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Bobby
Parker
Bobby
Parker lives in Kiddermister in the West Midlands of Britain. He was selected as Small Press Poet of the Year in
Purple Patch magazine, and has previously been published in the following magazines:
Agenda, The New Cauldron, The Coffee House, Curlew,
Fire, Global Tapestry Journal, Iota, Krax, Obsessed With
Pipework, Orbis (where he was Featured Writer in issue 147), Rain
Dog, Raw Edge, Purple Patch, Quarry, Urban District
Writer and Weyfarers. He also has work on the webzine Ink Sweat and
Tears.
He
recently founded Last Change Before Bath Time publications ( LCBB), which
publishes pocket size poetry pamphlets. A website is planned for 2010. Recently
they published Geoff Stevens' The Instability of Nitro-cellulose. Future
plans include an LCBB magazine and poetry anthologies.
APOCALYPSE NOW
Dancing with your mouths so sure of yourselves
it seems my eyes were meant to chase your words
red ribbons blue balloons sparks and flags
drifting into the sky like cigarette smoke
while my body becomes an armchair
the sun slaps my back and I cough black dust –
you think I’m sullen strange too quiet?
you should see me when the lights go out
I can’t stop singing I can’t stop feeling sick I can’t
see enough of you – you make me want to break
you make me want to break whatever it is in my hands
a fragile kind of distance – you thought I was smiling.
A moment outside we talked about your death
not before the great novel not before another year
lost and mad and full of disease but happy as a criminal
in the land of Apocalypse Now
I will visit you if it means I can be you for a day
the way you talk and they all laugh and tilt their heads
the confidence man the bright ice over the dark water
it was perfect they cast you in the film I wrote
it was perfect when a girl interrupted us and you joked
suddenly suddenly the sound of glass breaking underfoot
if we swapped lives would we appreciate poetry?
Thanks for the drinks and the laughs going over my head
so sure of yourselves so close so funny an energy I can’t touch
my soft fingers popping and melting on your funny stories
I pluck a few ribbons from the air and take them home
I catch a spark in my pocket and wait for the fire.
I don’t feel guilty about money
I don’t feel guilty about money
I could burn what I owe you and spend the night
picturing your face twisted like a used tissue
picturing your face considering my face
kind of smiling but not smiling
a wince Yes a wince for the money I owe you because
I didn’t ask for more and you’ve surely got enough
with your three jobs rich daddy savings account
dodgy deals and girls that pay for hanky panky
in some field where the sun doesn’t quite make it
to the dark green edges wet and heavy with that grassy stink
that followed me through my school days
my lonely school days outsider with a face for dreaming
a face for your money the pocket book you keep
my name scratched in thick black inky rage
I would ask for more if you hit your head and forgot
the last twenty odd years and maybe thought I was your brother
back from the war with a face for silence
and two hands that shake when you say
something my father used to say when he didn’t want
to take me to the park because I kind of freaked him out
with a face very much like his own face in the world.
I’m Not Alone You’re Alone
I’m not alone you’re alone, that is to say
I’m not with you. Put some bread in the toaster
wait for it to burn then call me to describe
a quiet house that smells of burnt toast.
I’m not alone you’re alone, that is to say
I’m not with you. Your words are confetti,
the biodegradable kind the church prefers;
they stick to the bottom of my black shoes.
I’m not alone you’re alone, that is to say
I’m not with you. Order a pizza and when
the delivery man arrives call me and ask him
to tell me what you’re wearing.
I’m not alone you’re alone, that is to say
I’m not with you. And since I hate cars, trains,
boats and planes, imagine I am in the next room
writing poems. Shouting for coffee.
Pictures of Screaming People
I knock his door. His girlfriend answers.
A few pounds lighter and she could be a model
but what do I know about beauty, I’m trying
to sell a painting to a lad tormented by psoriasis.
He doesn’t get up out of his chair, I look at his
girlfriend as she flips through a magazine.
Maybe she doesn’t want to leave him because
she doesn’t want him to think it’s the psoriasis .
However, I am prone to thinking horrible things,
horrible, horrible things. He doesn’t like my paintings.
He scratches his neck, swats at a fly. She rolls up
her magazine, pats an awkward beat on her left thigh.
copyright
© Bobby Parker
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