BBC 4 Extra – Borderless

Two Poems by Stephen Druce

A CATASTROPHIC HABITAT


Nothing works in
my small flat -
it's a catastrophic
habitat,

the key to the flat
won't turn in the door,
the sign says three but
it's really number four,

the letterbox opening's
a millimetre wide -
the doorbell rings 
but only outside,

security was fitted
with the burglar proof -
so the thieves broke in
through the leaking roof,

a fire broke out and
the smoke alarm failed,
the wall fell down when
I pulled the curtain rail,

the power cuts are frequent 
so I'm often in the dark,
the cat can't meow and
the dog can't bark,

the stereo is broken and
the bathroom mirror cracked,
no signal on the wi-fi --
the extractor wont extract,

the microwave blew --
there's a hole in the bin,
the ceiling fell through and
the goldfish can't swim,

the fridge won't close and
the cupboards don't fit --
like my wrong-sized clothes
and the washing line split,

the rocking chair snapped
and I landed on my head,
I bounced into the bedroom
and I broke the waterbed,

the toaster burns the bread
when the settings on low --
the cork's stuck in the bottle
and the plants won't grow,

the vacuum cleaner won't suck --
the light bulbs have popped,
the superglue has never stuck
and all the clocks have stopped,

they undercut the window panes --
they all have two inch gaps,
the gas pipe burst -- I must be cursed --
the building just collapsed.


THEY'LL NEVER KNOW
THE WAY WE FEEL

They'll never know
the way we feel.

they'll know our names
and what we earn --
our capital gains --
our tax return,
and what we're worth --
our height and weight,
our place of birth --
the time and date,
our number flat --
our fixed abode,
our habitat --
our postal code,
our social links --
our network friends,
the way we think --
how much we spend,
our DNA --
the streets we go,
our resume --
the bills we owe,
our hidden scars --
our blood relation,
where we are --
our information,
star sign -- if
our passport's real --
but they'll never know
the way we feel.

Stephen Philip Druce is based in Shrewsbury UK. He is published in the USA, India, the UK and Canada. He’s written for theatre plays in London and BBC 4 Extra.

Contact: Instagram – @StephenPhilipDruce

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Poetry by Stephen Philip Druce

THE GOLDEN FLOWER

Let the blue mountain slide,

to the pink snow abyss,

let the green city hide

from the burgundy mist,

let the copper creature wither

in an oil painting splatter,

give the new crimson river

for the silver sky to scatter,

let the violet tree tumble

in a turquoise dissolve,

let the yellow hill crumble

in a ruby moon fold,

let the purple sun sear,

let the orange lake drain,

take the red rainbow spear,

lance the cherry forest flame,

chase the claret rain away,

sink the lilac in the sea,

let the amber cloud decay

but let the golden flower be.

THE FIX

Oh what a drag,
to be a perfect
duplicate of two,

burdened with all
the characteristics
of our makers, we are
struck down with their
every trait for our
precise imitation,

once the fresh
dewy offspring shoots
in the new wind, we
rose from the good earth
as one-off hopefuls,

the first day of spring -

"damn!, I'm turning
into my mother!"
shrieked one,

"I'm turning into
my father!"
shrieked another,

"We didn't bloom
unique, we're all copies!"
chanted the endless sea
of petals, washed away
by their own tears,

true, we are our makers,

what we do,
and the way
we do it,

every detail,
passed down,
traced back,
and nobody ever
broke the mold,
never a break,

we're all sentenced
to the same fate and
there is no escape,

that's the fix,

so think twice before
you roll the dice.