‘Fishing in a pishmer’s puddle,’ as she put it. Something in the expression rankled with me old man bones and I was forced to eject an undigested walnut from the depths of my oesophagus. Immediately the base level idiot mind spewed forth some recollection of my having explained to a concerned drunkard, when asked why I persisted in slip-sliding perilously on a patch of black ice, that I was simply glancing in the puddles so that I could look upon the stars. Her face drooped and triggered recognition that I’d committed some conversational faux pas. You would think that with a few decades of social conditioning behind you, you might outgrow such childish oversights; anyway, perhaps the childishness was on her part, it’s hard to say, really. Looking back, I’d have to say I preferred the taxi driver conversations. A comfortable bitching session with a blonde darts enthusiast, followed by a crazed tirade from some no-bullshit war-specialist. I was made welcome by each in their own way. The genocide guy seemed to be on the receiving end of some very select intelligence, certainly he had plenty of his own. Though I hadn’t the knowledge to break a lance with him, I could appreciate his ability to dismantle systems of power and divine their true intent. For a moment I thought he might’ve crashed the car had I insisted on steering the conversation in the direction of the recent crossover, mega millions, game changing, mind warping heavyweight boxing bout. The lovely lady who’d regaled me with wondrous tales of backlit pub contests was much more the warmer of the two, I’ll cherish our encounter as my own and not sully it with publicised glamour, open to ridicule and God knows what else. Anyway, we’d best be getting along with the poetry. You know, I don’t write these myself? No, not at all. What I do is I sellotape the empty casing of an expensive looking camera to my shoulder and go hassling the least likely looking individuals to come out with some nuanced witticism. They get paracetamol in return and some feeling of gratification I’d imagine. Sounds like nonsense, I know, but that’s what I do. It helps to deflect the flack.

———————————————————————————————————-

Dancing in a drying puddle
Piddle in the woke few’s dream
Rapier’s ingest, fly fisherman

A stale Nice biscuit
With the mannerisms
Of yer da

Flea ridden jacket boy
Is no match for my
Cat pish house

——————————————————————————————————————-

I am in the queue
Nobody suspects a thing

The world of men
Wakes anxiety
In the soul
Of the socially ill-equipped

Lipstick chatter
Assails the social numskull
Like hail on a helmet
He blunders to the bar

The dictates of
Our social construct
Pins the introvert
Into black damp corners

Sickle tongued sycophants
Hammer the mechanism
Triggering vital response
Ancestral fed accuracy

Long after their memory
A suffering perpetuated
The utterance vital endures
Each generation’s fresh dig

---

Jealousy is a habit
That contorts our
Perception, making
Bad actors

Of us who swore
On high. We are
The worst of
Humankind in

These instances.
It is then that
We prostitute our
Frailing imaginations,

Malignancy having
Seized the channels
Already. When a person
Exhibits cool ease with

Our keenest hurts ,
Black Impulse will placate
The exploding toddler
With sick sweet salves.

—————————————————————————————————————

The coffee guy
Pontificated with passion
His priestly demeanour
Typified the attitude

In the lookout overhead
Our fellas offered
The prospect of
Handing him a rifle

Another travesty
Will soon replace
This, as fashions
Pass the gaudy;

To be caught
Out of step
Denotes daring
When honest grace

Finds fresh footing;
Suffering framed,
The lens pays
Dividends.
——————————————————————————————————————-
Lou Reed’s blood runs blue. I shined his shoes in a neighbour’s dream unbeknownst to the neighbourhood watch.  Actually I was going out of my way not to ingratiate myself overly with him, seeing as he’s got a pretty blown up idea of himself to begin with. A gossiping nun improvised a prayer, spilling the beans on all his little preferences. I read him rating himself along with Bob Dylan. I thought it was pretty distasteful for him to be blowing himself so publicly, but kind of funny too. He came off badly lit, but I think I caught him smirking. Lou Reed enjoying a private joke, to be transmitted telegraphically later, to an irritated Dylan. At any rate, I respect him still for exposing a generation with that stooges line. Blessed be the veiny wraith that spares a soul the sight of his crucifixion. Just gets on with it, produces albums of varying quality. Had a go at John Lennon too, our Lou. And always so cryptic. That said, it was no secret that Andy Warhol was a big fan of pro wrestling. Always something lost in translation when we cross the pond…