Saturday, August 15, 2015

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."