Poems By Emma Plunkett

Receive the energy, let it flow.
Balance the input and output levels.
Meteoric rise from the ashes of hell
to maintain a sensible manner.
Riot gear to control my thoughts,
psychosis of the never ever again scenario:
Arse-shitting, sleeping, vomiting,
figure eight to fold the whole.
Left together, right together,
charming electromagnetic fields of golden mist,
consuming ribbons for the funfair.
Cold, early, virtually fat-free,
remember me, I’m sort of alright.
Trading celebrities for orphans,
melted ice cream on my breasts.
Aeroplanes under the bed,
anchors for hands and she sank.

31.05.00

Lethal.
Silent permission granted;
take control.
Auto take
The decision’s made.
BANG!
FIRE!
The show is axed
and the dancing girls all disappear! Aaaah. (more…)

Knightsbridge Station is closed,
because it’s having some tender loving care.
The escalators going down towards the Northern Line
and the up escalator from the Piccadilly Line at Kings Cross
have just got married.
The platforms are all making love at Victoria.
Please make your journey using an alternative route.
We hope this doesn’t cause you too much inconvenience.

05.10.00

Winning all the time,
everywhere.
Lots of different prizes,
all shapes and sizes.
£5000 @ 3 o’clock;
a hand-held television set,
just because of getting it right.
So many chances to win,
strike it lucky, just by being here.
No cheating, no time to lose:
the jackpot is waiting, (more…)

Pollen approaching
The gladioli, when told,
Went weak at the roots
And her leaves fell apart
She dissolved into her perfume
Her petals all open
As she glanced at his stamen
Swaying long in the breeze

17.8.00