Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

Same Old Same Old

In the lack of misunderstanding:
The self-portrait.
Here in this misrepresentation;
Where the slapdash nature of
Meaning trips and stumbles
Under its own feet –
Colour of the eye in an external world
Devoid of words – sounds phonetic
Just existing in some corner…
The portrait is the fictional image:
The single frame animation cel.
In this misnomer of life. 
Lights thin refraction dances
All around and all across the  
Sparkling night – The artist’s
Paint stained fingers hold
As he munches on chips
And a steaming mug of tea.
As the psyche of the night
Swallow up the last visitors
Of the pub crash and bash
And trip and fall and stumble
On their way home.

The Red Car

There, the red car: an absolute
Indicating something unseen

An undertaking that cannot be ignored
Written in the mind – that has to come. 

Mankind has dropped its kith and
Kin in discovering another

Type, another token there is no hope here
The grey space, waiting to fill up.

The once colourful no dowdy grey
Takes the shortest distance too

He sees the Magi coming over alone
Accusation as he is to aeroplane noise

The red car a mass symbol
Of everything and nothing

Staves off rust for another day
And another – and – another

Sharp dressed man

Lined order cut a sharp a suit
Who was this epithet?
Made from cosmic enterprise
And a turned eye
Or a blind eye, perhaps.
Never the loneliest guy.
Yet fortune favours
Those who treat gently
Yet boldly.  The print remains
Across the lines of ease.
Pork pie hat strange yet apt.
Seen in every street
From Bexley to bleak Berlin
To the Brassy Bronx.
A certain smile that asserted:
Anything can go
And must, to impress upon
The outer reaches of the universe

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