Nantwich Speakeasy Poets: Mark Sheeky

Mark Sheeky head

Mark is an artist, painter, piano player and poet, and radio presenter, with one self published poetry collection, one poem per day for a year, and an illustrated collection of William Blake poems.

Milk

Milk, warm thick fatty

nourishment like heaven’s

breath, the fuel of life

that radiates and sparks

this new delight.

This sensation of life,

liquid breath, butter sun

love from my mother, what

delights await these sky-blue

eyes and tiny nostrils

in this world of swirling

scents and sensations, lights

like delightful milk,

warm thick fatty nourishment

like heaven’s breath,

liquid breath, butter sun

love from my mother.

Hunger

The whisper of blood,

and the pleading of bone marrow.

The stretch of thin fingers, grey

towards crumbles of caramel biscuit, golden

sticky-toffee flavours, in mouth

moistening hope, in anticipatory dream

of the sugary aroma, cracks with teeth.

I wander the streets.

I gaze at stalls, deep eyed and sallow

like The Scream.

My wool coat squeaks when chewed.

The hope of a lardy nutrient.

I close my eyes and circle the rim of an imaginary plate,

glass bone, a bed for a warm shape to fill me.

Reality squirms in my lonely knotted guts as they weep and plot to kill me.

The whisper of blood, and the pleading of bone marrow.

I make a wish, and I wait.

Ready Meal

These potatoes and meat were cooked for me, for one,

with salt and sweet butter carrots,

and green sprig.

I eat in silent stare, away

in some mythical land of carefree care.

Each trembled fork is slow, and grey.

A million meals of yesterday.

What would it feel like to cook food for a friend?

A surprise message arrives.

These potatoes and meat were cooked for me, for one,

with salt and sweet butter carrots,

and green sprig.

Assam

Oh, like tea,

do you remember the ice-thin china,

sharp on the lips and sweet-cream milk,

in rich Assam, large flake

bitter and dark in the transparent pot

brown breath astringent universe,

like seas of people seeking love

in rust-iron skies of a warm Autumn storm.

I tasted my lips, and yours,

and we sipped and silent smiled at the calm day,

and every October floss cloud paused,

then cracked, and pulled in wisps away.

Food

If I had the time I would pile

sweet creams and delights

of edible architecture upon the white glass plates

that you bought for me on the day that we first met.

I would offer you caramel brown sauces,

and mint scents, red jellies and courses

of elaborate designs, like crystal spires

of crisp sugar scaffolding,

that sparkle like child-eyes.

If I had the days, or just a morning for love

I would paint for you such patterns

of aroma and anticipation, in roasted meats

and earthy roots, with warm fatty juices

and sups of rich wine.

I would climb out of bed and be happy, again,

and look, with a kind light upon the white glass plates

that you bought for me on the day that we first met.

I would climb out of bed, with strength,

and cook spaghetti, with green oil,

and mascarpone meringue, drizzled with chocolate in fine lines,

like time on the skin,

like the time that I don’t have now

for food.

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