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
Tag: prose poem
The Birds
He pauses his TV to work out what he’s watching [engage Google & explore]
Do you recall? Our effortless recount [any digits] ‘off pat’ [as we said] – Who
knows that motor? It’s an Aston DB2 being [too-hastily] driven with a brace
of fake lovebirds in Hitchcock’s first scenes in his film of The Birds / Driving
feral in pelts – heels & a rented motorboat – No, no bare dips on this road trip
She was clawed by Brylcreem Man & an insatiable gull / Neither artiste won
an Oscar [as we Google & explore] / Tippi Hedren lives on / Pleshette is dead
Found in Birmingham
[A prose poem]
Here is an old white male using his poetry to ease off drugs and dropped lines – verse defined words – his strips in place – in plied lines – to avoid being lost in a rush and buff – of being set to in slow motion – fixing over him – sat above him – then floating signs which point at him – they light him in garish neon – and flicker with shouts – this old white male crows – this white male quietly denies bright white goods – this white male will now – as one man – apologise for chains – for tied ropes – for pricing bent heads – this palliation is not for any racist whom he knows – those he hears – those foul loud spat speakers – he can see their white spit – sickly double thinkers – there is white hate paint on the tip of every finger of pint tipping beer drinkers in his ghost town – he reads their glassy foamed thoughts as they form – because we all emit that local illogical eye illness – passed down – lie to lie through ill brewed words – and other such ways – our white lied said inflexions are caught in our history – the way the world rhymed and how our thick ears cock – but ignore white crows
More Waiting Rooms – Please
[A prose poem]
East Croydon could be LGW or the upstart crow Milton Keynes station – each we passed through to BHX – those visited identikits of brand-stamped sub-city intersections – of yellow lines and low-hung fixed-font signs – there are no seat comforts – no – no more on any platform – no shuttable waiting rooms – no blistering braziers – a common risk in ’72 – when our choices were gas fumes or freezing – Provide us with indoor benches and free heat at connections – Do not risk-assess our comforts – Do not then tell us to stand and wait before the cold blasts of fast-passing services