A pint of Harvey’s
& my whining dog
[polish off my day]
Savings supped at
my local pub – not
working – if anyone
asks – still – beer &
sport remove all of
my quieter doubts
Other hobbies arise
in these lonely days
of mild coronavirus
Tag: coronavirus
As A Freelancer
As a freelancer I understand that there will be quiet days – there will be occasional periods of not billing – on those days I will work at finding work/ It is a simple & honest agreement set by old rules of supply & demand/ But micro economic rules no longer apply/ An inexplicable macro economic factor is at work/ Such is its nature that I have no billable skills – or ability – to work my way out of these current difficulties/ I am 56 years old – living alone – ‘working’ with Parkinson’s Disease/ I have no pension or future assurance after a failed marriage [dumped on]/ I claim no benefits – because any savings I have are in cash/ This was to make my home future-proof for my illness – but such [carefully] managed provisions are now my only income/ I do not benefit from any local grants because I do not pay business rates/ I get minimal furlough because I pay myself dividends/ My income is recognised by lenders who push mortgages on me – but not by our state to whom I pay Corporation Tax – VAT – & personal tax – on time & without qualms/ People wonder why I’m not smiling
A pint of Harvey’s
A pint of Harvey’s
& my whining dog
[polish off my day]
Savings supped at
my local pub – not
working – if anyone
asks – still – beer &
sport remove all of
my quieter doubts
Other hobbies arise
in these lonely days
of mild coronavirus
Coffee Mornings
We will be abandoned each day
[fear-pinned by sponging orders
in bolt-homes] – we hide behind
doors [prised wide by a delivery
driver]/ We do not recognize our
posties [you will not see smiles –
not like you used to]/ He sipped
his coffee/ He sat at his window
[it would not open] & looked up
[for an additional day] at his tree
[it soaked all direct summer light
just beyond his unwashed panes]
Show Calls
Gather those remnants of your strength – we will stand longer than any others –
more than those who may expect less of us – & bring back – again – to yourself –
stolen powers that others frame as broken
This is a call to you – those robbed – to recover each fragment [ours were quickly lost]
Pull in to your own – families & friends – that latent energy in these long days/
You are surrounded by equals in reduction – you are lifted by sisters & brothers –
of this frail – but ever-extending – family/
This is a call to you – those beaten – our lives demand to now be sweetened/
Please find in this inconvenience a greater sense – on every level –
which is there – I tell you – it is enough to lift each one of us
above our rage of thoughts
This is a call to you – those pained – your dignity can be reclaimed/
I may be too loud in my ineloquent verse – but I wish for you – too – such a place of words –
to revel in that delight of your voice – removed from speech? We are still here to rejoice –
in any format that connects/
This is a call to you – those ignored – I’ll not meet again such people who I’ll always applaud/
Her Masks
Those scattered face masks
spread a dispersed smile – a
toss of grimace – a loss of lip-
readings – a momentary kiss
& then discarded – spite & all
those ill lies [covered up until
it suits her to undress in front
of a stranger’s leer] We won’t
[we will] share her filtered air
& hope that no infection rate
is rising where she has been/
Threads
I’ll pass my ageing neighbours
contained by solidified returns
off pensions & ISAs [all edging
away from brisk punts on stock
market wagers or gold’s allure]
What they hold will keep them
well off until slips & ‘quakes in
alien places cut those tenuous
connections [no more mirages]
Threads will quick-to dissevers
as traders hedge & new viruses
death-rattle their five bar gates
Another day without doors
Another day without doors
[or chats-over-pints] – wait!
No last-minute unexpected
visitors – we creep from our
shelters of friendless rooms
[as neighbours mutter ‘bout
recycling indiscretions]/ We
will not meet [no coffee this
week because no one dares
to cross locked thresholds]/
Do you recall easier weeks?
& one day there’ll be normal
We will cut back – to avoid a
second certain drag on time
as time becomes a burden –
we’ll not lose it in lockdown/
It is raining
It is raining –
& my tipped
up skylights
lean mottled
[2 set skies
framed unto
larger views]
Spat rain falls
through gaps
left by tilts &
remind me of
those outside
discomforts/
20,000 Less
We sit immune
to 20,000 dead
it would seem –
20,000 less & no
regrets/ We can
be led off a cliff
[science says] –
new routes via
guidance given
& follow advice
& clean [twice]
both hands with
puffs & flourish
[with picks from
God Save HMQ
or Fuck U Boris]
Len & Me in Lockdown
I fell out of love
with myself – its
easy to do – will
erodes [laziness
rages to sighs &
sleep is my task
in waking hours]
I have not done –
others have – I’ve
lost weeks to it/
My weak poems
are thrown [drink
has been my old
whore & partner]
& Leonard’s lilt –
love songs to me
[I’ll whine in time
to his sick notes]
cool my latte – to
add to my chores
as I wash up after
old Lennie Cohen
[& spectres of his
lovers – they leave
sweated bedding]
& he’ll hit a chord
as my sink drains
in northern ways –
[see vinyl spins to
gravity’s old hand]
Mr C is locked up
with me – he says
No one likes poets
as he sips a coffee
[long-cold to syrup]
& hums along with
his own voice – L P
sent – come healing
of the limb – he has
forgotten his song/
Late Walk Home
My final walk is chalk-marked
[primary colours & a bruise of
pinks] & above here rainbows
[bled in felt tips] are tacked to
innards of smudged glazing &
then rattles on pans & healing
of stale unneighbourly tiffs – a
gift on Acacia Drive/ I listen to
hisses as a small kid cries out
[overtired] disagreeable wails –
ask her for cuddles & whines’ll
fade & a conversation at 10pm
will drain into sleep’s quietuide
[I should know – being trained –
a father never dies – he wanes]
Here – not alleys – but twittens/
Old sodium lamps [spilling out
light pollution] guide me up my
hill – on a path between hedges
.& into two ghosts – of glow & a
shadow-friend – rust on a slope
home – always slow-ascending
as if embrace of sleep will cure
us virus-luggers/ I’ll recuperate
once I return from my saunter?
Boris et Domics
Now fewer [less] unstructured
conversations – with fortuitous
visitors/ A spin-bawled belamy
of gagging orders & infections
Desires have fallen away [as if
his blood doesn’t crave a love]
& his hammock is still without
pushes/ His spine curves with
his hanging bend of canvas &
ropes – sunburn is a flush [kiss
of death] set to rules [lies?] by
missing ministers [a disorder –
difficulty with truth]/ Common
colds [odd at this time of year]
will catch out travelled fools &
[unforeseen] anxieties of dying
will steer bald plots to Durham
& back to other low strategies –
an actual plan to sell-off gems
& other erst national treasures
Dominic sat at a [pathetic] table
& cut a disposition [not a rose] –
as his script [of facts] scattered
to breezed sighs [by dismissals
of media complaints] – a re-spin
& no apology given/ One Nation
in lock-down is his one-line joke
on us blind-sided [stupid] voters
as curtains twitch [comparable
breezes locate a sash window –
held open by counter-weights] –
a flitted gust [in #10]/ A TV sits
alive to Sky News – a baby cries
next door & Boris yawns with a
tiredness – it wasn’t meant to be
this bloody difficult [fatherhood]
They’ll re-tie his comfy swinging
bed once those media [we don’t
anoint them as Press any more]
leave – remain – take back .. Zzz
Pleasure Demolished
They’ll solicit obliteration of
our old theatre [not heeding
complaints from preservers
& old-way-fixers with books
referencing how long those
stall & circle dream pits sat
in our gist]/ Homer was not
one for such revery/ I lost a
phone in Paris – among 200
tipped-up seats – it rang as I
searched – unusual acoustic
tricks did me/ Acts spooled
on my Walkman – fast fwd &
that mechanicalness [we no
longer degust]/ Our mobiles
rewind our playlist of screw-
ups & messages from those
whom we kicked back – that
ruinate of old performances
with no awards [or encores]/
Bingo halls serve less balls –
those so-monotone tenants
of unwanted playhouses are
on a list – to be ever-emptied
with a similar blow by C-19’s
twistings [best played online]
Study the Torah
“Rabbi Kanievsky says cancelling
Torah study is more dangerous
than corona,” Shmulik Woolf [JTA]
[A true story]
Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky aroused
sentiments of a divine immunity
as my family [abutting suburban
cryptic crosswords of meanings
& Israeli misinterpretations] met
together – in peace – to eat under
lockdown’s eye/ No Torah to add
light relief or blind belief in Rabbi
Edelstein to put things right/ Still
no flights into Tel Aviv to sit with
my relatives – Facebook is a tatty
plan B/ Study the Torah – just text
appeared fixed [here] across this
lit screen – mid-poem – this poem
on this screen – across every app
that instruction floated – no scroll
fix – dead seen text – a phantasm/
Some would cry God’s instruction
in such odd data behaviour – but I
still type heresy/ A ‘phone reboot
corrects it all & my poem finishes
under UK lockdown/ No miracle/
Study [of] the Torah won’t cure me
On Hills
I’ll lie with a sun at my feet
& a moon above my head
[flit birds intone] – at blind
north you are nine-ish km
from my swoon where we
had undressed [stretching
& bathed – but not in rain]
Your unchecked meadow
is a rule-broken hill – slips
of grass & breakfast hens
[an incline of nature-sent
breaths] – I’ll cycle to you –
my captured heart rate is
safe [no concerns for now]
Old ways – a basket arced
from skinned brambles &
other wonders – hands-on
matters too – honesty rips
thornish – you pull my tear
of thin skin & usher me to
your own [here deer graze]
Nine-ish thousand stroams
of to-be-discusseds wait on
our auld Bartholomew Map
of Lost Empires – our times
are not to be contained [we
were made in empire days –
you a flesh map of marks &
I am yet to read yours] Slip
me time – before collisions
& cataclysms [not knowns]
to untie my tied-down body
from moon-sun alignments –
then I’m free – laid out – your
rule-broken hill to astrict us
as lovers – no pulley-weight
or worn-gearing of recalls –
not enough to re-route each
of us – there’s a path that is
marked by green dashes on
my OS map – spitting north –
we will walk on it – it calls
without clumsy 3D heights –
best seen from at your feet –
travelled naked – backpacks
left at our bedroom door – I
will allay my afear of heights
to climb with you & so belay
your choice of rope & routes
Football – Nil
Primal tempos of match day routines
are missing – tension between games
have slacked [to monotony] as soccer
offers nothing – a doldrum – no crucial
ties & needed points to pray for [every
89th minute of watching] – no Bovrils
or beers in our rumble-guts to absorb
on top of other football match results
& tabled machinations [can we dodge
relegation?]/ & Falmer has reverted to
fields of bird song – no stadium ones –
no trudge of sopped trainers on paths
back home [quick pint – eh?]/ No result
Captain Colonel
They promoted Captain Tom
[Colonel of Hope] & wheeled
out war tropes whilst setting
fire to a sacrificial scientist –
a hazardous risk when alight
& likely to cause suffering in
wringing hands/ Our PM has
added another kid to his list –
sequestered alongside rabid
Rees-Mogg [who offers zilch
words of comfort to us plebs
of lower class] Save our NHS
is a fight-’em-on-the-beaches
refrain on clappy Thursday
as plans are made to offload
some too-expensive niceties
when war is won [NHS gone]
Better Alone
For S. L.
Besser allein als in schlechter
gesellschaft
Better alone than ill? Not quite –
we cannot [so fluently] interpret
our words [Dachshund!] instead
we explore with our minds & so
find better rationales – Your dog
chases ducks – pull ‘er back from
those moorhens! [Not one of my
finest lines of English poesy] On
arse-rubbed-at-sandstone there
is time to climb from walkers &
threats of cross-infection [but –
we don’t adhere to 6ft distance –
no judging others] Hold me – so
I can smell your hair & neck just
long enough to have something
to take to my bed – let me speak
& use my words to encheer you
[plain English does not suit you]
Sunset in Sussex
For S. L.
Almost African – I meant our outlook
as we took a dust path – burnished &
other out of reach words – our sun in
its last role – such an unsolid player –
typecast & somewhat unreliable/ As
you burnish – still not a verb to speak
aloud – embered? Rules & right ways
are to be ignored in these days of flu
& concerns? Possibly? We cavort by
text & voice on our propped mobiles
in games of chance – but we both do
admit to tugs & pulls towards full sex
would be more agreeable – after all it
is allowable in wonted times/ There’s
no normal [not now] we’ll wait to set
Coppicing
See – a cut stump is a record
of age [in concentric rings] &
a blade has altered readings
My limbs ache – by disease’s
ill-conduct [new desire to lop
off my legs crawls into me] –
in better times I’m fine – not a
raspberry ripple ready for PIP
or to give up/ My daily mood
dithers from life-is-good to a
fuck-off-you – excuse my foul
language a malady sours me
when pain is engaged by my
body to remind me to delay –
Do not listen to that bastard!
& other encouragements – a
word to our well readers – no
illness is reversed by prayers
& I count its rings but am led
astray by a chainsaw’s scars
& resign to guessing games –
of age & time & late histories
written of in coppiced woods
[where I set my walking stick]
Sunset & Rozzers
I’m stood trapping a sunset
on my phone – I will tell any
rozzer that – I have stopped –
Officer – ‘cos my limbs ache –
Yes – My Parkinson’s can be
confused with drunks’ ways
but you’d need a drink too if
you had this kind of ailment!
Our laughter lightens his ire
& that kind sergeant’ll leave
me to take a photo of God’s
beauty [I’ll stick him a finger
as he strolls back to his car]
Too Early for Philosophy
Over time I may come to like myself
& Aristotle will be re-read & sales of
Stoicism accelerated to re-set every
thought of every thinking soul under
lock & key as we wash wrung hands
[ones brushing on outdoor surfaces]
A churchgoer lifts her arm to buckle
her face – masked – & a heated rising
in me cannot be tempered by Plato –
perhaps Marx offers propitious ways
for my mind as I stray into disdain of
God’s double spoken way – Amens etc
My dog pulls me from my thoughts &
I cannot catch that churchgoer’s eye
[as she has turned her head from my
stare] so I return to social distancing
as instructed/ Without Gods to guide
my retorts I’ll stay polite [of course!]
The Last Man in Europe
They’ve renewed lockdown edicts
for us shuffling half-wits [but I will
fly in my mind’s self-isolation cell]
No rattled keys & no one lingers in
filmed exercise yards/ Big Brother
is resplendent on my widescreen –
congratulating us – more mastery
in endless wars – Minitrue speaks
truth to all on Twitter feeds/ Take
us to Jura [to a thought distillery]
& let us sup on literature & porn –
awed by Geo. Orwell & Jade Kush
& their prodigious outputs! Spied
favourites are reduced – they slim
down to less choices [PornHub &
TikTok] to laments off inmates/ It
will be good to hear no complaint
[Quiet now – our children will sleep
in air-fed bunks & no longer weep]
& my rooms expand to exclude all
those narrow channels/ I grew up
with three choices [an abundance
of voices – not many mattered – so
we absconded from cells to fields]
When we can enter a cinema & sit
in rows – to be bugged by others –
who distract – then normal is back
but ’til then return from your one
trip [for essential avocados & fags]
& tune in to 10,000 choices of crap
Numbered Days
There is no science in daily tariffs
of death-by-country – our morbid
fascination pulls such in to dinnle
& talk [still kids die of preventable
pneumonia – that remedy’s rate is
is set too high] & auld statistics sit
in our yet-raged throats/ We’ll not
give a fuck until it is us – or closer
relatives – then we’ll read degrees
of temperature & sweat it out – no
herd immunity talk will suffice for
us – not with infected lungs to lug
from our bed & back in lost hours
& then we won’t care for numbers
of others read out in PM briefings
And So It Goes
I read that a 13-year-old boy died alone
& aged souls will be let go [if there’s no
hope] to free machines & carers restrict
access even to medics & death is not a
sweetened ride for so many & songbird
rips loud beyond unfastened windows &
governments put stocks & shares afore
people & all footballers are capricious &
PPE & ICT & ITU are wings of Mercury &
lies travel wide via internet ties & nature
may not be to blame & China now plans
billions in gains & kids go hungry here &
women are hurt & not by this sickness &
our nurses fear illness & prayers are one
way our hedge-priests comfort us & it is
a pensioner who circles his lawn to raise
NHS cash & men in suits have plundered
by betting against hope & we will wonder
when & how & what & can & ifs & whys &
more questions than answers rotate & in
what year will our egregiousness return &
kill again & when will we learn our lesson
& not repeat old mistakes & settle for life?
Our Cure
For S.L.
Foolishness had us locking fingers
into grips & crooks [urgent stuff of
other times when sex was not that
covetous act ] My mouth forms on
your name to recall our illicit graze
[perhaps too many times we found
our lips on bared skin – a corruption
of advised distances] but time riles
both of us – no brakes – no restraint
against vantages – not unless other
voices scold to disappointments [&
telling-off] Yearning smites us – but
this is an exoneration against more
dead-end lives – humdrum times of
panic in pandemic & other vile stuff
[so let us tussle & let us fall to love]
Perfect Isolation
Coupling bees are falling [Thut!]
Over-wrangled & humping – as if
there’s no tomorrow – they know
how things are & how things will
be – now our lives are set by rays
outside/ I am not clocking on [or
off] – I am welcoming primordial
rhythms & sleep’s brenne of fat/
I am back to my Neolithic ways –
food is sparse – a scattering – by
dusk none – then rest under dark
until more calls of birds/ We are
slimming & dying/ I have plans –
my lover & I will leg it to an isle &
walk naked – uncloaked to loose
ways ’til sunset aligns our return
to a bunk – there we will fuck [for
hours] then a night [torn covers]
& all that time our children sigh –
Mother – Father – What? & Why?? –
but outside Shiants will whisper –
by tides & gust – Yird yer watches
& bury yer clocks! – as we gyrate –
to eye each other’s wanting face
& lips – then less timorous in kiss
& contact [in our perfect isolation]
After Covid
An aspen curse & other malices
grew among our fearful Easters
& sod all alters – we live effraide
since a plague is [again] among
us [under lockdown’s new rules]
Inserted tubes keep some alive –
ministers sit apart & upright – all
that distance between them & us
is to Save Our NHS [they claim it
as prized] but post-C19 it divides
into smaller bounties [& insurable
quotas] After such zilch is cushty
[there’ll be a hike in future prices –
because our pound is weaker – but
our fighting leader has won a war!]
Bring Attlee back [fuck Churcillian]
& find better ways – no feudal sale
of state & society – no Tory boys in
suits of Armani to praise/Fill each
bare shelf/Veto war-won dividends
Tear up plans for Austerity Again –
it will be our pain [assuming Covid
hasn’t taken everyone]/ We will eat
our words [Only flu virus] – it will be
our last meal – they’ll serve it to us
Good Friday
Number 8 Upper Uckfield Road
have laid a cross on their lawn –
it is cobbled from fence panels
I mistook it for a plague symbol
but they are a God-fearing pair –
Mr & Mrs Riverdoom at # eight
A miracle if their grass regrows is
what my godless voice says – no
one hears – excepting their Lord/
One day Mr Bell you will feel His
sword – until then Mr B will laugh
’til His blade cuts B by edge or PD
By My Hand on Three Sheets
1.
Our line [slightest sand] was crossed
& it was my transgression – my steps
to you & my selfish need to kiss – so I
broke Rule One – foolishness isn’t my
way [but we don’t live in normal times
because normal is only a selection on
white goods] So – our modest tasting
of intimacy [shameful stuff!] – what if
they walked in? You my metrical clue
Two Down: Tryst keepers (6) – Answer
LOVERS
2.
This is mine – momentarily – a puzzle
of parts to understand by eye & lips –
decode – I want to pull you loose – all
your buckles & buttons to read aloud
your marks – scars – curves & then to
learn from you – how to? How to grin
& be so serious but not too much – it
comes with love & practice & time – I
have rushed these affections – crime
continues now – normality is omitted
& calendars erased – we should kiss –
again?
A Poem For You
If you can read this poem
you should heed my advice,
give me some distance,
not Coronavirus.
Andrà tutto bene
Everything will be alright – hope sits
between us – at nearly two metres/
Their rules demand flouting – as my
tea cools & your laughter rolls from
you – we deny all fears – no contrails
above – now – only our recalls taigle/
Nothing but curious deer will query
our behaviour – foolishness is such
affective stuff – we flirt by looks but
do not reach – this foreplay is yet to
involve skin & lips – that first joining
of limbs is a faraway thing – so we’ll
sit under sunlight & stay – patience
& other virtues settle in this space –
your toenails are purple – you finger
your necklace – you have made fun
of yourself – these are so attractive
to me – we browbeaten men melt in
your presence [we embreathe your
beauty]/ Deer are disturbed on that
land beyond your posts & low wires
[once enough to stave their closing
out & foraging]/ Here less distance
is a thing of value – you guide me in
Sex In Isolation
For S.L.
Here were colours in sex [flesh-tones
first & then white clues of bone under
blonde hairs] – bent wheat – then curls
on skin – lisps of subtle fur – no whims
bristled – not yet thickened by years &
years of age & concerns [woven greys
of every hair turns]/ Gloss by vowels/
Taste that lit blood under your eyelids
as visions percolate [red] between our
advances – off-white emissions curdle
on my bare thighs with my submission
to your words [colours you’ve spoken]
All Fools’ Day
Our clear sky’s brightness
is less reflected in frosted
glass – get back to locked
down beds & keep warm/
Grind against your other’s
offered hind [be she lover
hound or hand] & create a
frigged mess of sex/ Don’t
spare your rare toilet rolls
More Myths
There are no stiff upper lips
on our spent lower shelves –
no Spam [& no Fray Bentos!]
sat in line/ We were short of
stuff back in 1944 – but then
we made sacrifices – & other
myths/ H.M.S. Great Britain
is our ghost ship – her holds
laid bare by ugly mutineers/
Spivs do well/ Priests desire
faith/ Old rich remain rich as
solace dispels for those ill &
poor & old – those cast-offs –
not one will be let off [unless
you make a bob or two from
virus antidotes – there’s dosh
in infections & Amazon crap]
A minister decries those who
hate free enterprise – political
malice is forever contagious
among our more prosperous
[who declaim stiff upper lips!]
The Few
Shall we embrace military ways
of fighting & furloughs – of a war
vying unknowns? Rhetoric wins
when we have battles to be won
[& rulers plump before their gilt
mirrors & spun doctors – Should
I sport khakis today? Honey! Do I
look grand in green?] As leaders
preen & try to mask their smiles
from us as our medics sudate &
have their dripped brows wiped
by twice-gloved hands [we’ll not
see a shortage of any politicos!]
They put padlocks on our doors
to save us from ourselves [such
Maoist thoughts surely reserved
for communists – not dear Boris
who bends to scientific advisors
for seismic shifts of old canons]
His Tory party is stuck at prayer
as funeral homes see profits up
What’d Mrs Thatcher have done?
He wonders – Shown some balls?
This phoney war will bloom unto
bodies in bags [of which we don’t
have enough] Honey! Do I look OK
in grey – a single zipper – done up?
It’s a trendy thing in NY & Lon-don
When emptied high streets return
to trades – to lattes – to crowds of
grazers – when our herd re-settles
what will we have learnt from our
months of one tiny pandemic? Will
we regress to pack mentalities – a
need to fly & travel at any cost – to
tarry & forget? In war there is less
[but more is embraced once those
words of speechmakers & priests
have been fired off & we look at all
their echoed shells] & few are sure
Also on Medium
Last Orders
I perched – waiting – at The Crow & Gate
No beer or trucked food today – CLOSED
It may be another end to our world [who
cares?] or a glitch – a hard reset request
by Nature – it may be Far East iniquities/
We live in fear of failures – but not major
fuck-ups – they aren’t Western dilemmas
[only in movies & games]/ Her hell-black
crow sits immobile/ Mother will succour
rich pickings once morgues see queues/
Nature knows best/ We are a mere virus
with a lifespan determined by conditions
beyond our reach [we perch on surfaces]
A Prayer
You’ll have to get
use to these every day
adjustments of feelings –
now unequal & unnamed –
no numbering of sequences –
except dead or infected totals –
more or less – your view is framed
by your windows & your bright screens
Solitude is a rehearsal for death – practice
is good – as days run out into that fact of life
& you then fail to recall decent & dull normalities
[you’ll fall out of love with your locked-in companions]
De[s]cent
It feels unwell turning from friends
as if they are not responsible or to
be trusted – all our rules are re-set/
My kids gather outside my house –
delivering care in scouted carrier
bags of love – expressed with veg/
Aircraft timbre is now uncommon –
instead swards vibrate to song – as if
Nature has re-taken a layer from us
But it will not last – still we will sour
running ditches with farming drugs
as we brabble to be overfed/ & on &
on we crawl [not quite in reverse] not
yet that slouch back down our chart –
primate – to rat – then slid primaeval/
There are empty benches at sunrise
& I take my seat as terrors sleep/ It
may pass [nb something’s changed]
Careless Talk
So how will this [sh!]
viral infection expose
modern insecurities –
will roaming decline?
[They sit at metre spaces sipping slow coffees – quite
European – now forsaken until our anxieties rewind]
Our thin copper wires
were not designed to
grip our selfish loads –
ties bind us tighter to
[My client rings & we laugh off sicknesses & dire ends –
but our retirement policies have taken another thump]
extraction & supplies
from far places – ores
& cereals will stop as
ships halt & we watch
[She is over seventy & feels as if this was planned – as
if this was a useful plague to rid our NHS of zombies]
as emissions pale on
charts [Inversions of
doubling disease may
balance it all] We fail
[Careless talk costs lives – I see they have contingency
plans – they had social care sorted – this’ll do for it all]
again to incite [or thrill]
on pole-pulled cables
[imported a while ago
before talking ended]
Mona’s Mask
Her enigmatic smile has been hidden
behind her 3M N95 respiratory mask
[a blank stretched surface – looped to
pull & reject] / Her lips are not shown
now she is responding to C-19 rules –
now no one is seen smiling in Europe
Also on Medium
MIKE BELL | 10,000 Poems 