chocolate fireguard, teapot,
or fender, icecream sofa, dry sea
or wet towel, glass hammer,

waterproof teabag, newspaper
raincoat and umbrella, lead parachute, ashtray on a motorbike,

handbrake on a canoe,
vote in a dictatorship,
loudhailer to a deaf mute,
grief at a wedding,

****** in a monastery.
inflatable dartboard,
spoon in a knife-fight,
screen door on a submarine,

wooden soap, shortbread tires,  
knitted light bulb,
bread boat, plasticine wire cutters,
paper hole punch, water hat,

custard floorboards,
ceiling tiles made of gravy,
portrait of a bowl of soup,
a stone cigarette,

syrup knickers, hole in my bucket,
plastic oven, wax truss,
liquorice bridge,
false teeth made of soap,

lemonade roof,
jelly boots,
jam cardigan,

paper bicycle pump,
ice-cream saucepans,
soluble drain pipe,
packet of rubber nails,

see-through mirror,
revolving basement restaurant
roll-on hairspray, rubber pencil,

****** with a hole in it,
limp ****, pockets on a lettuce,
**** on a fish, lolly pop van in Hell,

one-legged man in an ****
kicking competition,

meaningless life,
unnecessary death,
forgotten words and deeds,
ignored needs,


this poem.

It all disappears
replaced by a phantom,
the flickering light of a coal miners lantern casts its shadow along the black halls and it all disappears.
Bevan would spin in his grave knowing his lads could not save what remained of his dream,
and in the lean light of lamplight the nightwatch calls midnight,
and it all disappears.

We were born into a world that exploded with light emitting diodes,and nuclear power,turbines that whine in constant revolution,
a green world, a clean world, a world fit for tomorrow where the future is born from the ashes of sorrow and these tears we would borrow from the seeds that we sow ,
and it all disappears in the fears of the many,of those, who if they had any hope,have it no more,where the door is locked and the bolt is drawn against this brave new dawn,and sometimes it feels like I never was born ,
but created from eggshells and no one tells me that I'm wrong.

Cracked open my breath breaks away, and the inside exposed,peeled like the petals that rose on some bloom,the shrivelling doom, a vast mushrooming cloud,
and it makes me feel proud,
as it all disappears and we all fade away.

A mountain.
Its growing by the minute.
Bigger and bigger still.
Increasing in magnitude.
Plates and cups and cutlery.
Saucepans and a lonely wok.

An avalanche brewing in a secluded space.
River flows over the kitchen sink.
Daughter needs to wash up,
at least that's what I think.
Sink is overflowing.
One almighty crash.
Lots of broken china.
Surrounds the base of never rest.
Another excuse to avoid it.
Hey presto.
The daughter is gone in a flash.
(C) Livvi

When you are a young white boy
You learn that "God" loves everyone
And you should too because
Everybody matters.

Then, you find out by yourself that,
What they actually meant,
Was that "God" treats everyone equally -
Nobody matters.

We are all equally irrelevant.
Just vessels awaiting our white sheets.

Sometime later you learn that,
While nobody matters, it is the loudest
Voices that have the least to say -
Idiots clatter their saucepans during evening discussions.

So as the blue, white, and red shine brightly across the world
While the Eiffel Tower remains silenced by tragedy,
It is the deafening strains of the bandwagon we hear
Struggling to cope with its passengers,

While the repeated explosions of idiots
Continue to clatter their saucepans all over the world
And the Facebook ramblings and Twitter chirps
Of disillusioned folks who didn't ever
Learn that their toys don't matter.
That their race or gender or religion doesn't matter.

Nobody, myself included, seems to grasp
The concept that we are all irrelevant,

Nobody, except those awaiting
Identification and burial,
Those who are comforted
By candles, flowers, and white sheets,
Who are whispering in the wind
The same question that eludes us all:

"Why is the world full of hate and evil men?"

And maybe it is in the acceptance
Of a spiteful "God", the acceptance
Of a mean, angry, vengeful pig of a "God",
A "God" who hates... Or maybe
It is in the asking of that very question:

That whisper in the icy November wind
That burns your hands at football matches
Or sitting outside in restaurants,
That makes them matter a great deal.

There's a baby crying
from another room
a dog barking
from across the road

Helen opens her eyes
to her bedroom
her mind focuses
as much
it can
in morning's light

her younger sister
sleeps next to
her mouth open
eyes closed
hands resting on top
of the blanket

what day is it?
Helen asks herself
she calculates
Saturday yes Saturday

she smiles
no need to get up
just yet
she turns away
from her sister
and looks
at the wall
at her side
with green flowered
wall paper
torn in places
where her sister
has ripped it

she has to ask her mum
about the cinema
Benny said to go
but she wasn't sure
her mum would let her
or could afford
for her to go

I'll pay for you
Benny had said
the previous day
at school
I've got some
pocket money still

but she couldn't
just say yes
without her mum
knowing or agreeing

she sits up
and looks
at her sister sleeping
and gets up
and stands
on the cold floor
and goes to the window
and looks out

her mum is up
and in the kitchen
she can hear
saucepans being used
and her mum talking

she gets out of her bedroom
and along
to the kitchen/wash-room

what's got you out of bed
on a Saturday?
her mum asks
making porridge

Benny's going
to the cinema
and asked me to go
Helen says
pretending
lack of interest

does he now
and what
did you say?

Helen looks
at her mum's
broad beam
of backside
and tight
head of curls

said I'd ask you
Helen replies

did you now
well now you've asked

Helen waits
unsure of the answer

how much is it
to the cinema then?

Benny said
it's 6d
he did say he'd pay
but I said
I wasn't going to
accept his charity
(she hadn't
but it sounded good)

don't be too proud
of charity girl
you may need it
one day
her mum says

can I go?

her mum stirs
the saucepan of porridge

ok
but don't
make a habit of it
I'm not made
of money

Helen beams
and hugs her mum's
wide waist
and kisses her hip

get on with you
and get washed
and dressed
her mum says

and Helen
full of happiness
take off her nightgown
and washes
in the sink
of soapy water
her thoughts racing
around her head
like a cat chasing
a mouse
all over
a large
many roomed
house.

Mr Pig needed a plan in which to inject
He knew Mr Duck had become very hurt
So he has decided to treat the duck with respect
And buy him his favourite colour tee shirt.

That did not work so he’s bought a scouring pad
Well somewhere somehow one has to draw a line
And this thought he had made him feel really glad
Because it meant Mr Duck could make his saucepans shine.

Mr Duck was sinking into further depression
His whole being felt sort of broken.
He sat with his little face without expression
And what is more he had not spoken.

Ducks these days have to be sort of thick skinned
Especially when you run out of luck.
Life is not like a a mad, mad whirlwind
These are the thoughts from a broken duck.

It's the hour that locks us in and devours the minutes that makes up the day,the hour that boils in the saucepans of man and makes the dish that makes men wish there was more,the hour that laughs at us,looks and dismisses us,picks us and dishes us up.
Every minute I see every hour will be one more second to go and we know where they go,
to the locker room of gloom where the hour of doom is at hand,let us smile for the hour is yet but a mile from the door,one minute more,one minute past,one minute to last me a lifetime.

He needed a plan in which to inject
He knew his friend had become very hurt
So he has decided to treat him with respect
And buy him his favourite colour tee shirt.

That did not work so he’s bought a scouring pad
Well somewhere somehow one has to draw a line
And this thought he had made him feel really glad
Because it meant his friend could make his saucepans shine.

This friend was sinking into further depression
His whole being felt sort of broken.
He sat with his little face without expression
And what is more he had not spoken.

Friends these days have to be sort of thick skinned
Especially when you run out of hope.
Life is not like a a mad, mad whirlwind
But dwindling like soap on a rope.

There is a man in front of me

He sits slouched in the corner

His hair is shot and grey-brown

He spends several seconds unpuzzling a

Romantic quote

He doesn't like it

He spends a few reading another post

It says:

Funny

How you can choose between labour

And conservative

But can't decide whether your gay

Or straight

Or like *******

Saucepans

( I think it means pansexual )

He likes this post.

Funny.

The walls of the train

He is alot older than I thought he would be

Less brown

More grey.

He needed a plan in which to inject
He knew his friend had become very hurt
So he has decided to treat him with respect
And buy him his favourite colour tee shirt.

That did not work so he’s bought a scouring pad
Well somewhere somehow one has to draw a line
And this thought he had made him feel really glad
Because it meant his friend could make his saucepans shine.

This friend was sinking into further depression
His whole being felt sort of broken.
He sat with his little face without expression
And what is more he had not spoken.

Friends these days have to be sort of thick skinned
Especially when you run out of hope.
Life is not like a a mad, mad whirlwind
But dwindlig like soap on a rope.

nostalgia has become my best friend
the smallest things will make me relive this memory that i never really had. like when i hear the vibrations of no one ever loved, i have this aching in my bones and my heart feels like spears are flying in at every direction and i cry out for someone i never really lost or the way pictures of places make me yearn to go back to countries i've never seen. i've been homesick for the place we never had and longed for someone i could never have. home the scent that lingers to the bedroom i can smell the  batter of the aunt jamima. syrup is expanding on the kids plates, sticking like the glue they will soon discover their first day of preschool. and as i stand here in front of you now i can't fathom if this is another one of my vivid dreams. i've been in a mental daze for years now my mind is scattered like a meadow of sunflowers who can't seem to shine through my orbit nerves. the painting of the paris that dangles like saucepans behind my bed is yet another country i've tried to crawl into, but it's painful my knees are developing carpet burn and my elbows are full of red mountain ridges. and i can't seem to reach the summit of this mountain. honey do you remember the glue sticks we have hidden until the kids first day of school? give the glue to them. let them learn how to unscrew the cap, pop it off like the corks of the first champaign bottle they will open on december 31st. give them ropes that will leave a ribbon of red on their palms by the time they reach the clift that their mother dangles from. tell the kids to use their little muscles they've been strengthening with their daily glass of milk, to push mommy to the top and glue my feet there and make me promise i  will never jump. home the first place the kids got to use glue, the new place where whey will build a foundation of trust with their father on a mountain where glue wasn't enough to hold their mother down. mom. yes sorry, i was just washing the dishes, go color a picture for your father. soap drips from my prunny palms leaving ***** dish water memories. when i see the steel sink, i hear the garbage disposal weathering the rocks down of a mountain i've been struggling climb. breaking down every memory i've ever had. slicing them like apples except there's no juice. but there is aunt jamima batter, enough batter to linger scents to my room every morning. enough syrup to stick to the cheap paper plates, from the corner store. corners i will turn until i reach the summit of this  mountain.

Like a swamp ****
it grows in the boiling water of saucepans.
That seems to be the only way people cook it.
It's slimy and soggy
and tastes of death.
The corpse of a once thriving plant,
now in the coffin of the saucepan.
Disgusting.
Revolting.
Why would anyone see that ditch ****
and think,
"Looks edible!"
Obviously they were very wrong.