The Cost of Living
I never go to restaurants anymore
the price of petrol is so high, when
I get to one I can’t afford to enter.
I look at the menu outside, but go
and sit in my automobile, munch
a sandwich and drink warm beer.
No Smoking
Since it’s cold outside
And I can’t smoke in the bar
I drink another beer
The air so wholesome
When beer glasses are lifted
Armpits tell of night
My “Brother”
In the side-room where I put things I’m going to
use one day but never will, there is an old “brother”
typewriter gathering dust, bought it for a fiver
a day I felt like Mike Spillane, and saw myself
drinking whisky smoking cigarettes while writing
rapidly, about the low life world in Liverpool, only
I never found any criminals, went into pubs they
were supposed to hang out, but was met by people
buying me pints and telling great jokes.
Then, the word processor came along and spelling
was not such a burden. Yes, I know I sold out for
a better life; and yes, I miss the clicking of my
“brother.” Pure nostalgia! I wrote my first poem on
it, about lost love, and it is all I write about, going
around in circles asking: “where is my love?” how
am I supposed to know where you mislaid her?
One day I’ll blow the dust of my “brother” and write
till the lady comes back into my dreams again.
I wrote this piece a while ago and posted it on my new blog, not my best, but it has a certain sentimental value for me…
The gun is pointed at my heart,
That mans intent is true,
He wants to take from me my life,
For the sin of loving you,
I’ve been through flame and ash,
Fought my greatest foe, myself,
But now this last opponent,
Means to send me back to hell,
I’ve said all that I know to say,
I’ve learned to speak, to beg, to pray,
But still the crosshair has me in sight,
for this pounding of my heart,
And if the choice were given,
Just a sure shot in the dark,
I’d still keep my love and lose my life,
Though I know his aim is true,
For, sin or not, no truer joy I’ve known,
Than the sin of loving you.
thirteen. rode his bike by my house every day one summer. mohawk. jumped into the river. wet clothes. touched my boob.
seventeen. hungry, young. liked oral sex. i refused to go any further. tan body. smoked a lot of weed.
twenty-one. wild, drunk. threesomes. all tall, athletic straight men who liked to watch one another.
forty-five. rugby coach. big, hairy man. smoked a lot of weed. terets-like outbursts of cursing remembered fondly.