Ollie Feather

A man reading a book reflected in a mirror he is sitting in front of.

The Soho House London member is a poet and writer from south London who thrives on performance and music-backed poetry. He also runs a music consultancy company, Future Sound, which works with brands and businesses on creating strategically led campaigns to enhance identity through the power of music. Here, he shares one of his poems

Sunday Stranger
She’s my Sunday Stranger
And my Monday muse
She’s my half past heaven
And the six o clock news
She’s that Tuesday tipple
And my Wednesday wait
The blood in my eyes
In a Thursday state
She’s my Friday night fight
And my Saturday haze
My Sunday sight
In this mundane maze
She’s my mid March meltdown
My apple core
My five goal thriller
And my nil-all draw
She’s the dance floor answer
To that hip hop hit
She’s ‘do that again’
And she’s ‘just stop it’
She’s a hat trick hero
And a penalty miss
She’s my favourite kisser
She’s my favourite kiss
She’s the twist in the tale
And she’s the giveaway
The bliss in the gale
As we sail away
She’s ‘don’t read that text’
And she’s ‘pick up the phone’
And she’s I’ve forgotten my keys
And I’m halfway home
She’s touch me tender
And she’s f**k me hard
She’s can I see your ID
And she’s ‘that’s it your barred’
She’s a tenpin bowler
And a strike on goal
She’s my mothers gravy
And Toad in The Hole
She’s an X rated X ray
Of a broken leg
She’s the white in your eyes
And a double yoke egg
She’s the worst enemy
But she’s the best friend
The beginning and middle
But not the end
She’s bang on time
And she’s late for the train
She’s the rumour in your soul
And the tumour on your brain
She’s the cold side of the pillow
on the back of your neck
She’s the breeze through the willow
And another bounced cheque
The wait at the carousel
As you search for the tag
She’s 30,000 feet up
And she’s ‘we’ve lost your bag’
She’s a trip to Tesco’s
And a banana skin spin
She’s a soul consoler
And: ‘take it on the chin’
She’s an autocorrect text
And a ten pence sweet
Computer says correct
Control, Alt, Delete
She’s the bass in your headphones
And the crackle in your jack
She’s the finger in your bones
And the devil in the sack
She’s a glance in the mirror
And a knock on the door
She’s meeting Mike Skinner
And a household chore
She’s a winner in the National
At 76 to one
She presses all my buttons
So that I come undone
She’s a plastic bag floating
In the middle of the sea
In those lonely hours
She’s my cup of tea
She matters
And she matters to me
And I know she do
Whatever that happens to be
She’s everything
She’s you and she’s me