Volvo, man…

 Bad poetry, Stuff created  No Responses »
Dec 302015
 

o short ginger man
the greasy wind battering
your massive volvo

parked in mcdonalds
not that far from kettering
grey skies past lunchtime

while regrettable
the slightest of impacts twixt
our buffeted doors

as crouching I fixed
child seatbelts while you and your
partner poured fast food

into the gaping
maw of your vacuous souls
it is as well that

having decided
to say fuck off in front of
my children in spite

of there being no
damage except perhaps to
the pride of your grey

volvo-shaped estate
compensation for perhaps
being ginger or

quite under-endowed
or perhaps you have also
suffered like many

the slings and arrows
this year, or the rain, or some
other slight, perhaps

even terrible
haiku sequences; no doubt
especially when

they don’t bother to
include stuff about nature
after verse four; but

it is as well that
having decided to make
this your big issue

this far and no more
your great volvo rubicon
mcdonalds carpark

“fuck off,” three year old?
it is as well for you that
my children were there

borderline angry,
so “have a nice day”, I said
we drove off laughing

you hooted as you
overtook me at ninety
back down the A1

having a nice day
(later it occurred to me
eating in your car

even happy meals
run the risk of leaving a
chip on your shoulder)

 

contact patch

 Bad poetry, Stuff created  Comments Off on contact patch
May 232015
 

many years ago
in a bedroom high above
a two bed flat in once had sat
a since departed love
you entered, singing bird
stirred to trap in one swift glance
and make a match

i longed for one small contact patch
a hand, an eye or more
all received by chance and nothing more

skidding now
now at the end of things
at the end of this i watch your sleeping back,
dreaming of your pleasure,
eyes crystallize and all resolve diffracts

tenuous i stretch a hand’s soft back,
tenuous i float in
with our history at hand,
tenuous i float in
with our every fumbled fuck,
with our love we sung,
with our love that suckled children,

with all our to and froing
with our love we gave them life
in spite of us they live for ever

and after all of this,
and after all of this you still retract,
from nothing as so simple,
from nothing as so pure,
a soft hand resting on
a contact patch upon your back,

a back that’s all you now reflect,
a patch with insufficient grip,
a vision of your lips, your hips and mouth
a vision of you riding, high above
a vision of your song to me

and after all of this you still retract,
all softness you retract
and I  retract, and reflect,
and I don’t know what to do

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