loading . . . Block of Writers (for Oooh! Beehive) I did a feature slot at Oooh Beehive in September 2025, and did that thing where I write a tribute poem to everyone else who performed that evening. This is my best attempt at replicating it:
Block of Writers (for Oooh! Beehive)
A work in progressā¦
Coherence is a dream, a sliding scale Clive
of lyrical larceny, stockpiling interruptions
in shrill voices from the foaming depths.
Cracked marble vaults release all sorts of Michael
forms from the silent cells, incanting the
repetition of conjuring, anticipation satiated.
The forest strums our senses, tricked out Laura
in night, blossoming bitterly, inducing
the beauty of beckoning eloquence.
Lines drift, comparisons shattering peace, Mary
silence outlined in the quotidian, gratitude
clattering where powerlessness drags and drags.
Prayerful poetics hurt the knees, making Fin
fools of authorities, howling the intimacy of
surprised whiteness, menās voices loud and long.
Jobs done, window-shopping, stopping us in our Pelagie/ Roger
tracks, mapping souls to appearances,
glittering, a twist of reflections on humanity.
Filled with emptiness, we can grab maps from Annalisa
brain chemistry, track onanistic paths, unlandmarked,
barren, deafened by silence, white noise, waiting.
If you have been affected by any of the above stanzas, Sandra
fume about the consequences ā or lack ā and
whack out your own in retaliation, biting tales.
Spinning misery into a big, beautiful bill of fare, Rick ā Poet of the Three Rivers
tanned and glad-handing reality into a knaveās
menu of land-grabs available for the 1%.
Pictures flicker past of partnerships and glancing Christopher
connections, memories etched in laughter lines,
National Geographic papier machƩ lending a hand.
The snake coils, scary, soul-baring, a snarl gripping the Elmien
tails old wives roll over and over, tucked under
wild hair ā a story in itself, over too soon.
Letās judge books by their covers, entitling heroes, Jeff
listing the best bits, fictional, all wham-bam action,
soundtracking the sort of reports weāve anticipated.
In the meanwhile, the knuckles of the hard-boiled Pauline
brag that their voices are the only truth, but we can
wash free of dirt and blood, soaking in new, moonlit choices.
Letās bunk off from responsibilities before repeating Claire
the lessons of the past, hanging on for points that
matter, covered in sauciness, locked in for our own safety.
Celebrate blasphemously, swearing generously across a Ashley
spectrum of unapocalyptically brilliant attractions,
tracking an expanse of joy for everyone who can truly hear it.
Linking symbols across a Sunday in Swindon, picking up Gerald
the lost and disregarded, claiming better judgements,
precision gifting us great, poetic mysteries, an epic of many parts.
Labouring in vain, the privileged cannot represent us, Clive (again)
blessed with nuclear terror, complicitly handing over
the core of their souls for pats on the back by oligarchs.
Supported by faltering technology, hot fixes are cool, Kev the Poet
wetter, darker, slower, unlocked with fingerprints
glittering in seaside lights, hard dayās night, eight out of seven.
Painted in primary colours, innocence touches us, warm Io
as love in wintertime, but itās frozen in time under an
obscenity, shrugged off as a distant, foreign water off our backs.
Rhythmic truths glitter with precise ire, bright as firebombs Ian
arcing through the night towards the baited trap, feeding
the beast that snarls armageddon beats, cleaving unity.
Understanding is the key to authenticity, fighting the resistance to Melissa
care, softening the hard edges, cutting out doubts, smoothing
beauty in mirrored stars, mapping the future in glorious constellations.
Define the fires that shimmer across a spectrum, glorious in Phoenix
non-conformance, existence a resistance that has us flying,
bright kites that inspire, defining joy in a brightening sky.
Gifts can be triggers, abandoned in doorways, never hot enough River
to beckon attention, returning the false construction piece
by peace, bereaved but breathing, thriving, climbing back to light.
Orangutan is a compliment to a bold, spoiled shmuck, playing Rob
tiddlywinks with lives, grift trumping humanity, empathy
abandoned as dreams are strip-mined for commodities.
A golden gate to choices gifts us with the liminal, views youād Garland
miss if you dodge the crossroads, bearing witness to the
true beauty of fellow travellers, heat-hazed and numinous.
Shadows kiss, riding historyās mysteries, imagination projecting Marieta
vaudeville on the nightās curtain, simmering with the glories
of northern lights, summerās heat, passion resonating right and wrong.
Communication in pictograms reveal depths limited only by Eike
imagination, travelling in accumulation, a gathering of
injustices, projecting a modular future onto a cinematic disorder.
Last one standing acts out corporate blocks of thought, Kate
effort a heavy, dragging shell-shock, knocking back the trauma,
gentle and fierce as love, concentrating in engineered precision.
For this, and future lines, thanks for the inspiration⦠http://dlvr.it/TQwq3b