Two Poems / by Sam Wheatman


Rhyme, Meter, and Lunchtime Beer


Laying tracks that lead to nowhere
The water
s cold this time of year
These old tan boots
 look dusty
I feel the summer
 drawing near

The air is thick and hazy
This city needs it
s goddamn sleep
re dancing in the boardrooms
The hungry dance out in the streets

The winter once felt never-ending
Masked in grey, we dream of spring
And though the wheels are always turning
Empty words don
t mean a thing

The sun soon melts to darkness
The daytime falls to dusk
The suited-men stop dancing
Well, rather them than us




Notes from Telegraph Hill #1


I dance through days and nights 

like the angel-heads to the beat.


My mind swirls in patterns and colours,

each thought more vivid than the last,

seeing all of lifes illimitable, immortal beauty

through giant kaleidoscope eyes

wide and awake,

desperate for every taste, touch, thought and trip.


The realms of possibility in which I exist feel infinite, 

and opportunities to love and explore are endless.

Love and explore.

Love and explore.

Love and explore.


This beautiful rapture 

this warmth within my chest

this undeniable madness of the soul. 




Sam Wheatman grew up in the English countryside but now lives up a steep hill in south-east London. He wishes he was a little bit taller, he wishes he was a baller...