I wonder what it will be like to be 55. 

Each face will be known in time, relations and relationships formed

through viral videos, HD blossom punching through screens

to form a pink crust on smiling faces.

Steady lines etched on taut skin, (spiralling from 1999 to 2016

and onwards) until the inkings blur and stretch

foreshadowing wrinkles of youth.

Aristocratic histories, doling out death with a flick of the wrist

replaced with caustic app swiping and lifelong settlements.

Too busy being shadowed with electric lighting

to thumb laughter lines or pinch hair between teeth

and happy with flaccid VR, the modern person loses touch

with relations and relationships formed.



I crank open the door, pivot in my seat
and place my feet on the floor. I untie my shoe laces
and feel the blood begin to circulate towards my toes.
The car is easing into its occupied space, chimes, gentle thuds
and creaks of kinetic energy slowly ease.
I feel the gravel displace beneath my feet, debris sticking to the sole
of my shoe.

My fingers clasp around my keys, index finger rubbing
against the cool metal and my middle finger teasing the key ring.
I place it in the door, turning it slowly until the mechanism clicks.
The car door opens,
feet twist and crack earth beneath my feet
tides of red rush towards digits
but still I stand, waiting for the blooded headedness
to ease up.
The keys clink outward from pocket
destined for its other half.

The start of growth?

This blog will hopefully document transitional and transgressional pieces, ones that can challenge creative boundries and work towards a great end product.

This is a work in progress where pieces will be posted sporadically and analysis, explanation and discussion will follow.

Sharing what is often seen as a wholly personal journey is a challenge for anyone; but it is worth sharing what will hopefully provide an insight into modern British life for the average poet.

Cheers- NPL

@NationalPoetry (Twitter)