Poems By Emma Plunkett

The cathedral in the sky;
squatted for a party this weekend
(a full-on energising cultural event).
Entering through an open door,
the sunshine lures me outside again.
Slowly disintegrating daffodils;
the power of sprouted-wheat juice;
I confirm my anxious state.
Remaining on this planet too long again
I change and climb into a new suit of armour.
I love everything about you.
We exchange suicide notes.
No boss today;
my love has gone away. (more…)

A clown was born,
an eight-year-old fairy clown.
Drinking a thirteen-year-old cup of tea,
she’s a fairy.
Of course she can fly:
she flutters her wings.
She’s a ballerina:
she knows all the right moves,
pirouettes and everything.
Releasing the inner clown,
she’s magic.

(more…)

Time-squared, simple, giant octopus.
Maybe daisy,
one says, some days.
Feeling like a queen
that fell off her throne
in front of a bad witch.
I can’t decide, yet, who I like.
Roger the transsexual likes me
with his full sex change,
from petrol to diesel.
Perhaps, probably, let’s hope, eh?

The fire-flies of  beauty lie beneath the surface.
Die.
Pressing her buttons, she comes. (more…)

Fresh; driving daisies around in a large crane
that beckons and calls to all the seagulls
that fly and flock to the beach
where I used to live.
Someone stole my hole
and hung it up to dry
until there was nothing left;
evaporated hole.
“I like my thingy, (more…)

The sharp head on wobbly shoulders says “hello”
to the frightened little pussy cat on the red silk cushion.
I empty my heart into a plastic bag
and rummage for some foreign change.
Everything is the same.
Solid fuel blocks that grow on trees
keep winter cold madness away,
southern hit wonders of delay,
solitude for days.
When heaters drop
and air-conditioning stops, (more…)