Vignette

It’s six o’clock and he’s slept enough and

no one’s watching as he tramps

past powerless neon and rainbows of vomit

and the hollow hill that he calls home

calls him home.

No crowds today to see his climb,

no choirs nor bells,

no flamelit circus cheers him on,

just dogs and rats, fighting like rats and dogs,

and the slumbrous dead eyes

of heavy-lidded houses and polystyrene pigeons

scrapping over frozen chips and pizza cheese

and nightly bile beans.

But fuck the darkness, fuck the torches – he’s got a Zippo

ping! and he sparks another joint.

It’s six o’clock and he’s smoked enough and

anyway, these things wear off over time.

For every blind old man that shows him an open door

ten more clang shut like secret cells

and the bicycles have chained themselves to railings again.

There’s a tremor in the sky but nothing in the streets

except the dull simoom of distant shuttle busses

queuing up to spend the day underground

and sit in neat little rows in painted boxes

and breathe monosmog and tarmac

and nightly bile beans.

He hears the news van coming

and the fumes catch in his throat.

It’s six o’clock and he’s choked enough and

a girl with broken wings

stares up at a sign from the past, and makes a long joke

and she’s younger than him.

How can she be younger than him?

Schoolboys run the firehouse now,

hosing their friends and laughing

and flicking Vs at the grownups

and teachers and nurses who tell them to stop.

They pepper spray his tears away

preen their uniforms and it’s their grey sky and

nightly bile beans keep you healthy, bright-eyed and slim!

It’s six o’clock and he’s slept enough and

smoked enough and choked enough and

cried enough and sometimes

spleen is not enough.

And the bicycles have chained themselves to railings again.

There’s always the hot poop

This is what happens...

 

One of my

oft repeated mistakes

is getting suggestions

from off of my mates

for poems to write

when, just out of sight,

my muse has fucked off

and the blank page waits…

They write crap

on my Facebook wall

that makes little

or no sense at all –

ideas that are wacky,

or just downright tacky,

or so sick and twisted

they frankly appal.

“Imagine you wished

you were wearing no pants,

or the sun’s a tomato

that’s living in France!”

One guy on Twitter

wants an ode “up the shitter”,

which is far from Wordsworth’s

idea of romance.

“Oh, write about poetry,

that would be ‘meta’”

“No, something on fruit

would be lyrically better”

“Be a good son –

write a song for your mum,

or copy that Auden –

send Byron a letter!”

You would think

I’d get more sense from poets,

but they’re just as barking

and boy, do they know it:

“Blank verse on halloumi,

or something pantoum-y!

You could go villanelle,

or even rondeau it!”

These are just

a tungsten example

of some of their input –

I could give you ample.

So I sit in the sun

while Olympians run:

the page is still blank

and I’m hardly that thankful.

Though I love

them with all of my heart,

my friends are all clueless

when it comes to art.

So, thanks for your counsel –

your wisdom is doubtful –

and as for this poem,

I still

don’t know

where to...

Shame...

For Jobi and Bonds

I probably don't smell too good today,

In last night's crumpled clothing, stumbling, wan

And pale – as pallid as this broken dawn –

Back to my house (if I can find the way).

With clean-cut cheeks and tailored suit of grey,

The Businessman strides past – he’s clearly on

His way to work. Eyes meet, and then he’s gone,

To meetings, desks, and chasing higher pay.

The disapproval on his face is clear:

He’s got a job, responsibility!

He got no time for mates and drinking beer –

He’d never throw away his life like me.

            I drift to bed on joys he’s never tasted,

            And smile to think that it’s my life that’s wasted.

Oure Elvysshe Craft

Quelle surprise, another sonnet.

The alchemist, uncertain, grinds his lead;
Around the room, alembics fizz, and bowls
Of baser matter bubble over coals
That steam the room and bead his scratchy head.
He thinks of wiser minds, and men long dead,
Of failed experiments, and thwarted goals:
If such a quest defeated those great souls,
Should he just strive for simpler aims instead?
Why seek for truth in this quixotic art?
Why chase eternities of gold? Why fret?
With all before discomfited, why start?

Maybe he’s mad – it’s vanity, but yet –

He knows, with romance in his shaded heart,

The merest gleam is worth the doubt and sweat.