Four poems by Z D Dicks

In the centre of the city     at the cross
is a man     Diogenes     suited and booted
he rifles     through a bomb proof bin
He pulls out an arm     with a half squashed
sandwich     a bite mark at corner     and waves it
at a thick     lipsticked woman     on stilt heels
and twists crust     points it like judges finger

Men don’t think about sex     every ten
seconds     they think where’s my socks
where’s my lunch     and I’m late for work

An office lady     staring at him     scrunches the paint
on her face     leaving mud banks     at corners
of eyes     she veers away     from the soggy
lettuce     and floppy bread     tumbling like a clown

Do you mind     I’m on my lunch break
hold my calls!

Diogenes smears mayonnaise around his
mouth     like gloss     wiggles hips in mock march
and salutes police     turns his head     shields
words with back of hand     and whisper shouts

Gotta to go     I’m booked up all day
kind regards     here’s my one o’clock

He untucks a shirt     tosses a hang man’s
noose     kicks off his trousers     plucks
a folded letter     from inside jacket pocket
feels the government ply     inking between
the heavy stamp     of fingers in buttocks

Diogenes bows low     like an actor     who’s finished
performing     the scrunched flower unclenched
is picked up     and thrown to feet     he presents
wrists     in Christ pose shrug     to an audience
rejected and offers his refusal     for universal credit



As Venus     plunged into night     hotter     than all
the planets in the solar system     the Morning Star
Lucifer     moved on her journey     around the sun
forever tied to fission blasts     and punished     for
her gift     an apple     giving luminescence to taste
buds     and wisdom of texture     she was cast into
retrograde orbit     backwards     against gods pull
for daring to share     her vision of warmth     through
black trees in sky     and in books she was labelled
the opposer     and temptress of men     but it was
only a question she asked that led to her exile
against the grain of solar hell

Why make them suffer?     You gave me light and heat
to see and reflect you     into every body     but     why do they suffer?
I feel the knowledge     and smoulder at my surface     but they freeze
and weep     in death and decay     why     do you make them suffer?

When all  they want is the caress of your ardency     not in glare
or flaring flood     why do     you     feel they should suffer?     Blister
their skin     without clothes and demand praise     for giving
them food     but     why force them to suffer?

Their lives are short     and you say to revere     you     and if
they don’t     and don’t understand     why do you demand to make
them suffer?     Where do the outcasts go     when you turn your
winter in them     after they die     with no grip of rules

So please     why would do they deserve to suffer?
You say to obey     or will cast them     to shiver     and starve
but why bother to make them suffer?     I can create     but
I wouldn’t want to     because     I     wouldn’t see them suffer

A response of no response
and she descended     a heretic     of her own volition



Europe used to be
a student     hitch hiking to the next party
fine cuisine     wafted to sun glazed balconies
the taste     of champagne bubbling on tongue
catching a ride on a boat     reclined in an embrace
and languages     clattering     together as rain drops

Britain is now
the taste of continental cheese     out of date
crisp packets and chocolate     reduced in weight
citizens rounded up and deported
the smell of recycling boxes     overflowing
flag waving     when no battle has been won

Britain was
a shared ideal my family died for
where I spent my childhood     and played chess
the sad look on a friends face     saying     It’s happening again
where human rights were     first     adopted
the place millions march     but     it isn’t in papers

Britain is in Europe     however     its spirit     like so many
once welcomed immigrants     has too been cast out



Heckle: to rudely interrupt

The words split     from the back of the room
a clumsy hatchet hack     right down the aisle
digging into the space     without seats
as a blunt shovel slips     around an oak root
it slid across a speakers face     a flat
scratch     that flushed to forehead     sitting
in the furrow of     boney     crows feet

Heckle: to undo strands to make ready for spinning

And with that curl spring up and out
the fibre of one poet was unravelled
his hemp     dressed down     with hairline stare
to straighten his loud     frayed     attitude for rotating
away from other poets     unattracted
to his new     garish     loud design     and too loose
a mouth     and too tightly wound     for anything
but a flimsy     late apology


Z D Dicks 
Founder/CEO Gloucestershire Poetry Society and Gloucester Poetry Festival 

3 thoughts on “Four poems by Z D Dicks

  1. Powerful and thought provoking poems. I particularly like “Europe”. I am a strong supporter of the EU and hope the UK will remain in the end…


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