August 1, 2016

Five Poems by Dane Cobain: "Fingers," "Views from the Airing Cupboard," "Bending Spoons in the Face of Death," "A Monster Truck in the Middle of Nowhere," and "Seasons Come and Seasons Go."

Dane Cobain, of High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK, is an independent poet, musician and storyteller with a passion for language and learning. When he’s not in front of a screen writing stories and poetry, he can be found working on his book review blog or developing his website, www.danecobain.com. His first collection of poetry, Eyes Like Lighthouses When the Boats Come Home, was released by Booktrope Editions in March of 2016.




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Fingers

My fingers
have leet skills
bro you don’t even
play guitar;
my fingers
linger,
like a bowman
holding back the string
ready to let arrows
block out the sun.

My fingers
are metaphorical;
they’re calloused
and callous
and covered
in cuts
and bruises,
covered in juices
and lucid.

I could never be a thief,
because if I lost my hands
to a sharp steel blade,
my fingers would be made
redundant,
and that’s no fun.

I gotta tongue
that they didn’t cut out –
I use it
to spit poems
and shit.

I got fingers
and thumbs
and I’m not afraid
to use ‘em.



Views from the Airing Cupboard

When I was ten,
I don’t have a bedroom;

when I was ten,
I had an airing cupboard.

See,
there was no room
at the inn,
so my dad
built a bunk bed
on the boiler.

I had no cupboards
or wardrobes,
but I did have
a 1995
Dell personal computer
running MS-DOS
on a little desk
I used to sit at,
where I taught
my brother and sister
how to use command lines
so they could pass their exams
at university.

I also had
a little lightbulb;
it gave me shocks
if I sat up in the night,
so I learned
to keep my head down.

You’ve gotta say
it's symbolic,
my father
never had
room for me.
That’s why I air my views
through poetry;
it’s where
I hang
my dirty
laundry.


Bending Spoons in the Face of Death

Cutlery;
the last bastion
of civilisation.

Spoons bend
and knives break
and forks are fucking
fun to play with,
especially when you
stab a woman in the arm
‘cause she looks so beautiful
you could eat her.

Spoons bend
in the face of death,
like they’ve been run over
by tanks
or fired from
medieval catapults.

I ain’t afraid
of no chopsticks;
I’d just rather eat rice
with a knife and fork.



A Monster Truck in the Middle of Nowhere

Boom
and the engine
just couldn’t
stay silent,
four big wheels
and plenty of suspension
in the middle
of the middle
of the city.

The drive-shaft snaps
and a strange whir
fills the midnight air
and in the middle
of the middle
of nowhere,
a guy in a hooded jumper
climbs into the cab
and starts rummaging.

This is Jorvik;
this is a Viking longboat
with four big wheels
and a broken
drive-shaft.

This is where
Eric the Red
met Beowulf,
and these
21st century heroes
dropped their swords
and bows
and bowed down
to the power
of horses.

Eric the Red said,
“Get the plates
of the monster
that hit me!”

Beowulf lived
and died
and replied
in silence.



Seasons Come and Go

It’s a taste test
with your breath held
and your blistered skin
breaking in
and out again –
you can shout
the good shout,
but it’s about damn time
that you compromised.

Baby you got style
a mile high,
stone age skyscrapers
in your mind’s eye,
wild and white
with your blood shooting
softly down the centre.

You got me
like a spare part
from a hardware shop
or a Kwik-e-mart;
I am the multitude
multiplied by fractions
and always undivided,
the quiet light
that guides the nightmares.

Baby you bared
your neck
for the wolf
to feast on –
I do hope
you know
what you’re
doing.

Then you melted
into sunny spring mornings,
spewing back time
as you pulled out from the driveway
and drove up the hill
towards the M40;

I melted back
into frigid winter
afternoons;
once more
into the breach,
in need
of another
meaning.

~Dane Cobain 

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