21st Century Poem

Questionnaire:

What a clean city. I’m kinda sleepy.
Uniforms. With your name on.
My everyday life.
Thick smoke, no breeze.
And how do you see yourself in fifty year’s time?
[Place for credits of movie about missing persons.]
We plants are happy plants.
200 people faint. Hard to breathe.
Roll up roll up.

Any information you give will be processed by upwards of 200 commercial organisations and an unspecified number of military, governmental, and non—governmental organisations.

Do not get out
What might have been.
She blew a hole right through me.
The more you drive the less intelligent you get.
Hit the road quick.
Oxygen should be regarded as a drug.
Thick smoke not evenly distributed. Visibility 50m.
If you don’t ask me out to dinner I don’t eat.
Lobster-skin-shopping-mall-coffee-stained-lipsync.

The results of this intrusion into your life will be used ‘responsibly’ in ways that you cannot even begin to imagine or comprehend. Of course, the innocent have nothing to fear from the rapidly expanding data industry.

A wardrobe painted in fairground colours.
Story begins with explosion/ends with explosion.
Your fantasies are unlikely but beautiful.
No substitute for a healthy smile.
It occurs to him that if he died that night,
He would have died happy because he was loved.
Has sex ever really moved you to a different place?
Reduced enjoyment and pleasure.
The smoke came back extremely thick and abrasive.

Thank you for your time.

People are aware, but not that bothered.
Authorities here are alert.
Everything I do/say is suspect.
A strangler’s hands.
One of us.
No autonomy. A lethal cocktail. Horrific violence.
I am bad. I am to blame.
I think a little more sucking-up is needed.
Food and water crisis developing.

Have a safe day.

Words on a gravestone: I waited but you never came.
What will we mean? Nothing.
General loss of interest.
He’ll do something silly.
Winning. The last player left in the game is the winner.
A smile like the grim reaper.
Children go to school tied together, led by parents.
Airports closed. People coughing yellow phlegm.
Not sleeping okay. Trapped in hyperspace.

Chip Shop

Despite my reservations, I am wandering the streets of the town in the company of several people with whom I have little in common. The evening has been dominated by seemingly random forays into pubs populated almost exclusively by large men in vests, with whom I have absolutely nothing in common.

Every glance upwards reveals a sky that has been soaked the colour of undistinguished lager. Every time I attempt to join in the obvious jollity of the occasion I am drowned out by the inadvertant yelping of my compatriots, and I resort to adopting a vacuous yet friendly expression whenever any enquiry is directed in my direction.

We stand in a huddle of indecision outside a brightly-lit doorway, and earnest debate falls around my ears as I watch, with unbelieving nausea, a chef in the chip shop opposite shoo a flaming, but living, pigeon from the window of his establishment. The flying, sputtering lump of flame erupts from the window with an erratic path that is subsumed from my attention by an enquiry from my colleagues regarding money. I answer with rapidity, only to turn my gaze back to find the burning bird has disappeared from view.

After an eternity of boredom we emerge from the club. The pigeon is lying in the gutter, curiously expanded, horribly burnt, utterly dead.

Lurgee

‘I wrote a poem about her around Christmas 2009, although I was a bit drunk at the time I can remember writing the poem clearly.’ I looked at my single audience member to ensure he was listening before I continued, ‘I forgot all about it but remembered I’d written it when I was off work ill, it was odd, my thoughts of everything good about her began to disintegrate after a while. I re-read the poem and found myself looking at the words but I wasn’t sure what any of them meant anymore.’ Dave looked at me curiously as the last words trailed to a whisper on my lips; his eyes seemed to lose a little focus in the confines of the dingy bar. I’d been telling him about the girl, not really knowing what I hoped to achieve in doing so.

‘What made you write the poem in the first place?’ he asked me. I began to wonder why I was even telling him the story and I had to think about it for a bit before going on, ‘I don’t know, I’ve never been one for writing poems about girls; my subject matter is usually abstract – I thrive on the stifled necessity of existence, consistently drawn by a complex narcissism to the ugly. In my opinion, things of beauty usually speak for themselves and require little further description…’

Dave gave me an odd look again and waited for me to continue, ‘I think it’s about someone getting under your skin when you least expect it, then having to deal with it and rationalise it within yourself: it’s about how you become weak, how you become prone and the ways someone else can make you feel bad about yourself.’

‘If she made you feel so bad about yourself, why didn’t you just walk away from it? Surely it would have been easier?’ It was my turn to look baffled, I allowed my thoughts collect and churn in my head before going on: ‘I thought I had done her so much wrong, so much harm that I wanted to make amends for all of it – I wanted to prove I’m a good person and that thorny words soaked in alcohol mean nothing. None of it made any difference, she accepted my apology on the surface, and apparently, everything is ok. I keep trying to move forward but it always stalls and really, what was there isn’t there anymore.’ I’ve finished my beer so take a long pull of the Glenmorangie in front of me and keep my eyes on the table.

‘Did you try? Did you really try? Were you sincere and did you tell her what this was doing to you?’ I was twirling the Whisky around in my glass watching the oily water cling to its sides; I raised my eyes and looked at him, noticing for the first time how badly his hairline had receded. ‘I told her everything, well almost everything, but opening up to her just made things worse – it seemed to awaken the notion of the degree of control she had over me in her conscience. I guess some people just don’t have the emotional maturity to deal with the truth…’

‘That doesn’t make any sense…’ he tells me, ‘well it makes perfect sense to me, she barely treats me as if I’m human these days, it’s a silly manipulative mind-game – devaluation I think it’s called, designed to make the affected party feel worthless and insignificant, bouts of the silent treatment followed by periods of acting normally again. The trick is to keep the other person on their toes by constantly making them wonder what they’ve done wrong in the hope that they’ll keep grovelling, crawling back…the whole thing is pretty masochistic.’

‘Oh yeah, I see where you’re going with this – reminds me of an ex-girlfriend of mine, I got shot of her pretty sharpish, but you, why are you clinging to this? You realise that there is nothing you can do and it’ll only get worse?’ Dave had a curl of a grin at the corner of his mouth now, smug, like he’d just cracked the enigma code. ‘I know that now, it took me a while to realise, I was so full of fear and doubt about things I might have done to her, but I realised it wasn’t me – she needs hurt in her life to cling to. I’m ready to walk away for good now, it’s time to concentrate on the people who have proved time and again that they are there for me unconditionally…’

I’m twirling my drink again, enjoying the feel of the slippery glass under my fingers, ‘Good!’ Dave exclaims, his trickle of smile breaking into a fully-fledged grin, ‘but one thing…if you realised this already then why did you need to speak to me about it?’ I’m a bit sheepish about answering this, ‘well…’ I say, ‘it’s more to do with the poem…although I don’t know what it means anymore …it’s really good …definitely one of my better efforts…. but it’s a false memory of an idealised person that didn’t really exist. I don’t know what to do with it, it’s wrong to destroy art…’

‘It’s your creation, Gav – you need to decide whether it continues or ceases to exist, that’s all I can tell you, the choice is yours. Anyway…I’m going to the bar, same again?’ I nod my approval at this and ponder the problem until he returns. ‘My God!’ he says, looking with surprise at my face, ‘You’re grinning from ear to ear!’ I realise I am, and I feel good, cold German beer slips down my throat like honey.


***


When I’m back in my flat later that evening, I take the Moleskine journal I penned the poem in from the bookshelf and locate the page it is written on. I remove it, tenderly I suppose, from the journal with a gentle tearing motion. The paper feels strange and oily under my fingers, I sit on the couch, light a cigarette and read it over a couple of times. These were once beautiful words: abstract, ill fitting and raw together in a jumble that made sense to me before when I was weaker. I continue to look at the page for a while, noting the lack of resonance the words now have, they are just dull scribbles on a piece of paper.

I crumple it up, put it in the ashtray which I then place upon the sill of the open window. I take my lighter and gingerly set fire to one of the corners poking out from the messy, compacted ball, it catches and begins to burn, I watch the smoke pour out the window, washing the incoherency, fear and doubt into the night sky on a gentle breeze. The burning smell blows back in and hits me and I’m reminded of scrunched up newspapers used to set fire to piles of autumn leaves – I love the autumn, for its sense of melancholy seems to strike my need for sadness. There is poetry in the dying of the year and mystery as well. It’s summer now, but it will pass soon enough.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTip94vtNVM

Viva Largs Vegas

The still of the water is occasionally broken by the lurch of the Cumbrae ferry as it docks or departs towards Millport, its deck strewn with tourists and shoppers. Further ashore, the sun drenches the promenade in white light bounced refractively on the surface of the Holy Loch changing its hue in a dancing shimmer. The air hangs heavy and hot, the only bluster comes from the throng of bodies making their way along the concrete path, one of which will occasionally dash after a dog that has slipped its lead making a break for open water.

My glass sweats beads of moisture onto the table in front of me on the outdoor table as the dull ease of the world unfolds before me. I see people of all sizes, ages and descriptions slide through my vision: young, old, fat, thin, ugly, beautiful. This being Scotland, they’re mostly fat and ugly. Fugly. Secretly, I had hoped that there would be more beautiful girls to watch, there’s something about seeing a beautiful woman in the sunlight…

This is not a glorious world-famous resort – this is Largs, or ‘Lards’ as I have started to referring to it inwardly owing to the amount of morbidly obese people I’ve witnessed walking around. The shore is not beautiful, it is covered in a variety of large and small stones and I am almost tempted to walk down to the waterfront and chuck a few into the loch – there’s something psychologically satisfying about the sound a stone makes as it breaks water. The shore is full of kids and dogs; I would look out of place there.

The table I’m sat at is a garden-variety picnic bench under a fabric awning lining the front of the bar; Grant and Nikki sit across from me. I’m absorbed watching a group of nuns making their way up the promenade, one of them, probably the only one below the age of ninety suddenly makes a break (or rather an amble) for it and gets away from the pack. She is munching on an ice cream cone and I can see her false teeth sliding around in her mouth as she laps greedily at it. The nun notices me looking at her, smiles and is about to wave, Grant sneezes.

Still looking at the nun I say, ‘bless you’ a little too loudly, the nun says ‘and you son’, she hobbles off, delighted to be in the sun and eating ice cream. I smile inwardly at the innocence of this and the simple misunderstanding of the gesture. The nuns trundle off into the distance to be replaced by other less circumspect characters, Grant and Nikki fawn over the different breeds of dogs they see – I know nothing about dogs but I’m enjoying their banter.

I feel at ease with the world, it’s been a while since I’ve felt this relaxed. The simple presence of sunlight can do wonders for one’s mood and outlook on life, hot light satisfies some of the hungers that are more difficult to satiate. ‘What about the Hoff?’ Grant asks me lazily, ‘Huh?’ I say, turning to face him, ‘Is he still there?’ I look down the shore to check.

We spotted him on our way up to the bar, lying on a towel on the rocky beach with nothing on but a pair of blue and red trunks that look like they were purchased from the 1984 Debenham’s catalogue: His body is slight and wiry, yet coloured a natural bronze that would put a Californian to shame, his hair is long, unkempt, its colour is black, streaked with cigarette-ash grey. He looks like a small castaway and from what I can tell he hasn’t moved since we passed him on our way here an hour ago.

‘Yeah, he’s still there’, I tell them. We indulge in some light-hearted conversation for a while making observations and being observed by others. Eventually the Hoff gets up.

The three of us watch him make his way down to the water as he wades in to his ankles, bends down and splashes some salt-water on to his face. Many others have stopped their tracks and loiter to watch the spectacle of the lonely sunbather on the craggy shore. He stands for a while facing out into the depths, hands on his hips like Phineas awaiting the Harpies. This seems to go on for an age, but he retreats as the ferry arrives and sends cascades of breakwater up his body.


The Hoff makes his way back to the spot where his towel and belongings lie, pulls on the simple attire of black t-shirt, black jeans and black trainers, shaking the sand out of the latter before putting them on. He makes his way to one of the amusement arcades, straps on a leather money pouch and begins touting for business from the marks on the prom, unaware that his very existence and actions have caused more amusement and pleasure than his cackle of machines will ever be able to.

You Could Feel The Sky...

The living room in the flat is small but it lets in a lot of light, about a quarter of the wall surface gives out to a large corner bay window – the benefits of tenements. I’ve sat here for most of the day watching the sky change, it started out clear and even, no clouds, serene, warm, static, save for the odd grumble of an engine or a door banging shut.

It’s afternoon now and things have changed. I hear gulls squawking as they fight for scraps of food on the melting tarmac, children laughing, frequent traffic on the roads and arguments in the street. I’ve changed too, I’ve moved from my morning seat on the sofa to the chair at my desk by the window.

I watch people of all nationalities, although usually under-represented minorities enter and leave the immigration centre opposite my building. From my citadel, I try to give them features, notice what they’re wearing, some distinguishing mark that will allow me to recognise them when they leave again. I remember a black guy entering this morning, he was wearing a jacket the colour of the pink chrysanthemums that used to grow in the garden of my parent’s house, he never came back out again – sometimes they don’t.

The place is a flurry of activity, there are always people coming and going, security guards closing gates, secretaries going for lunch and gossiping smokers loitering in the heat. I’m too high up to hear their conversations and at this distance lip reading is impossible, I don’t have the guile or imagination left in me to invent the hypothetical conversations they could be having.

The three Immigration buildings themselves are indistinct in their mediocrity, low and flat like military tents, aside from what looks like a guard tower jutting from the top of each. I have never seen anyone inside any of these towers, despite the fact that they are glass surrounds, they exist to establish the notion of diligence – nothing else.

In the background the spires of the Science Centre and the University point to the flux of sky ironically. The ancient building developed to increase our understanding of the world, the universe and culture, the other designed as a monument to Glasgow as a place of culture and diversity. The notion of the goodness of either disperses as my focus returns to the squat buildings in front of my flat, modern and brazen on the bank of a river that sent a million Scottish immigrants to the New World.

I have to stop thinking about it because it doesn’t do me any good.

I return my attention to the sky and watch a front of sluggish clouds work their way up the Clyde Valley towards the city. The sky: always shifting, always transitory, always forgetting; The clouds are melting, slowly, darkly, deeply in the pale azure of the sky, blown and disintegrating before my eyes, I have no idea where they’ll end up.