a rocky tip on corner coast
a day to turn skin to toast
birds circle over my head
wishing i were dinner-dead
swooping they look big as eagles
but they are just well-fed seagulls
with big bent beaks sharp
devil-souls and devil-hearts
they swoop and dive again again
THEY WANT THEIR BEAKS INSIDE MY BRAIN
to explore it like a murky stew
and find the best meat to chew
their possessed cries are curses
as i shelter under a book of verses.
john betjeman, nineteen fifty three.
my head is saved by poetry.
it was a wednesday, it was raining and it was the future. whilst waiting at the bus stop people read paperback books that cost £36. thirty six pounds for a paperback book! meanwhile, in a government warehouse a moustachioed gent was twitching nervously as he worked, opening endless envelopes and condemning their contents to a fiery end. with his moustache trimmed to the regulation eight centimetre length by five millimetre width he moved quickly and freely, his skin gently sweating as the heat of the furnace reached him. Continue reading
sitting on the harbour wall
i ate less-than chips.
the wind blew through
the holes in my shoes
and my less-than chips.
a sugar mouse-voiced
girl asked if i was ok
and i said ok, but i was