P o e t r y


When I am old I want a face like the plague,

Bulboused and withered and wrinkled with age,

I want grooves that furrow like molten rock,

Crevassed with concrete, carbuncle and cinderblock,

I want cackled craggles and crinkled creases,

Rumpled skin as centerpieces.


I’ll take a face that looks like the sand,

Gnarled and eroded, imbruted and bland,

I’ll take a face that looks like the sky,

Clouded and smoked, polluted and passed by

I’ll take a face that looks like the sea,

Sunken and white-washed, enigmatic and beastly.


I’ll take a face that looks like the earth,

Muddied and contoured, blackened and breech-birthed.

I’ll take a face that looks like the sun,

Red-pocked and sun-spotted, raw and overdone.

If there’s a line for every laugh and a laugh for every line

That we quip and quiver and mime and undersign,

I’ll take a face that looks like the moon,

Cratered and crackled, carved out and caved in,

If it means to laugh life away and wrinkle a grin.


If life were a rock I would carve my name into it.

I’d rinse it in water and wipe off the grit

And keep it in my pocket.

I’d lock it close to my heart

And take it out when I see fit,

To give myself a good kick up the arse.


I’d keep it on the side-table when I slept at night

Or on the mantelpiece – give the world a fright.

I’d hang it by the front door,

To assure I won’t forget

The fury and the clamour

And the peril to expect.


I’d hold it above my head for the whole world to see

And just as quickly hide it, turn back and flee.

I’d wear it as a necklace

In reckless abandon

To remind me to fret less

And live life in tandem.


I’d wear it when I felt the sand sinking on my chest,

Or the air rising up, lungs filled, arms outstretched.

It would be my wedding band,

My grandstand, my last goodbye.

my first intent and last reply.


And when it begins to mould, fossilize and grow old,

The name is worn out and the end is foretold,

I’ll throw it in the ocean,

To notion the time has come

To dissolve in slow motion

And splinter in the sand.

I Never Asked For More Than This

I never asked for more than this,

No pleas of firm tenacity;

A catatonic revelry

That cast a putrid callow kiss

Before my focus captured rich.


In quiet candle-carved pretence,

We feigned a rapturous connect,

Unseated by a disaffect

Of sullied, spoilt, spent offense

That never was the first intent.


Now it is all over: a wall

Divides my rotten form from thee;

A tale of Pyr’mus sans Thesbe,

No gap, No cleft, No crack at all,

Those fissures now impressed in me.

It Started Out So Nice

It started out with shades of green on that sun-kissed month of June.

With clouded skies and coloured eyes condemned to hell too soon.

With whispered kiss and quiet hum of some forgotten tune,

It started out so nice, beneath that rosy, clover moon

Where children chase and lovers tear, and cry and toss and swoon

Beneath an empyrean canopy, blurred in rapt cocoon.

It started out so nice, at that Vaudian snow-lagoon,

With effervescent tables draped in porcelain perfume

And fortune built more on hint and trace than wild, exotic fumes

It started out so nice, locked in twisted, haggard plume.


It started out with secrets in a naked, darkened room,

Where dreams are made and worries fade in a clasp of marrowed gloom.

And visions of a shared refuge, with hushed sirenic, bloom.

It started out so nice, bound in amorous resume.

Full of smiles, the kiss reviles, now in dusty, sunset tomb,

Where memories hide and reveries glide beneath the surface of that old familiar tune.

It started out so nice, beneath that rosy, clover moon.

We started out so nice, locked in twisted, haggard plume.

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© 2018 By Ben Hatt