BAD NEWS ANTIDOTE, SMALL TOWN FLUFF #2

written as antidote 

to the doom faff & paff

coming up the tv pipes 

i present bland events
i call Small Town Fluff

~

the new speed bumps

have a 20 mph speed limit now

its painted in white 

on the road in front of them

it seems maybe they could have used 

the same amount of asphalt 

to plug up the craters there

so its not like driving on the moon

a new hair stylists up the road

has six months in my book

& everyone is sure its another front

run by a gangsters duck lipped wife

the postman is due today

with my 'essential medicine'

i always get a kick out of that

if only he knew !

next doors car been gone a few days

but the window is open

which always indicates he is in

& we lost interest when the car returns

& thump thump thump thump

goes the pile driver at the port

for another berth & more containers

thump thump thump thump 

also i wonder

how the hedgehogs are doing

note to self

must put out the trail cam 

SAD MAD BONES

 

when its bad news headlines

that justify 

your extant mood

its

a 

weird & dysfunctional synergy 

that

sends

a

buzz of balance

thru

your

sad mad bones

MAC THE CLEANER

mac the cleaner has deep carved wrinkles under wide bloodshot eyes.  this morning he hides himself under a blue anorak hood. a brown roll-up is visible sticking out toothpick thin from white bristle lips.  he lights it in solitude out on the hospital back lane.

he looks rough these days.  he is death white pale.  

he didnt used to be.  he used be old leather.  

his eyes look down at cracked concrete and pebbles laying where the rain left them. he used to look at the grey clouds and loudly disclaim all and any weather.  

he says MORNING but the life has vanished from his voice.  less a greeting now an automatic observation. 

i know he used camp with old rockers and retired bikers for the volkswagon weekender and drink homebrew from stone jars and cook Aldi steaks in a half-drum bbq.  
i know on a monday he used to say FIVE DAYS TO GO and laugh a throaty smokers cackle.
i know on a wednesday he used to say HALFWAY THERE and laugh a throaty smokers cackle.
and on a friday WOOHOO.
i know he has a married daughter over the river and no wife.
i know he visits his dad twice a year saving up for the train. until he had a fall and they moved him from country isolation to a local home.
i know his moaning used to be cheery.
i know he stops for a pint with the market traders on the way home everyday and sometimes i'd lend him money for it.
i know he always paid back prompt.
i know he reads fantasy paperbacks by people i never heard of feet up in the broom cupboard clutter of the private ward.
i know before pay day he'll ask for baccy and i'd let him roll a few from my pouch for the evening.
i know he'd use his own brown liquorice papers.

i known him a long time but i dont know him well.

i think he may have had bad news.
concerning his dad.
or his own health.

but his face no longer invites conversation.

the funnyfarm