OFFCUT POSEY No 303

my bones feel hollow 

like a birds bones

& seem filled only

with high mountain air

well sometimes
i dont recognise 

that fool up the tree

braced there with his tinnys

escaping the rote of it

& walking home

in the seashell tinkle

of the predawn milk float glass

ABOUT THE PAST 2

then sway-swaying

on the kerbstone cliffs
i see me 

down 

in 

the
night puddles

mirror lands

apparition towering

& monolith-like

all silver & black
all shadow & glow

like a secret

like escape

& its delicious

1980s I JUST DONT KNOW

a brown plastic of cider

& a kind of canvas blouse 

townhall saturday night ( a ... disco ? )

backstep escape ( set a pattern ... )
in white-speckled chinos

like tarmac under a birdshit tree 

knock-off converse clones
& hair so confused -

gel in / gel out / fuck gel !
& my sarcasm peaked
into mocking silence
i
just
dont
know

photo by Everyday basics on Unsplash

POP SALAD VOL2

i lose myself
in the stories
in the glass

they power up my downtrain

my rust might even shine


~

escape - what a word
its smooth
but with a sharp end

its punctuation & finality

no, wait - 

its achievement & permission

photo Sky Over The Bungalow Line courtest of the Dagenham Archive

A BOOK TOO YOUNG - POPS

1.

but 
it 
was 
all 
so

DRENCHED

in sadness

an empty bird table 
in early winter dawns *



2.

strange snacks 
in after school
armchair bunker

reading a book
too young for me
i had read before




3.

the sick tease
of downtime

slim pickings
&
less fruit

cliche escape
in 
classic retreat




4.

school demanded
&
streets were anxious

i was razed
condos on hold

in the fog & razors
of sepia mist & stone

from healthline.com

*

i would feed the birds

it was therapy

i cherished every block-paved step 

small freedom on the garden path

before the exposure of school 

BUK RULES

in the submission rules
for a little mag
it said 

 ' no bukowski style

   im drinking
   im writing
   its great

   sort of stuff 
   thank you '

maybe i get what they mean
and i cant drink anymore anyway
but i hear a snobbish drift
and pleas for rhymes about daisies

those small eclusions
hold essentials markers
of 
truth
creation
escape

and 
the screaming
at the thin end of it all

that theyve never heard
and wouldnt even know
if it blew out their arseholes
during their broadsheet sunday brunch

by buk from poetryfoundation.org

SCHOOL MORNING - A MEMORY POP

a bag of nerves
struggling with my dry cereal
every 
school
morning

in winter i was given bread
to
take
out
to
feed
the
birds

i savoured that short walk 
down the garden path
to the bird table

the creases in the cement
the knots in the wood

it
was
a
small escape
some baby zen

an oasis of morning purpose 

in
the
mad whirl
of
unexpressible days

JOHN LOCKE AND GEORGE HARRISON - CELL MATES !

dusty prison yard / gutters thick with clay from rain / football game marked out by torn red flags and boots dragged in the dirt

i move my sleeping bag and army stamped blankets away from the young mother / hungry for isolation / and from my new found half-brother / when ever i see him i say WHO'S YOUR DAD ?

half-brother - he's ugly / he's a flake / a looser

me and john locke got an escape plan / looping inner tubes in secret around the wooden walls

guards in the adobe hut in the south corner watching the game / the game is loud / the air wet with old rain / dust drying and rising / mens yells

theres a hiss like snakes / like a truck tire burst on a dirt road rock 

puncture 

i mend it best i can / the tubes are mixed with underpants and split rubber hose strung out in split strings like kids cheese

i use george harrisons guitar / twist it all back secure and inflated with the fretboard / george sees me from the goal line / stays quiet / realises its for the good of all

i move my sleeping bag and blankets back to the young mother 
and dim half-brother / full of regret and i apologise in tears

she cries too / he is sleeping / lazy / my narrow space next to the old pram still vacant

john locke looks on in scorn / beard grown bushy like a mountain man / uses mind tricks to make the three year old tap dance angrily on my chest / a warning . . .

i wake / a hungry cat is gently sliding
big
claws
down 
my 
cheeks

purring like he'll burst

from yalenusblog.com