Neil Fulwood- Two Poems

Bad Influence

 

                        This is the kind of poem

your mother warned you about, your father

signed petitions against and your great-uncle

kept in his wallet while he fought the fascists

in Spain. The kind of poem he carried

next to a prophylactic and a photograph

of a girl named Catalina.

 

                        This is the kind of poem

that borrows money and crashes on your sofa

and acts a little too friendly around your sister

… but, to be fair, has your back in a fight.

The kind of poem that would take a kicking

or lie to the judge, or ring your boss

with a world-class excuse.

 

                        This is the kind of poem

that’s never held a job longer than a month

and lists its only assets as a signed poster

of Misti Dawn and a first edition of The Wasp

Factory. The kind of poem that lives

in an Airstream caravan with a fridge

that contains only beer.

 

                        This is the kind of poem

that shoots pool for money, smokes Lucky Strikes

and has a ticket for The Pretty Reckless

at a venue a hundred miles away. The kind of poem

that grins round a broken tooth, wears

a leather jacket and stonewashed jeans and models

dishevelment on Mickey Rourke.

 

                        This is the kind of poem

that doesn’t have licence or insurance,

that’s under the influence and doesn’t give a shit

about a night in the cells. This is the kind of poem

that drinks tequila and keeps tattoo parlours

in business. It carries a switchblade.

It blew a red light two stanzas ago.

 

Mansfield Road

 

The guy at the bus stop is fucked up on something

The guy at the bus stop thinks he knows me,

thinks we went to school together. Or did time.

 

The guy at the bus stop is insistent. His eyes

are like the eyes of Shere Khan in the Disney cartoon

if Shere Khan had piercings and drank Carling from the can.

 

Swap the soft, seductive sibilants of George Sanders

for glottal stops and every sentence full-stopped with “innit?”

or “mate”. Innit, mate? He’s convinced he knows me,

 

calls me Gary and I don’t correct him. He talks

without listening – the kind of sports bar opinionism

that can flip like a switch. A scream in the dark

 

when the bulb goes out. A&E in the early hours.

The bus is full and glides past, windows stark

with the same blank light as the empty shops behind me.



Neil Fulwood is the author of film studies book The Films of Sam Peckinpah. His poetry has appeared in Butcher's Dog, Art Decades, The Screech Owl, Your One Phone Call and Medusa's Kitchen. He's married, holds down a day job and subsidizes several real ale pubs.