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
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
death via the modern modem
it seems
the core of our being
is not molten
but is as hard as granite
nowadays
nothing can strike a light
in the caverns of self
to illuminate these
strangers
(confession)
it seems that i do not care
when you are hit by a BOMB
but
what the hell can i do
what the hell can i do
yells my plea
and we are all deafened
by this cry of help
not for them but for me
for god’s sake
what fibre optic hell is this
replies blocked ~ no DM
my late mother
i can hear her intone
i can hear her intone
i’m all behind like brown’s cows
and i’m on the road behind
the herd’s unhurry
trying to catch up with her
but there are so many flies
these hot days it seems like
yesterday may have to wait
for tomorrow’s cooling tears
looking at a painting in a gallery
the distance
finding the number of paces
for the painting to speak
not to shout or whisper
not to be shared
or to be lost in the crowd
to sit long or to stand
how long to wait for the voice
or to realise that no voice
has enrapt you
to become the painting
to look them in the eye
what?
I am (name) we say
pointing at our breastbone
reassured by a name
whispering ‘yes you are’
never (well once) wondering
how much of ‘I am’ can be
whittled away
until the last thing left is
what?
writing a poem
the non-trance equivalent of being in a trance
stepping back in mind as the sluice gates open
watching a poem
run along the channels of the lines on a page
