Short poem written for ‘Mark III’ magazine, on the subject of BLASPHEMY. The Ten Commandments still make me laugh.
I try not to kill. I cannot always help it.
Though I sometimes
Feel prickles of sadness watching
Fly-whisks scrape the soles of old men
And battering billions of unseen lives
Next to undrinkable, plastic flowing
River ducts down south.
We came back to England soon after,
Ate roast beef whilst toying with beads
(I blame my parents, so does he).
Oh for God’s sake – I cannot help it
The man at number four
Has some luck, for sure. See her bent
At the waist, washing the roof of
Another new car, her anklets shimmering
In the light, as I spend another Sunday
(Or is it Saturday? I can’t keep track)
Catching up on work, teeth stained red,
Fingers yellowed on my flatmate’s fags.
We spent last night complaining
About the noise next door.
Oh, and so you know,
I am not yet married.