metaphorics
writing in the language of gods
we wept together against all odds
and made our mark on a land of sods
the cobwebs are bare and glistening
and I know that you are listening
to the sounds of old made new and christened
by the hands of god good is made
and ready are the arms graciously saved
Perhaps one day we will meet again
and preciously guard our love token
Until then fear not for we are saved
by our brethren in these cold cold days
lift up your spirits and behold
the rites of passage from infirm to gold
Copyright Andrew Watkins 2019
Over rocks and gravel
I stick my tongue
hunting for the sweet taste
of salt
My body needs it
My body feeds it
the sweat needs it
to be
the sweet taste of salt
Turning over stones
I lick underneath
dislodging the creatures
whom I seek
I could be at this
another week for
the sweet taste of salt
Copyright Andrew WATKINS 2019
