Archived Poetry & Short Stories

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Back again my pretty creepy crawley 

With school start and hair washed- 

It doesn’t matter. 

You discriminate not though many on your behalf do 

They shout “You filth” and they do not mean you. 

The psychosomatic impulse 

The hand that reaches, scratches, passes back to point 

And waits 

The tendency engorged by fitful, fanciful, frantic 


And back again to torment, Cos that is what you do. 

The morning’s bus-stop-wait inspection 

The routine, the chore imposed. 

Each itch, each scratch, questioned 

Queried, curious, cautious 

And paranoid, yes paranoid, 

The present you endow. 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017

A song

I didn’t try today to remember
Nor forget for I thought that unwise.
I didn’t reach for tears to quench the fire
Nor would I allow my heart to burn with rage.
I never promised anything nor were oaths given
And yet I felt betrayed by what you’d done.
While I the innocent stone thrower
Lay down my implements of hypocrisy.
Refrain: I regret not knowing you
And you not loving me
I despise the taint I threw on thee
I blame my self as is my fallacy
Noone was wrong to let a thing just be.

I didn’t die that day
When you released me
Nor did I relish in
The new found misery.
I guess I begged
I may even have seemed pathetic
I was new to you and never asked for this.

Yet I wasn’t the victim of a hit and run
I believe we fought two pugilists as one.
You may have cracked my heart
With belittlements’ array
While I internalized the rage and came undone.

I didn’t lie that day upon failed laurels
Instead I fuelled my dreams from painful memory
Not like a trooper nor a troubadour
But like a man who’s lost and carries on.
Sometimes empowered by self-righteousness
Sometimes alone and left distraught
I have at times given weight to thee
And wonder if you’ve ever even thought of me.
Refrain: 1 or 2?

In the end, Love

To hold the shadow dear, the faded memories 

The loves lost 

The fights had 

The friends, the feelings: 

To position them in a place of some importance 

Each one a tool 

To teach 

To tempt us forward. 

And yet upon a pedestal too oft residing 

The pain descending 

Like hot wax dripping 

Time measured in its and your destruction. 

Time measured backwards towards the hurt 

As if nothing mattered anymore. 

The blind fool lives for what is lost 

The wise one dares to tread once more into the minefield 

that is the heart. 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017

A Coming of Age

A coming of age  a rite of passage

To write in remembrance to commemorate

I’m not mourning and yet I may still

For what I have done to that old tired beast.

I’ve slaughtered it, humanely,

in the name of expression.


Stood there in the limelight only the darkness to see

But like oft has been mentioned, I felt them, faceless, expectant,

and when I sat down swaddled in the spotlight

I sat down with the weight of their individual silence,



Each of them protruding through the inky veil,

To sit beside me on the sack cloth coughing:

This is poetry, culture – steak after all,

And I played my part tonight.


And I come away less vilified than deified,

Though the truth, I know, lies somewhere in between.
I shake the remnants of a beer from its hiding place,

hunting it down with my greed,

And allow that though momentarily I was sophisticated,

I am, in the end, Still me.


© TheHairyTeacher2017


Morning’s minions drawn from their downy warmth
To be flailed by street amid the swarms
Dark night shifts to grey sky warning
That the gloom arrives though day is dawning.
And onwards into the belly of the beast
Never satiated by the thronging streets
Each day then cursed to repeat again
Man’s fate sealed subservient till the end


© TheHairyTeacher2017


To flounder in the muggy mind of breathlessness and beer
The spring arrives to summer and yet lethargic I am charged
The older woman found wanting upon the step inclined
A hand up a chance received renewed am I inside.
What kindness then that with intention for its own reward
The Quickening delighted note though as of yet not marred.


© TheHairyTeacher2017

The Wishing Well

Scoffing at the notion and yet with no retort

The vacant shell of knowledge echoing

my doubts – which remain defenceless

And yet my instinct tells me all’s a lie.

Just different camps designing

And so when righteous roar

I’ll reply with my own righteousness: You’re wrong

Thus persisting, uncertain as to why.


© TheHairyTeacher2017

Nincs stout

And just now having asked as I recall this some hours hence

My favoured beverage not in stock just on paper

With some annoyance yet received paling it made sense

A pale ale is not a stout but something other.

Served up and bottle topped I leaned forward  connoisseur like

As I poured it frothed forth with some surprise

And when it settled almost not the yeast inside put up a fight

While I surrendered to the taste that did arise.


© TheHairyTeacher2017

Yet no divinity

Yet no divinity
Just a relapse into hope;
The delusion fortified
Lies now dying in its own decay –

Spreading the seeds of fallacy
Renting the truth from tip to root
The captured eloquence – sermonial – has left words, lies,
Withered on black tongues.


© TheHairyTeacher2017

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