Paul Crompton- Three Poems

Boundary Road 11:15am

These are the people,

For whom the plastic spoon

Was their birth right,

Menial work their inheritance.

These are the people

Who live hand to mouth,

Benefit cheque shopping days

In pound shops and discount stores,

For whom whole weekends are wasted

F**king and drinking

And reproducing,

Waiting for it all to manifest

In some medical emergency

Robbing them of breath

Their only god given right.

These are the people,

Who clean toilets, tend tills

Stack boxes in warehouses

Serve bad beer

In bad pubs to afternoon boozers

With 40 a day coughs

Yellow fingers and B&H perfume,

Who dream of lottery wins

So they can buy the things

They think Beyonce does,

Watch news for celebrity gossip

So they can bitch on a c-lister

One reality show above them

On a ladder leant against

Bourgeoise wall where

Wit and will will not overcome.

These are the people,

And I recognize them,

But no longer know them.

These are the people

For whom subservience,

Hegemony, poverty and deference

Are the price they pay

To Eton’s old boy mafia.

These are the silent majority,

Who laugh and swear and gossip

About TV shows

Cus any dream will do

When reality is a foe.

What Use Is Verse?

What use is verse

in this old world

of pain and misery.

How can a simple,

subtle line

decipher or define

a world that’s torn,

like flesh ripped

by a roses thorn.

How can I compare thee

to a summer’s day,

when the sun shies away

behind angry skies,

while the only clouds that float

o’er this old town

clap with thunder

and pour with venom.

What use are pretty,

delicate words

to ears more used

to swears and moans.

They care not

for this blood red rose,

which pouts like

swollen lover’s lips,

whose kiss draws sweat

from ashen skin.

Oh Lord, please tell me,

what use is verse

on a

day like this….?

Bartender, just one more (Leonard Cohn lovesong for the road)

You whisper to me,

so the bartender can’t hear,

"I can feel

the bare bones of love

rattling through the ancient catacombs

of my soul,"

but you know

as well as I do

that holding out,

with all your might,

for a teenage feeling

you’ve no right

to believe in,

will only drain

the colour from your face

faster than

you suck at that glass in your hand.

You sigh, and look to the floor,

and jam your hand

in your pocket

and cry to the bartender:

"One more!

just one more for the road,

and change the jukebox

to a Leonard Cohen love song."