The Poetry Art Centurion – #1 – #4

The Poetry Art Centurion – a charity challenge raising money for Shelter – is under way!

So far, we have completed four poetry-art pieces (96 to go, woo!).

#1 Foxes


After the other hacks had left
He still manned fleet street

He still knew the job
Still wore his coat of muck

The Fox of Fleet Street knows the story
They say
His feral eyes blaze with mad truths
They whisper
He sleeps on a bed of secrets
They claim
He wears the city in his scent
They know.

His muzzle stinks of trash and politics
Rooting through the bins of truth’s a dirty job.

#2 Leaves



It was supposed to be the end of hunger
The redundancy of food banks
The death of the stomach’s knotted pains

The photosynthesis of flesh
Skin plaited by its dna helixes
Til it greedy-guzzled sunlight.

We barely missed the feel of eating.

Then the leaves started growing
Our green pores erupted gore
A thick-veined foliage heavy with blood.

The council said they’d take care of it
Making The Pruning a monthly festival
A spa of shears and scalpel-scrubs.

Then we found out what they did with them
Upscale eateries crouched like goblins down alleys
Single red leaves glistening on china canvas.

I saved up and ate one once
The glazed dermis: melting meaty honeycomb
An explosion of copper on my tongue.

I guess I can see why they’d harvest us
We’re delicious.

#3 Second Star on the Left


Second star on the left

“Second star on the left” he said
But the sky was so full of stars
And I’ve always been dyspraxic
(he didn’t understand the word)

I carried straight on til morning
I carried on longer still
I sank my teeth into my happy thoughts
And flew far beyond the stars.

I learnt to sail using Pyxis
I learnt to hunt from Orion
I lost my hand to a crocked star gone nova
I replaced it with a grappling hook.

I made a map of the heavens
And bombed Never Neverland from orbit

I am the girl the Lost Boys lost
But you can call me Captain Wendy

#4 Polyarmoury

When the knight walked into battle
She carried every one of her favours with her
A flock of fluttering shredded scraps of fabric hearts

“What are you?” Screamed foes
Their swords stuck in her chest
Caressing her heart.

She just smiled as they died

Happy so many had seen fit

To give their hearts to her.

In return
She made the battlefield her gift to them
It was red, after all.



About websterpoet

I'm a performance poet, sometime stand-up comedian and general writer type. I also run a free weekly poetry text that sends poetry direct to your phone, just e-mail me at with your name and number and I'll add you to the 'textshot' mailing list. Also, you can follow me on twitter @websterpoet
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