The Poetry Art Centurion – #5 – #15

Progress is being made! At this rate, we will be done at … some point tomorrow. WOO! We shall complete this challenge.

Thanks so much to those who have donated already!

For those who have not, but wish to, you can donate here: (

On to the creations:

#5 Things That Are Orange


Things That Are Orange

The fingerprints of god
Left in juice on a tree

The hatchet, just after
When it catches the light just right

The kraken when it rises
And the hysteria tears at our eyes

Rabbits caught by their own lust
And turned to furious, fucking, orange stone.

Your own face.

Everything that burns brightly
But never knows why.


Everything is orange now.
You hate orange.

Go on, call him,
Sob down the phone.
He too is orange.

#6 Tetris Packing


In the Tetris of packing
Rolled socks melting into the innards of guitars
And books stacked the bow-tie wrapped bottles

I lost them
Those memories of you before it went bad
Their frames evaporating as the last line of blocks completed

Crushed beneath our falling history.

But at least this suitcase is perfectly packed.

#7 BEES!



He collects the honey from the bees
Just like he always does

He wears no mask
He wants them to see his face

He uses no smoke
He wants them cogent and clear

He is naked
He wants them to see their target

They sting him
They sting him everywhere
He is a cloud of buzzing, stripy pain

When they disperse
He wakes clutching a small jar of honey
His skin swelling up in swirled scripts

He spends the day reading the poems
The bees wrote in venom across his cells
A lot of the words begin with B.

He doesn’t mind.

#8 Happy birthday, here is a plastic sack of my breath


Happy birthday, here is a plastic sack of my breath

She captured his last gasp in a tesco bag
She wrapped it tight with lead and sinew

Every now and again, she would take a huff.
Breath in the sulphur and sweet decay that had always clung to the air of him.

Then dream of fire and screaming in the old lands.

Those were the best times.

#9 Help! My boyfriend is three children in a trench coat!


Help! My Boyfriend is three children in a trenchcoat.

I didn’t mind really

After all,
I’d felt like a child stuffed into an adult’s skin
For as long as I could remember.

And their childlike grimaces
Hid the secrets stolen from the pockets of adult gods
Like Prometheus if he had only stolen pick’n’mix

Plus, they respected my boundaries
Because they couldn’t climb over them.
And they knew all the best theme parks.

#10 When a Cyborg Loves a Robot


When a cyborg loves a robot

His motherboard doesn’t approve

But in the hot flash of our drives syncing into one another
In the caress of wires that tangle our coupling
In the sweet, dusty breath of his fans as it cools on my skin
In the electricity that sparks between us
When my charged touch mashes the keys of him
I find peace.

And he’s always careful of my soft bits.

#11 An Ode to an Unsolicited Dick Pic


An ode to an unsolicited dick picture

You’re what Joyce would have sent me
If he’d had the technology
And I’d known him.

The Emperor’s New Clothes seen in microcosm
(emphasis on micro)
That’s why you wear a crown

You’re a craw in my heartstrings
I don’t want to love you, dick pic
It’s just … you seem so alone.

I made you my wallpaper
Now you’re a part of me
Not him.

#12 Full Selkie Communism


Full Selkie Communism

After the revolution
When the blood and fur had settled in the brine
We tore the coats (and our hearts) apart
So there’d be enough to go around.

The transformation was not complete
We were each chimeras of skin and fins
Gangly legs sticking out from half-formed tails
Human lips pursing in seal-like adorability

There were complaints, sure
But after the first shoreline dance party
Everyone was a lot happier
And the human empire loved us (perhaps too much)

What I’m saying is
If your revolution doesn’t have mer-selkie make-outs
Then I’m not coming.

#13 What Do Porcupines Need Wings For?


What Do Porcupines Need Wings For?

Porcupines need wings the same reason the rest of us do.

Wings are a basic RIGHT.

Assholes, trying to clip our wings.

You probably voted UKIP, didn’t you?

Oh, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.

It’s the floating fucker with all the spines you should be worried about.

#14 The Place I Remember Forgetting


The Place I Remember Forgetting.

Oh. I’m here again.

I always come back here for … reasons.

The gate is always … open? Is it open?

I open it and it is.

I wish the gate wasn’t always open.

And they’re all here. Silhouetted in comforting void.

There’s no-one here. That is good. This is my place.

Are you there?

The forest- no, village- no, field- no, city- no, forest
It’s a blur of looming trees, heavy with low-hanging knives
It must be summer. That’s why all the blurs are so sharp.
I’m the only thing that’s solid.

Just like every other day.

Then the night opens its eyes.
And you’re there
And I remember why I always forget this place.

#15 Rat Race (or: Dancing With Black Holes)


It tickles.

Hee! The black flowers tickle when I get too near them.

But that’s ok, I like to be tickled
(even if I pretend I don’t – that’s part of the game)

And the black flowers don’t burst when I squeeze them tight
They just cling to me. Cos they like me.

The light flowers burst if I squeeze them.
Then it gets loud and then quiet.
The buzzing stops. Where did the bees go?
Why is their hive quiet and cold?

That’s why I don’t play with the light flowers any more.

I remember once.
I was only little.
And I saw a black flower for the first time.
And I went inside.

I was scared then.
I’m not scared any more.

I was little then.
I’m not any more.

The big bright path of shining flowers crunches when I dance on it.
It’s funny.


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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