Kiss, rain, ghosts

OK, post-election rant over... here's a short observational piece.

In a bus shelter

A year-old impression of teenage lips
kissing perspex,
holes in the ‘No Smoking’ sign,
melted by cigarettes,
spider webs,
badly scratched graffiti
with no economy of line.

The water-torture drip
of rain between roof panels,
the green specks of algae and honeydew
dropped from lime trees.

A young mum with an empty pushchair
sits by the Sellotape ghosts
of a thousand unofficial ads.

All aboard

After several weeks of writing on some fairly heavy topics (WW1 & macroeconomics in particular), here's a little bit of dirty doggerel about the introduction of a bus run on biogas from human waste and thrown-away food, a short and silly piece about the value of waste which I used as light relief to finish last night's Show Me The Money exhibition-related set.

Poo bus

Humanure and dustbinned food,
fermented dung replacing crude,
unwanted BOGOF don’t just bin it,
join the waste race, better, win it.

Come passengers, roll up investors,
see the new bio-digester,
fed with passed organic crap,
pumps out methane, sewage gas.

Let lorries, coaches, vans and cars,
even speedboats run on farts,
CH₄ in every vehicle,
Fuel of the people, faecal,

Our motions give its motive power,
use the rest to grow rose-flowers,
be proud to flush a well-formed do,
and hop aboard the Number Two.

I knew that First Aid course was worth it

A little bit of autobiography. It was a strange moment as I thought cars only slipped their handbrakes and rolled out-of-control downhill in vintage comedies...

The St. David’s kerbside incident

I turn at the sound of a crash –
a hatchback has slipped the leash
of its handbrake,
allowed gravity carte blanche
and mounted the pavement,
tumbling somebody’s granny
into a shop doorway
sprawled among a scattering of holiday tat
and ‘Welcome to Wales’ postcards.

Passers-by have gathered round
and begin helping her to her feet –
hurriedly I intervene
to check for concussion,
imagining hip fractures
worsened by well-meaning help.
Though bleeding from superficial wounds,
she is more worried about her lost shoe,
torn tights,
undignified re-arrangement.

As I hold up the requisite number of fingers
and ask quiet questions,
a voice from the small crowd
blocked off from proceedings
by my turned back
proclaims tersely –
‘we know her’.

Although I’m sure that later,
they will provide more comfort
than I,
as a stranger,
could ever hope to achieve,
I’m equally certain that familiarity
does not breed
medical expertise.

As the ambulance arrives,
disgorging paramedics and a stretcher,
I slope off
to rejoin my holiday.

Rooms from my oeuvre

Something I wrote based on one of my mixed media pieces.

Hotel

Taking the penthouse, a three-room suite,
homage to that pickled shark,
once YBA enfant influent,
now can’t-paint-for-shit shock-conceptuality,
all dead butterflies and money.

Over in one wing,
crumpled biro sketch for a green man
wrought in silver fretwork,
now etched and hammered, chained
and put up for sale.

Brushed to one side,
an empty blister-pack of brain-pills,
each 20 milligrams
a bitter bite of sweet chemistry,
I'm such a neuromantic.

Tiger balm and beaded lizard
whisper nothings through wood-thin walls,
varnished with intent –
grinning, a brass-balled imp
sits sly on his stack of timber.

Paper-cut bamboo forest,
trees hold onto chainsaw blades,
while triplet queens lie supine
under a celestial arch,
contemplating their paradox.

Faded letters speak of old contests
and hints of science,
print-block songbird
calls the ink down from her serinette.

Fragments of ammonites,
pebbles once shiny and gleaming-wet,
but still interesting in the dry,
unlike childhood holiday gleanings.

Bar-room in miniature
touts ‘beer’ above its rug of ribbons –
next door, ransom-note wallpaper
proclaims the anguish and ego
of the artist.

Of course,
there is a lacuna,
always one empty
among a hundred others,
ghosts of occupants unknown.

This hotel will stay my own.

More Wallace but no Gromit

After my recent modernist-style musing inspired by Wallace Stevens, here's one more - maybe the last - certainly for a while...

13 ways of looking at a black biro

I

Taken for a walk,
you leave behind
a trail of art.

II

From behind the builder’s ear
or plucked out of a boffin’s
lab-coat pocket,
moving swiftly across the paper
with a fetish for dotted lines, you
release much-needed funds,
(mis)inform census-takers,
agree contracts,
waive this-and-that responsibility
and grease the wheels of officialdom.

III

The loss of your cap-point
protects those who swallow you;
that tiny hole
in the side of your barrel
means ninjas can no longer
use you as a breathing-tube
when hiding in ponds.

IV

Target of a billion petty office thefts,
found
or received as promotional giveaways,
though no-one ever buys you,
you are legion.

V

As many of you are made by a company
known for razors,
you impart the ability
to write sharp words –
is this why you are
mightier than the Wilkinson Sword?

VI

Though a thumb’s merest oily smear
may halt your progress,
like straw,
enough of you can
break even the strongest of backs.

VII

Along with marbles,
photos of the Dalai Lama,
and indeed pencils,
you are valuable currency
when wandering off the beaten track.

VIII

Architect of half this poem,
give or take,
your scratchings lie mingled
with those of blue kin.

IX

By drawing on a little moustache
and side-slicked fringe,
you can make anyone into Hitler,
and like him,
you only have one ball.

X

Your blood
is thicker than water,
thinner than
the pitch it may depict.

XI

Resetting digital timepieces and other electronic gadgetry,
manually winding obsolete music cassettes,
being used for an emergency tracheotomy (apocryphal?),
an entomologist’s probe for winkling out beetles,
one of two pins for hair-in-a-bun,
makeshift clay-modelling or bathroom sealant tool,
somewhere to store rubber bands,
a simple conjuror’s prop appearing to wobble.

XII

Vous êtes un stylo,
from ‘stylus’ –
you’ve come a long way
since wax tablets and cuneiform,
un imprimante de mots manuscrits

XIII

Write/scribe/scriven/scrawl,
rewrite/overwrite/edit/redact,
revise/annotate/complete/create,
draw/doodle/sketch/scribble,
compose/solve/compile/draft,
sign/autograph/name/label,
thank/invite/impress/entice,
poison/libel/codify/fade.

Digital wampum

Inspired by some of the works in Offending Frequencies (Poetry Review 102:4 Winter 2012), especially the photographic responses by Yemisi Blake to new poems by Elmi Ali and Jo Brandon, I produced the following:

The hanging piece is entitled 'Digital wampum' and uses plastic components from VHS cassettes (a defining technology for someone who was a teenager in the 1980s) to depict key dates in my life, the black and white arrangement encoding them in binary. The words indicate the events these dates relate to.

Perspectives

Scenes from a double-decker

Old lady with a black-dyed bouffant bald patch.
Roadside moorhen nest (punky chicks).
Ragwort growing from an upstairs window frame,
halfway to the sparrows living in the eaves.

Other top-floor travellers at eye-level
(if not eye-contact).
The little aerial atop a bus-stop
collecting estimated times of arrival.
The ubiquity of single shoes.

Some ummm… interesting views of cleavages.
The onrushing slap of twigs and leaves,
the approach of the next biro-jarring bump.
How the supermarket’s wall of greenery lies.
Men (only men) collecting train numbers,
shuffling like the walrus lumbers,
choo-choo-g’joob.

The texture of slate tiles and leadwork.
How people sometimes seem to know I’m looking
but not that, or what, I’m writing.
Teenagers smoking behind a hedge –
private privet.

The contents of that bin,
that drain,
that pram,
that garden.

Railway ballast, Hippo-bagged, Buddleia-hidden.
Scars on the head of a swaggering fool,
walks the monkey-walk,
talks the monkey-talk?

Sprigs of a green mohican
sprout like grass through cycle-helmet slits.
Cracked grave-slabs by a cricket pitch
next to where the ponies mooch
and crane-necked tradesmen
muse upon the old church roof.

NaPoWriMo day 12

NaPoWriMo day 12; The prompt – ‘honesty’, in particular, something you’d never say to someone. I was tempted to take either a relationship or employment-related approach but I’m pretty content with those to be honest… So, being terribly terribly British (cue ‘Brief Encounter’ accent) an’ all, I would of course never ask a stranger what they did – well, actually I would, but not if they were asleep…

Sleeper service

Who are you, sleeping on the train?
Slumped across a double seat,
Smartphone snoozing in your hand,
The other roughly scribble-inked,
They look a bit like prison tatts,
But are actually train times I think,
Scuffed brown rigger boots upon your feet,
Slot inside neat fashion denims,
Broken nails and rough-scarred arms,
The first from toil, the other from self-harm?
Stubble-faced, hair Grade 8 clipped,
Strange garb if you were out all night,
You look like an undergraduate
Part-timer on a building site.

NaPoWriMo day 8

NaPoWriMo day 8. A poem in ‘ottava rima’, each verse 8 lines with rhyming pattern a-b-a-b-a-b-c-c; traditionally composed in iambic pentameter (da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM) but I’ve not stuck to that here. By some margin I've found this to be the trickest one so far; I decided to construct it from signs/ads etc that I saw along the Bluestar 2 bus route (with minimal paraphrasing) and I'm not sure it works, but hey, nowt ventured nowt gained...

Signs of the Times II
(An epic tale of ads and signage spanning the 10km between Eastleigh and Southampton)

Free this, free that, a better way to fly,
Fixed fee divorce, go, reserve and we will pay,
Slow down, we’re here to help (just don’t ask why),
Cool your cravings, responsibly, low cost every day,
Use side entrance, take a break, do you dream of the sky?
Stress-relieving, police aware, just eat and look both ways,
Your product, our priority - I know he will return,
Closed, gone out, come back later, enter here to learn.

Find your voice, we love sharing, whisper ‘what is the key?’
I want sometimes gets, who says romance is dead?
Tell us what you think of us, exclusive view of the sea,
For better mental health, get luxury out of the red,
We’ll beat any price for your safety and security,
Feeling tired? It’s against the law to mind your head,
Welcome to this project, what’s your reason to run?
Laminates and roll ends, big brands and feel the fun.

2-4-1 big match action, drink and get home late,
Request stop, bullion, I didn’t know they did that,
Good story bro - tell it again, intimate,
Quality British meats, lost ginger cat,
Your future starts here, competitive rates,
Ever wondered where your money goes? Sex chat,
Urgent excavation, the new way to feel good,
Unwanted medicine disposal, now if you could.

Tastes of America, second hand to rent and buy,
Beware, cross dogs, no return, all the best,
You are entering an area where… close your eyes,
At your convenience, no stopping, no pets.
No fouling, just store it! Quit smoking advice,
Score! Goal! Phone to view, keep clear, take the test,
BOGOF, controlled zone, children must not play on site,
Buffets for all occasions, when you leave please turn out the light.

NaPoWriMo days 6 and 7

Day 6. A valedication or, in this case, a farewell of sorts to one of my least favourite of towns, written in draft form on the train journey home after the last time I worked there, finished in order to be posted for NaPoWriMo.

Gulag Basingrad

Trade-estate warehouses
Full of bingo and tarnished golden arches,
Festival Place squatting toad-like
Where a town used to be;
Terrible bars, identikit chainstores,
Serried ranks of insurance corps,
Offices along the tracks,
Clone-suited and commuter-crammed -
Filed under ‘dull’ in the OED,
You have theatres,
And Memorial Park,
But not enough to raise the heads
Of skeletons in sports valenki
- Basingstoke, I will not miss you.

Day 7. Each line is a declarative statement (more-or-less) until the last which asks a question.

Carriage-fellows

Bangle-lady threading beads,
Cement-booted workmen read,
Blowzy grannies off to shop and drink,
Ladies wot lunch, Chanel-pink,
Teenage texters tweet and bleep,
Paper-rustlers, Kindle converts,
Crossword-solvers, Wifi surfers,
Mums with kids and shopping bags,
Some stare blank-eyed at backs of seats,
Or maybe they are meditating,
Others watch Landscape TV,
Fields and trees and clouds and birds,
While two rows from the rear-most door,
A sometimes-poet orders words,
And wonders ‘who will read this?’