Plog of Chris Gower. Poet, Librarian and master of not much else.
My aim, when spitting
That mouth mixed minty
Broth, concocted each
time teeth are scrubbed
has been perfected after
My grandmother, told
me off for missing the plug
And not rinsing the sink.
Now, I can aim a jet of water
Like a vegas fountain with
Accuracy that’d make her
Proud.
Mirror like, staring at the lens
is a face from the otherside.
First photo of the source of
Those long strings of beautiful
Sentences. Caring words from
A disembodied body on the
Other side of the world.
You are nothing like what I
Thought. You’re fat.
But then it’s a camera, that’s
What it does. Fattens your
White porcelain face.
The person who chatted to
Me at three AM is now
Personified in a photo,
A couple of years old. Your hair
Is slightly darker now, after all
You’re at college and you’ve
grown up.
But you’re still a madam.
We should meet up sometime
I say, trying to stoke cinders.
But you pull down your
Metaphoric pants, and
Metaphorically pee over
crude attempts to see you
And get laid.
I’m not ready, I’m shy,
I’m busy, I have coursework
I’m visiting a range of
Fictitious relatives. I’m
Washing my hair. Twice.
It’s too far, it’s too expensive
I hate trains, I can still
See you without meeting you.
I’m holding your strings.
I’m in control.
I wonder if your
Boyfried knows,
After all, Facebook
is readable by everyone.
Julio, pronounced ‘Hoolio’
Is slouched at the only table seat
In this fluorescent catacomb.
Now and again he takes a
Phone Call. With great statement
He reels off his matinee,
Directing darlings, just some
Actors learning scripts.
Loudly he strokes a kempt
Designer beard as his jawline
Rests quietly on an ego
Three metres diameter.
His pseudo self, strutted
And popped off dagger shot
Eye-glares at people, witnessing
The freak show in his tiny
Bit-piece First Great Western
Theatre. Phone a microphone,
Life is one great play.
A field, on a Sunday morning.
Fried egg smells, eminating
From the snack wagons dotted
About. Our Sunday service,
My dialogue with God, replaced
With mindless bartering over
Cardboard coffee cups.
This field, a karma junction,
Items with stained energy,
Passing over, under the
Hymns of the car boot,
Items of communion,
Approach plaster table
altars. Make your Offer.
And say your creed.
the waiting room
hygienic with a TV
humming cushy
kids programs to those with
no soul.
thumb worn magazines
littered the only table,
saturating the pine
vaneer with turned
corners and faded bent
gloss covers. An unatural
smiling woman stares
at the faces of those
who will die before
she develops wrinkles,
thanks to Oil of Ulay.
The few that sit there
either make nervous
conversation, dancing
anecdotes of offspring
successes and in-laws
failings through the
air. broadcasters to the
apathetic.
fellow waiters
forecast the weather for
the weekend and
hope.
Nurses appear and
dissappear through
countless doors, a run
of consultation rooms.
Ovens of emotion, fear
can roast the roof
of the mouth in these
cubicles where
Consultants stoke
bad news and
good news. Emotion
fuelled by test results
examinations of
itching lumps and
CT scans.
“This disease will shorten
your life”, a kind way
of eliminating the hope
of pensions and
grandchildren.
Moving the condemned
to a special room with
a comfortable chair.
Cheap tissues
and a water
colour print in a room
where no one lives.
Navy blue nurses
talk about
chemotherapy,
canulars and
hand out sickly
sweet information
photocopied by
a healthy
pregnant secretary.
she is scared like
the rest of us.
The car park is now
An expansive desert
of tarmac. The silence
Sheer and cliff like.
We hit the canyon floor
passing the offices of
South West Water.
I grieved for
our dreams.
What he didn’t say
Was where he was
Going. What he
Did say was that
He didn’t care if
He lived or died.
I wish running
Away was only
Something that
Children tried to
do.
Adults apparently
Do the same.
I’m going to
Make you an offer.
You’re going to like
It.
Life isn’t very good
At this sort of thing.
So I’ll sell you my
Soul.
Posted by Wordmobi
I walk a cyclone on a nylon lead
They can be cared for really easily,
Remember they will always need to feed
In wind and rain and other weather fronts,
Engulfing all that stands up in it’s way
Trains and cars, People and wildlife too.
The upkeep can be quite prohibitive
If you have nowhere else to really live,
The cyclone never sleeps, it runs around
And turns the street it lives in upside down.
Roll your tongue over the slow earth,
the live earth told in slow dreams.
Letter over letter,
lets roll over.
