Frogs, a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam White, poet

Nice things include sunshine and flowers,
Whose beams and petals can be poisonous
To both men and frogs.

Bubbling skin presents in the first case,
The light of day anathema to our lives,
Proof that open sky rejects us all,
Without preamble or prejudice
Shining on through matt or glossy skin alike.

In the second, the pretty leaves tempt,
Flexing those skin-like cups in mockery,
Welcoming us to touch. To taste. To swallow.
She mines the bowel, growing roots that corrupt,
Branching out her death elegantly.

This way, I appreciate my enemy,
His glazed, inhuman eyes familiar
Through our twice shared vulnerabilities.
Somehow, it allows me to kill him better,
Knowing just how very alike we are.

Nice things include sunshine and flowers,
Whose beams and petals can be poisonous
To both men and frogs.


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Untitled, a poem by Dave White, my dad.

I was born in Hope Street me, and moved to Clairemont Road,
From a back to back in Balsall Heath, to Sparkbrook, to Nans and she ad loads,
Loads of everythin' I'm tellin ya, houses, kids, and poke,
She even ad a proper bath, where ya could lie an ave a soak.
We moved in with our Nancy then, A proper Witch was she,
She med our lives hell while we were there, a flippin' misery.
We moved then to Hillmeads Road, Pool Farm ya gorra know.
To fourty four, a maisonette, no poshies there, ho ho,
It was ard time back then, an money was really tight,
And ta get the respect, as a kid, ya ad to flippin' fight,
Jimmy Donnelly will tell ya, He was there anall,
Ten flippin years for us, before we gorra call,
Then to Yardley Wood we went to an ouse at flippin last.
Leaving Pool Farm where it should be, in the bleedin' past.
Yardley Wood is where I stayed until tied the knot,
Family friends and neighbours all, a good old bunch, the lot,
So there ya ave it, a history of where I've spent me time,
I thought it best to let ya know in this little feckin poem.


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A Modern Brummy Poem, a poem by Dave White, my dad

What a flippin’ day, today, just to try and get some bread,
Gorrup this morning, knackered!, with a poundin’ ead,
I wunt get pissed agen, that ciders lethal stuff,
Guz down okay when drinkin’ it,
But shit! next day yow’re rough,

I gorra job on too, fixin up a gaff,
Me an our kid are doin it, the money’s flippin naff,
I’ll ring him in a minute, and see if he is fit,
He ad a skin full too, last night,
I bet, he’s feelin shit.

Now where’s me bloody mobile, I don’t think I took it out,
I ope I ent lost it, without it we got nowt,
The number and address is in it, shit! This as done my ead,
Sod the job and sod the rest, I’m guin back to bed.

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Wisdom, Tempered By Diligence, a poem by Adam White, poet

The things I've seen would make your hair curl
(Or straighten as the case may be.
I'd hate to exclude you from the poem
On the basis of how you wear your hair,
Or, indeed, how it seems to wear you.
(I'd like to clarify that the last line
Was no kind of insult just so you know.
(Not that I think you're an idiot
And can't understand the difference
Between an insult and a statement
(No I'm not being condescending or sarcastic.
I really mean it when I write that
I do not think you are some kind of moron.
(Wait. Did that bit sound sarcastic too?
I'm digging myself in to a hole here,
Like some kind of burrowing mammal.
(Notice there how I didn't write mole?
I did that just in case you have a mole
That you are in some way ashamed of.
(Here's a fact. I could've said badger,
But didn't because I wanted to write
That little bit about the mole you may have,
Because it would give me a great excuse
To picture the gigantic, nasty mole
You may or may not have on your bum-cheek.
(Don't worry, I'm not some kind of pervert.
I need these little asides to focus on
Every time I have a conversation with you.
(It makes you all seem more human to me,
Despite the fact you all seem to possess
That nasty stroke of inhumanity,
Hammered in to you by years of abuse
By parents, friends, lovers and, least of all,
Those petty, paltry people you call enemies.
(That is a blanket statement by the way
So try not to take it personally.))))))))))
I don't like to talk about them really.
(Since I'm clearly socially awkward and
Find it very hard to trust anybody.)


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Dirty Look, a poem in triolet form, by Adam White, poet

I wish you would soften your stare,
So it's sharp edges would not cut;
People might see how much you care.
I wish you would soften. Your stare,
All fury, chops through anxious air,
Hotter, thicker, blacker than soot.
I wish you would soften your stare,
So it's sharp edges would not cut.


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Cold Hands, a poem by Adam White, poet

She wants to rise from the last of her ashes,
And cover the world in her waves of allure.
She wants to rise where the men can all see her,
And choke in great piles on the sand of her shores.

Her arms are wide open, but cool and unwelcome,
And a cold, hollow stare that leaves him struck dumb.
The hearts of his friends are all filled up with scorn,
Healing his body of the scars from her thorns.

He wakes in the night all covered with sweat,
The sheets on his skin made sticky and wet.
He thinks of her touch, not unkind as such,
And writhes in his consciousness, wrapped in her clutch.

The world is a blur, when compared to her,
His lover, his heroin, all that he needs.
Her caress is painful, fingers are needles,
He's wasted, malnourished, but ever she feeds.

He believes he is fine. His habit is nothing,
But you see on the surface, the sanity cracking.
The blood in his eyes. The way that he lies.
No-one can help him, nobody his friend.
Everyone knows there's one way this can end.
No-one can help him, nobody's his friend.
Everyone knows the way this will end.

Now he's a shadow,
Once tall and handsome,
Blue were his eyes, now made grey and empty
Dead in the gutter, broken and bent,
The smell of decay and her sick perfume scent.

From a window above, she stared at his corpse,
Before eyeing a passerby, lost in his thoughts.
She sees the art in him, and that makes him hers,
His muse and his murderer warm in her furs.


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