The Lamp Cabin.

A first job - just
fifteen
amongst men
freed from a
crushed existence in
coalmines.

Old miners - now
cleaning lamps
filling Davy’s
with kerosene wiping
off the dust and clay.

Jack - with his toothless
smile and deformed
creased head -
some things you just
don’t ask.

Dusting
down the shelf’s,
burning the lamps
of men not
turned in
today -
for what ever
reason.

It was Dixie I overheard
saying:
“The roofs bad on 101’s
Jack – real bad”
and violently spits
a plume of dark
tobacco juice onto the
hard floor.

Me - just fifteen
years old
wide eyed
a
voyeur
to all their trepidations
and fears.

(A bit indulgent.....

Me bottom row third from left.
Around 1995 Asfordby Colliery
Leicestershire. Now closed)

The Ramones.

A young man

struts past

burgundy hair,

Ray-ban’s perched

on his head

wearing that

Ramone’s

T-shirt.

Attitude in his

walk

maybe a Saab 900

convertible

parked

around some corner

it makes me

angry

and

I’m shocked at this

feeling.

Last night I

dreamt about my

friend who’s dying-

waiting for a new

heart he

won’t

get.

He wanted to sell

me some

turf - in this

dream -

and he walked me

into his garden.

A flood was

washing all

his turf

away –

this torrent

the

ground

collapsing

washing all his

turf

away.

And

you know what…..

I can’t get that

shirt

outta my

head

that

fuc**ng

shirt.

No such thing as society.

The mines have long
gone the empty
church bells
chime
against another
lonely sky-
still.

Wet empty streets
dormant
but for the old man
stick and flat cap
heavily leaning
on a pedestrian
barrier.

The local -
boarded up
windows -
a shell - a lost
community.

No children’s song
lifting
in the breeze no
smiling
mothers leaning
into
prams
and push chairs,

nothing only
bullet grey
sky and memories
of the old days
full of stories
when people had

people - had
hope.

The fire.

There was always menace in the myriad

of colours dancing in the fire, the blues

greens, multi-oranges and yellow-reds.

Those clicks, cracks, pops and snaps.

The sudden shifting, falling of embers

and ash, framed in this dark fisted silence.

And those shadows convulsing on the wall,

a haunting raving of arms and heads.

Eyes protruding from emaciated heads.

He spat into the fire after a deep clawing -

harvesting the phlegm from his congested

lungs. The contagion - his poison exposed.

Gritty

This poem was motivated by a comment from a friend when we were discussing the qualities of Charles Bukowski's poetry....... she said she didn't like his poetry, that "It was too gritty"

And as a lover of Bukowsi's work I wanted to hit back (lol) I do hope it makes you smile....

Gritty.

“I don’t like your poetry” She say’s

“Too Gritty!”

And fucks me with her tongue -

Golden flecks in her eyes

hypnotic.

She grips my buttocks with

crisscrossed ankles

tearing into my back with her

filthy nails - there’s blood.

She wrings my insides

pulls her dirty knees

up for depth and smiles.

She holds the back of my

neck tightly.

“your poetry - brat boy

is shit -

far too

Gritty!”

Scarlet shoe.

You run through

unseen lanes

of

my mind

trampled nettles

wild primroses

why

back so

soon?

I taste you

still from

before

on my lips

in my

throat

like

a cough.

Time’s blowing

through the

tree tops

as I search the

sky -

you in

some other

country

I’m

laying on

damp grass

observing

my loss

in winter’s

other

sky

so cold-

so empty

That aura of

youth

dancing in

auburn hair

now lies

a

single scarlet

stiletto

dismembered

in a

ditch.

Her room.

The

heavy beat

of the

clock -

the missing

plume of

cigarette smoke

gentle rising –

no fire in her

grate.

An

empty chair

sits soaked

with her

form

its

threadbare arm

from a

million

gentle strokes.

Dust burdened

bookshelves

stand

ridiculously redundant.

Her radio

silent

whilst cheap-

priceless trinkets

parade from

some other age.

She had chuckled

“I eat no more then

a Bird now

Son…….

no more then

a bird”.

No welcoming

kettle rattling

on

cooker tops

no

imperceptible

twitching

of nicotine

net

curtains.

Outside the

still

sky stands

waiting-

waiting

whilst

homing pigeons

circle-

and never

land.