Throwing Fruit at the Elderly

Ben had an ear stud

And was already thirteen,

Which made him the natural leader.

He marched us across the wasteland

In a proper wedge formation,

Scraggled grass and dust

At our feet.

When we reached the chain-link trees

And leafed fence, sun in our

Eyes, he pointed out the old persons’ home.

Pruned Glaswegians lay sunk

In the terrace deck chairs.

We had munitions:

Wild fruits like cranberries,

But poisoned, maybe,

And we flung them with our kiddy arms.

Until Ben cried,

I got one in his mouth!

We bolted then, but a rasp from the faded

Feminine span me round.

Let me get a good look at ye,

Ye delinquent thug!

My conscience whimpered, and I hated Ben.

Forgetting

Every night a different thought:

I ought to write them down.

But to my consternation

I frown, like a clown

Unlaughed, and lose all

Motivation to arrange.

A Depressing Thought

I heard a rumour that the proper realms of poetry are Love and Death. Well, I’m only twenty-three, so I won’t be talking about death. And I find myself under an encroaching suspicion that love operates in a similar manner to memory. When you remember an experience you are not remembering an experience. You’re recalling the latest recollection of that experience. Like a photograph of a photograph of a photograph. No matter how good the camera, you’re still haemorrhaging pixels. What if love is the same? You get one shot. And every subsequent love is a sketch of the first. the sketch may have been done in a steady hand, with a Blackwing on paper of 120gsm. But it’s a sketch nonetheless. It’s taken from a model.