Hanging about in coffee shops

I have neither black beret or goatee, nor a dingy garret in the Rive Gauche, but I have been known to slack off in the Art House...

Two hours in an art café

Meet a friend to campaign
for the release of
friends in Russian jails,
plotting over a pot of builder’s tea
(with cow not soy),
a coffee
(organic, natch – once again with cow)
and a ‘voluptuous vegan’,
most suggestive of menu items,

admire a white-on-blue
painting of a koi carp
like inverted porcelain,
before a quick-and-foamy beer
lubricates some more pen-and-ink work
and a chat about housing
and mental health,

high-five today’s successes,
grumble about cheap tat
polluting craft fairs,
hope to sell more jewellery,
feel good about getting a picture framed
and wonder how high to price it –

the bus comes to take me away.

Joining in with 50th anniversary fervour

No, not a royal jubilee, but something more important by far - of course, it's Dr Who... here's my attempt at a poetical friend's challenge to write a Dr Who triolet (rhyme scheme ABaAabAB in case you're not familiar with the form). Enjoy! (and yes, I do own a Dalek head...)

Clara Oswald, the Impossible Girl,
Oswin the Dalek makes souffles in space,
echo in time, tumbling pearl,
Clara Oswald the Impossible Girl,
heart of the TARDIS, temporal whirl,
War Doctor’s saviour so full of grace,
Clara Oswald the impossible girl,
Oswin the Dalek makes souffles in space.

Frackanory

Whatever the reality of local concerns about earth tremors and disruption due to drilling operations/vehicles, fracking leads to more fossil fuel use and hence carbon emissions when we should be shifting to renewables, not to mention the associated water pollution. Meanwhile the 'Government' says it's safe, tries to circumvent individuals' land rights, and lies about its potential to lower fuel bills. Do they have shares in fracking companies I wonder? It's all one big Frackanory (poem now here in slightly amended form).

Biotic and Modernist

A few months ago, I went to a workshop on Modernist poetry, during which we looked at Wallace Stevens' '13 ways of looking at a blackbird'. It was new to me at the time, but I was immediately grabbed by it - the range of metaphors, the use of imagery and so on. Expanding beyond blackbirds to include other plants and animals, here's a semi-autobiographical response...

13 of life’s moments shared with Wallace Stevens

I

During a squall,
jackdaws shelter
on the leeside of policemen.

II

Nothing is certain,
just as seaweeds are not plants.

III

We sit silently,
us good mates –
the landlord doesn’t mind lodgers having guests,
but what is there to say
when he’s watching TV
and idly cupping
his mastiff’s testicles?

IV

I am an old Jack Russell,
my balls drag in the snow.

V

There won’t be bluebirds over
the White Cliffs of Dover,
not because I don’t dream of peace,
but because the bluebird is not
native to Europe.

VI

Disappointed to find out that
the mummified foetus
of a Tasmanian Devil
has already been sold,
I have to ask myself ‘why?’

VII

Norbert Dentressangle,
Nippon Yusen Kaisha
and Dong Fang,
Triton and Mol the crocodile
bring what from where?

VIII

Pale grey ballast
recently laid and rolled
is soon obscured again
by shoots
of grass and Buddleia.

IX

Flossy the dental nurse
is a nine-grand rhino,
fibreglass,
green and white
with apple-a-day shoes.

X

One big man
admits on stage
how his life was saved.
The saviour,
on duty and
not knowing this until now,
sheds a tear –
gentle gorillas in our midst.

XI

The joy of
discovering a new
sexually-transmitted disease
of ladybirds.

XII

Crows gather,
fly down
and coalesce –
now a back-bent
black-shawled hag.

XIII

We are all stardust,
only some are golden.

WORdS, InNaRdS

A pair of medical/biological offerings in elementalist form i.e. made solely from the symbols of elements from the periodic table (because I do like tinkering with forms and constraints)


VErBaNAtOMoUS

AmYGdAlAs, PINeAl,
CePHAlISAtION OF
PrIMoRdIAl AmPHIBiC BRaIn,
OPTiCAl ORbS OF VISiON –
ReTiNa, SClErOTiC LaYEr,
BrOWS, LaSHeS,
NeAr NoSe, LiPS, CHIn,
SHoW UP As FAcEs.

In ThORaCIC SPaCeS,
ICKY OFFAl –
LiVEr (No ONiONS),
PaNCReAs GeNeRaTeS InSULiN,
ReNAl, HePaTiC, ILiAc,
SLiPPErY InTeSTiNeS,
BrONCHI, OEsOPHAgUS,
OVArIEs, TeSTeS (KNaCKErS).
FrAmEs OF OsSUArY SUCH As
TiBiO-FIBULaS = SHINbONeS,
CAlVEs UNdEr KNeEs,
VErTeBrAl STaCK,
CErVICAl, COCCYXeS, BAcKAcHe,
SCaPuLa, CLaVIClEs (PaIr),
CArPAlS, InSTePS, ArCHeS
CArTiLaGe, TeNdONS,
CIrCuLaTiON, NErVEs,
SKIn CoVErS GeNeTiC FOUNdAtIONS.

SiCKNESS

AcNe, NErVOUS TiCs,
FLu, BaRd’S AgUEs,
HErPEs SCaBS, SYPHILiTiC SOReS (YUCK),
BrONCHITiS, Tb,
PNEuMoCoNiOsIS
LuPuS (RaRe BeYONd ‘HoUSe’),
HIV, OThEr VIrUSEs,
CaNCEr (CHeMo, PRaYErS),
GeNeTiCs CaN Be UNKINd,
SErIOUS CoNdITiONS,
HoSPITaLiSAtION,
BiOPSiEs, SURgErY,
ReCoVErY?

Noir four

Following on from here, the fourth (final?) part of this noir story-in-verse, each from a different participant's perspective...

Colour me Noir IV: The Suitcase

The click of my catch
is the revolver’s hammer,
thumb-cocked to snuff some poor dope.

The thud as I’m dropped
is the blackjack’s kiss on a sap’s skull –
hug that sidewalk, John Doe.

The first line of light
as my lid opens is the crack
of a KO’d boxer’s swollen eye.

Whoever I see,
witness, killer or corpse,
they’re all my victims in the end –
I am a mirror not of glass.

Nod to 'Two Moons for Mongs'

Last night at The Art House, I saw Ross Sutherland perform a splendid set which included one of my favourites of his, Two Moons for Mongs which was (a) wonderful and (b) made me glad I didn't pick a univocalist poem during the open mic section (I was going to but then I wondered, 'what if...?' and did something else instead). Anyhow, I wrote this a few months ago as a response to Two Moons..., also as a univocalist piece in the key of O (the only vowel used). Now seems the right time to let it be read. Some day I may perform it...

Hollowtown

Long rows of blocks soon show
Tomorrow’s World looks old now,
bros roll pot, stroll,
stow stocks of loft-grown blow,
bohos on ‘shrooms,
top dogs snort snow,
‘hood-brood yobs cook hot spoons –
brown smog, not gold,
(soon off box)
two OD, go cold-doggo,
poor dodos,
boohoo moods bloom.

SOCO door-knock,
sort rooms of dross,
non-PC PCs stop wogs, coons,
low-down cops
nod ‘Dobro’ to Moscow mob-lords,
boot-shod boors who
boss pros to go down for no dosh –
now cops got pox, STDs, cock-rot,
hos ROFL,
tho’ crows not storks
for Coco, Lolo –
most snot-snook sprogs who’d yowl
torn from womb so not born –
poco tombs.

Poolroom folk go ‘tock, tock, tock,
pot browns
B-boys drop mojo,
Shlomo b-box vox, b’boom-boom,
cool Moloko,
Floyd’s LSD woo,
not rock’n’roll, Toto or Bono (knob),
or too-smooth bollocks-R’n’B pop-songs
not known
to old crooks who got form,
lots of Lotto sorrow,
sob,
lost so rob loot,
worst combo.

Yoofs mooch,
gob-lob ‘sod off, mofo’
(no bon-môts)
to oppos –
post-work droogs,
cogs of dotcom toffs who pop corks
to corps-logos (wrong gods)
storm to BOGOFs on alcohol
from lo-cost shops –
hobos go loco on grog,
posh sots down rococo plonk,
borrow vs stock
for Goodwood loss (vow to stop),
blotto clowns throw rocks
to crock front of motor showrooms,
hot-foot off,
soon toros lock horns,
bozo-kwon-do, chop-sock, boff!
tosspots' bloodsport,
tomoz, novo-pro-codo-mol.

Dorks (oft Frodo-short)
shoot X-Box Doom
or solo to porn –
Cor! Norks!
Swots post tosh on blogs,
sort Roblox,
words blossom on rooftops – pshht –
‘Robbo 4 Koo’
‘Morons rool OK’
‘Wot no shoggoths?’
Fox scoffs lost food,
popcorn,
pork blobs con pollo – nom nom nom,
dogs growl, woof, drool – shoo,
owls hoot, wolf howls, cows moo
on CBBC ‘cos town holds
no woods or moors.

Tom, Jock – two homos who got horn
smooch, snog, blow x x x,
Jock drops L-bomb shock,
slo-mo romcom.
Fools follow bonobo-bottoms,
ro-ro molls,
hook-worm dolls
from Mondo Go-go
O2 photo-ops,
OMG Botox botch-jobs,
schlock-horrorshow.

CCTV looks down on Hollowtown,
moon too
glows SOS,
dot dot dot.

Ross Sutherland performing Two Moons for Mongs

More noir

It's been a while since part 2, but now the story continues...

Colour Me Noir III: The Victim

The case weighs heavy in my hand,
Contents whisper
Greedy little suggestions,
It feels unwholesome –
Like this dank-walled back-alley,
All damp and mouldered cardboard boxes,
And discarded news-sheets,
Dead-beat inked,
But I gotta wait –

It’s late, he’s later,
Then the tell-tale click
Of slightly limping feet,
In spat-clad patent seg-heeled shoes
On night-wet sidewalk –

He approaches,
Slyly not-quite-smiling
(No doubt those are unsmiling eyes),
Coat long-sweeping, hat broad-brimmed
And shadowing,
Both dark grey like this city’s air;
He beckons, powder-twitch snappy,
‘Give it ‘ere’ –
‘Make with the dough’, he’s told –

We argue but I know
This hell don’t wanna pay his way;
He’s Red-hand Jack’s man OK –
I turn to leave,
He grabs, greasy-palmed,
A shrug – his hand slips from my gaberdine,
Now a push, a shove,
Fingers slip beneath the coat –
Not for the missing roll o’ bills
But a cheap and tarnished gun,
The old revolver fires,
Slug-smoke curls,
Gutted,
I fall blood-hazed – the case pulls free;
Vision dimming, still I see
A woman stop, jaw-dropped –
Who is she?

My story may be done,
But hers not so – not yet – she runs.