Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
My Abdication I’m clean for the New Year Which goes against the laws of man Now’s the time it’s clear To get as fucked up as you can I’ve got money in my wallet So that can’t be what’s wrong Continue reading My Abdication by Ian Lewis Copestick
Christmas Blues Xmas shopping, alcohol for cocktails Fancy cheeses and chocolates. We have usually drank all of the Cocktails well before Xmas Eve Salamis, nuts, crisps and those Little tangerines. We throw them Willy nilly into the trolley. By Boxing Continue reading Christmas Blues & Two other new poems by Ian Lewis Copestick
This Constant Fight A day spent at the hospital Accident and Emergency So many people, so many poor All blood, pain and agony I hobbled around on a swollen leg Worried it may be D.V.T. People with bloody bandages on Continue reading This Constant Fight & Three other new poems by Ian Lewis Copestick
The Waiting Room Off-white walls, full of leaflets and pamphlets The bolted down, hard wooden chairs To get through the glass door, we need a code and an escort A nurse to take us from here to there On both Continue reading The Waiting Room & Three other new poems by Ian Lewis Copestick
A Plant That Grows On T.V. I see the poppies grow Between the stalks I see the ghosts Acquaintances, lovers, enemies, friends Strange how an innocent plant brought about their ends At many times it nearly killed me too Slumped Continue reading A Plant That Grows & Three other new poems by Ian Lewis Copestick
Sentenced I’ve been sentenced in my absence, so it seems To life without parole in this prison of poverty Through no fault of my own, as far as I know It just depends on how the dice are thrown There’s Continue reading Sentenced & 3 other new poems by Ian Lewis Copestick
Getting Too Old I’m getting too old For the life I’m living I’m going past middle aged Still acting like a teenager And I’m struggling to keep up the pace Another drug-fuelled sleepless night I’m getting way too old for Continue reading Getting Too Old & The End by Ian Lewis Copestick
White Tiles To wake and look around See the white tiled walls The thin, blue, rubber mattress And the itchy, grey blankets You realise you’re in a cell Locked up in the ‘ Northern Area Detention Centre ‘ You try Continue reading White Tiles & The Bottle Empties by Ian Lewis Copestick