IN THE GRILL OF A RUSTY CAMPER / SOLID LAST WORDS

it was almost a deathbed confession

i had always wanted to hear one

& he had always wanted to give one

but there was no bed

its was blacktop
going red

& the confession
was all shock & nonsense

he laughed when i told him

laughed blood & bubbles

~

can you smell that ? 

he asked me
its my sadness burning

i gave him a nod

i gave him a smile

his yamaha was on fire

in the grill of a rusty camper

it was that we could smell

& my singed-to-nothing arm hair

~

solid last words achieved !

i said

high five ?

we did a low one 

sirens licking the firmament  

photo - Camper from the Dagenham Archive

POETRY IS - JUMP TO THE END

poetry is a flatulent comeback
too late but nevermind
left
in
natures bushes and brush and grass
all good

poetry is a direwolfs heart 
loose
on
the
transit tarmac
running 7 miles
on its toes

poetry is a bewilderbeast
hooting for attention
hooting for a ride
on
the
electraglide blacktop
backcombing its intentions

poetry is a road movie
in a circus mirror

poetry is a good dinner
and the pork lodged afterwards
in
your
yellow
incisors
that your tongue
has to touch
has to touch
has to touch

poetry is a forgotten anxiety
from wheneverthefuck
cold-calling you
in your weeknight pyjamas

poetry is graffiti and gospel
scratched in the escalators
hard-to-reach
sliding-by
plasterboard
between the magazine cover ads
repeating like a warhol convoy

poetry is your dream newspaper scream
and the dark dark sitcom
of
your
alone
alone
mind time

poetry is cotton mist and steel fact
let off the leash
kicking and screaming
playing hard
working hard
in the veins of the electric delta

poetry is on the bookshelf
broken spine
calling for you

poetry is a hummingbird

simple as that

from tolkienistperspective.wordpress.com

OLD HIWAY TO S'END

  the old hiway to s'end
is
a
clot
of drivethrus now 
  the
blacktop frozen 
into 
ripples like a lowtide beach

  pubs are boarded up
in
armour of silver steel
and
  all the roadside bungalows 
  shed their paint like scabs

  the old hiway to s'end
hunches
its subway shoulders 
  weighed down by newbuild towers
under
skyroads treading heavy in lowcloud 
  so
  doomlike 
  and
  dull strong grey 

 from piley.blogspot.com - southend essoldo, warrior square

 

SOFT HISTORIES

by the 
shop-and-drive
the
orange brick
new build
stands box-fresh 
without history

time was
site was
a potholed coach park 
of
cement slabs and half fences / an after pub piss stop -
in 
the
medicine light of streetlamps 
we would stand / swaying / emptying 
leaning and small town delirious
behind the green portacabin office
patterned with rust 
like 
its 
camo

earlier in falling light
couples would have stood awkward in foursomes
clothes too pressed
gathered self consciously 
on this nowhere corner
to
go
to
london shows on garish coach upholstery
grateful
of
the
height and thin bus walls between them
and
wild wild
imagined
city
mayhem

now
its hutch flats / limited parking
hatchbacks clusterfuck on new blacktop
between
snow bright white lines
all of it somehow keen
to
age
and
darken 
with weather and time
and
to
hide / worn / used
in
the
folds unnoticed