Michael Dench

Paul Eccentric - AKA...

- Presents

Michael Dench

I'm a creative looking for outlets. I'm working hard on a novel at the moment and scribbling down very personal nursery rhymes in the gaps. I have a couple of hook-ups in the pipeline, one of which is with Agnese Manganaro who may be (hopefully is) turning some of my poetry into songs. Still haven't heard the results but as you will hear if you visit her page, that voice could emote a phonebook. Aside from that I am in a year of flux and relying a lot on the kindness of friends. Eyes are open, which means I could either be blessed with sight or cursed with tears. Blessed tears? Who knows? That's me.

Michael's Myspace

http://www.myspace.com/thankseverso

SCRATCHY

You liked me

And I could tell it was against your nature

Your nose curled at my smell and your hands

Were unsure how to touch me

Until you could see that we were the same

It was the claw on the paw that did it

You grew confident then and held me as I needed to be held

Checking to see if I'd drawn blood

'He's going to be alright' you said to the crying man behind the wheel

You both looked at me, I could see

Through the blur of puss in my eye

'He want's to live' you said

And I scratched you again to see you pulsing red

'Scratchy's dead'

Read the text that he sent you

A cold way to say from such a long way

But one he was sure you would get

The crying man was crying again

And even your eyes blurred a little

'I'm so sorry' read your reply

Though that could never say it all

You thought of me then

Though I know it was against your nature

I sank in to a tiled floor and my claw and my paw

Longed for the warm skin

That covered the pulse

That gave me the life

The short life

I lived

© Michael Dench

STONED IN ITALY

We never had it
I never had you and thinking other is not wise
Your eyes glazed over with lies when you looked at me
In Italy
In twilight streets
In the boot
Your lies are a drug I'd shoot to believe you'd seen me
And I'd be higher if you'd heard my words
My english birds
If they hadn't fell dead
Everytime I said
That I love you
I thought that the flew
But we were stoned
My smiles were loaned
From a chemical spill
Of your ill will

Now, I am not mashed
My love is re-hashed
On terra-brittania
On ground that feeds my longing for other
That may not be wise
Your glazed, lying
Beautiful
Eyes

MY GRAVE MUM

My mother knows the poet in me
Eyes, twenty year closed,
Seeing what life can no longer see
She's scared that her death is mine
'You should be fine' she says
And if she were here I would be
I'd not have turned down bitterly shadowed paths
Lit by lanterns burning the finest wines
'A bordeaux so blue should not singe lips
Such as I gave you, son.'
My mother sits and sips a cup of English brew
Not sugared as death is sweetly gruff
Don't coat this chilly truth, please
I smile, 'thank you for this'
'For what?' she asks
With eyes that wear a score of soil
'The hangover, the quality of a taste that lingers
For the terror that planted the vine
That may send me my grave
My grave, grave mum'

© Michael Dench

© Michael Dench

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