In The Scheme Of Things

gutless form of

grey flannel

and bowler hat

tapping briefcase

with finger

pencil callused

autocratic directions

of how the

shapeless should fit

tailors chalk on cloth

decisive lines

to trim or sew

mouths stitched so

neatly shut

limbs severed so that

the fall of material

should be so suitable

old money new money

contra entries

that become the washerwomans


in colonial towns

with brighter sun

and sweated brows

grey flannel choke

and soft eton tones

cruciform stretched

with benefits denied

g&t cold pink lemonade

taking canapes on landscaped lawn

take a bow doff your cap

grateful for what you

don’t receive

inbred subservience

of the golden age

long shadows

keeping us in the dark

mouth torn open

begins to shout

blood on lips

blood on tongue

strike a match

to cauterize

and light the beacon torch

flannel shadows

cannot keep us hidden

or denied

we have voices

as we are many

and you are few


copyyright Chris Lawrence




morning opening light,

no strength to start the day

yet lit by sun

worn carpet

trellis pattern of brown and gold,

capturing crumbs,

those hairs she left behind

long auburn entwines

into pile,

catching on bare toes,

open loose cupboard door

and out comes old vacuum,

lit a cigarette

once connected to socket,

switched on

electric motor whined,

light flickered on nose

brushes beat at the carpet,

bag rattled

suction was just enough,

her removal nearly complete,

carpet would never be a

green grass in the sun

as his heart told him so


poetry for james dyson in the independent newspaper