Digital poetry

 Digital poetry

I dictated this into my phone …

‘wheelie bins on coiffured verges’

and it came up with …

Really binge on Crawford virgins

so the transitory muse is binary

mr peltser

 mr peltser 

was a cross-dresser (in the photo)

went to live with his daughter

and hung himself

from the stair rail

i was about four

at the age when memories hang around

in the queue for deletion

but the grim reaper was busy

seventy three years later

i still remember

they thought they knew why he did it

whisper whisper

there he is

in the coronation photo

front bench far right

i am on my mam’s lap wearing a tam

damn 

i remember it like yesterday

in the row behind us

house on the far right

all gone now (of course)

the man (of course ~ i just told you didn’t i)

the houses (of course)

memory’s noose soon (maybe)

but i’ll not hang about

anywhere

 anywhere

a word that frightened him

was everywhere 

never to go there or 

anywhere 

was

a pity

but there it was

that’s how it was

that’s how it is

he’d say every time

it was

again is it

 again is it

my poem

(i think it’s my poem)

it speaks to me but i don’t understand 

(is it my poem)

what is it all about

(then i get it)

special delivery by airmail 

either the aether sent it or

i have imagined the whole thing

(surely not - voice off stage)

there it is again

long

 long

sunset and

the mind stops wandering

stops wondering if if if

for the day is over

and tomorrow who knows

where the sun goes

droops the eyelids of worry

ahhhhh

rides away upon the tides

enclosed in closure

all in clover

in clover

in …

bloody tourists ~ well i ask you

 bloody tourists ~ well i ask you

where be ownership

when ubiquity be the norm

where do the blind 

the deaf

the dumb 

visit

did they visit

what didn’t they say

about what they didn’t hear

us say about all that they

cannot see

go on tell me

again and again

for my back is turned away

have good day

bin there seen that

 bin there seen that

the ash man 

the dust man

now no more dust

no more ash

consumerism is bagged

some recycled some not

remember the corrugated bin

with its clattering lid

the leather shoulders of the dust man

and his waistcoat

it’s gone out with the ashes

disposed of irretrievably

heavy bin that one

fox-torn bags

streets littered with uncaring

refuse operatives running high vis for leather

where has the back-breaking slog gone

that one could feel for

incinerated 

composted

recycled

must ‘buy more black bags’ on the shopping list

put the collection day in my diary

put the contact number for the council in my contacts 

for when they miss another collection

after the other missed collection

for there’s a queue at the council tip

where people avoid each other’s eyes

as their consumerism shames their day

better put a lid on it now

or the past will be blown away

and decycled