GARDENERS VAN

 

time has become . . . tactile

like a sensory toy

in a drs wating room

patinaed with irremovable gunk

~

& next door - the gardener

his van is evident

in the patent street

END TIMES ANTICIPATION 1

the lawn mowers music
& 

the highway choir hum

the dog walkers diatribe
& 

van doors snare drum slam

i believe 

i will crave
this street order ear balm

in the coming 

rubble struggle

of hunger & heat

so i express that
here

VAN MANS VAN DOOR SLAM

the morning is quiet
but for the mad birds
meat techno

the cars make their noises

in the crater 

in the road

& the van mans 

van door slam

triggers 

anxious

dogs

UPDATE FAILED

 

monday & theres no binmen yet

it makes me feel strange
none of the clatter & shouts

i miss the clatter & shouts

theres plenty of work vans tho 

a big white camper that looks lost 

& an eight wheeler of toxic something

i cant tell what

with tethered hoses like outside innards

the strange duck opposite is lining up 

mobility aids in the street

for the rag & bone men again

more mobility aids ?

he did this all last week

an old man rests on our front wall

curved over like a crescent moon

hes going the wrong way for a paper

he was 8 stone at his RAF weigh in 1943

& hes 8 stone again

or so he says

thats ALL he says

hes dressed all over in beige

ready for another desert campaign

monday 

no binmen

only one bird 

no breeze to speak off

calling it

update failed

drawing the curtains

will check on it later

GLASS / CORNERSHOP

1. GLASS/DAWNS FUCKED CARPET

2. CORNERSHOP

USED TO WAIT WEEKS

how 
to 

w r i t e 
        d
        o
        w
        n

these mornings ?

these mornings
peeking 
out from
englands 
back pocket 

at the low sun
at the sudden snow

at the next-day couriers
driving electric vans

rushing me
speciality tea

when we used to wait

 w
  e
   e
    k
     s

to sign our name

from vansdirect.co.uk

I ATE SAND

   as 
    a
 kid
out on the 
   halfday closing
  dogshit  pavement

 i  would hide behind
  the  parked cars
 on our  dead end street

  in a blue and white

   supermarket tracksuit

  
 i would twist ankles on the kerb stones
   and  look for rainbows 
       in  the 
        spilled oil
  on the forecourts
     stony  cement
   
  we sheltered from the rain
    in an open garage on this forecourt
   silver jubilee rain  1977
  i was dressed as a cowboy
   and ate some sand
       from the floor in there 

 and  where ever the cement
  was cracked interestingly
   or the  tarmac melted
 into  torn topped waves
i thought it was slow earthquakes
     or lazy volcanoes
  coming up thru
       englands ground

 i hid like the bellisario heroes
        i saw on tv
   wishing i had black hair
        was called john
 and  had all the 
     panini stickers  in the world
   
  i hid  behind  granadas and cortinas
     with vinyl roofs
       hot to the touch
  and  behind an black opel 
    that seemed exotic then
  and  behind a white work van
    with  LANG written on the side
      always parked  
 in the  penny lane  lay-by
   where the flea dart bushes grew
 over the pink and yellow 
     patio slabs

  there was no sad afternoon sun
   or  school morning panic 
    down there
 where the tires rested on the blacktop
    
    and no one was looking for me
   so  i  kind of always won
    and 
      it 
     felt 
          very  
               safe

from aronline.co.uk

THE KIPPLE KONTROVERSY 2

man

thin

smoker

clothes uninspired

arrives across the street
4 pm or 5 pm 

or midnight

stops his old estate car outside his ma's bungalow
handbrake a witches shriek
kipple squashed tight up against dirty car windows
like drunks packed
into Tokyo trains
in the fifth rush hour of the day

office chairs

bicycles

bin liners of old clothes and old toys

he plunders pockets
he explores creases

he segregates
like 
some 
awful 
cold burglary 
like 
soft eugenics

choice pickings disappear behind bungalow doors
most is packed into more bin liners
and piled
five
high
by the bonnet of the broken-down Transit
wedged in the depths of the drive

he 
does 
this 
everyday
4 pm or 5 pm

or 
midnight

kipple coming home
i think

kipple
coming
home

from ilovethediff.com

TOO MUCH 2

too much inner dialogue of ill hot thoughts

to get my

burnt hiding mind round tomorrows real future

too much

so 

i

ran

from

the spot light of accidental university

to the retail rut of shift work mall 

killing me every dawn over greasy spoon breakfast

where time crushed its top hat 

standing on its subjective head

too much

too much - i poured neat cheap rum in bitter black coffee

and smoked a smokeless hash pipe

on the two trains home 

after found whisky and babbling high existentialism 

in 

that 

mad 

guys 

van

1988 ford escort by scott barrett

WRITE A POEM HE SAID

write a poem he said

wot now ? i said

yes now he said with words from this instant ether

ok i said and wrote 

coffee ring table
holds
cheap electric eye
and
a
black
board of burst words
and
my
struggle hands
hungry for rest but hungry for something else too
light with exhaustion
empty
like
balloons
they
tap
out
surroundings/room buzz/cold feet
and
the still-world painting on the window glass
thats
split
sometimes
with children and a cat and the blur of vans
and
the silence in here
is
desperate for a song
and 
everything 
will
wait

ok he said you did it

i did i said but it needs work

it does he said but thats ok

throw up into the typer at at dawn ? i said

and clean up at noon . . .

the classic typewriter page

HOSPITAL COLOURS FROM A WINDOW

suneye shines on yellowline hospital hatchbacks
turns their blue bonnets silver
everything
is
dialled
down
to a quiet insect hum

washed out colours struggle thru a haze of beige

nurse pulls a blonde ponytail tighter and tugs down a dark dress
walking fast and late in black flat shoes
past
grey/white panel walls no shadow on their flat mute glare
hiding patients 
on 
tired green sheets
in 
dull orange jammies

van drivers coast in dirt painted vans
their slamdoors muted in heat
and
shift matte brown cartons to cool white inside
without
the
normal 
swears