Cork
floats in my wine
like crumbs
from a burned
bread pudding. I got too confident,
assumed that a cheap market
would sell only cheap
wine, those ones
with those screwcaps
which are so convenient
when you're thirsty. by the time I got home
I had realized my mistake
but the fish needed fridging
and I'd already torn the foil.
I met my new neighbors
today
for the first time,
but they didn't have a corkscrew
either.
so in the end
it was just
the old caveman method; got a good knife
and thanked god
I'd bought a hammer for pictures. like a man
chiseling headstones
I placed it carefully
and brought the hammer down. the glass didn't shatter
first go
which foretold already
a good night
and on the second
I had the knife in
good and steady
like a well-tied shoelace. then it was just the twist
and dig
until eventually
enough cork was out of there
to push the rest in. the air inside shifted
and I had to change my shirt,
but it was drinkable
and quite good;
vallis quietus,
viognier from lidl. you wouldn't expect it
but you can get some decent stuff there
if you go above a fiver
and are willing to risk stitches.
How are you
Lucy tells me
she doesn't like
babble. doesn't like
the "how are you"
you have to ask
a check-out lady
before you buy
your painkillers
or pot of salt,
a bottle of table
wine. me,
I don't mind it. like
getting a car into gear. gives me a second
to get my questions ready. I am not
a written character
designed for dialogue,
snapping out meaning
like a flag in the wind. I am a person
and so are you
and that
is all
the "how are you" thing
means. "I am a person
and so
are you. we both
are people
and we understand each other.
painkillers please."
The preacher preaching sin.
the true prophets
don't get heard,
they go crazy. mountain men
rambling at angels on high
and guys on the train
cursing the govt,
girls
and good god
above them.
fires
light in the desert
burning broken rocks
and camelshit,
doing nothing
but stretching out
our shadows
in the night.
anyone
can put a forest
to flame,
forget a fag and send
ten thousand trees
to cinder.
animals
scent danger
and flee it first,
leave us
leaving our houses,
finally
no longer
safe,
just as the roofs
and libraries
collapse.
Wilderness.
you come home.
fridge gone wild.
all hairy. open
the door
and put your head back.
it goes
way back
and holds there.
like opening
a hot oven
and letting the air
out.
The eventual poem.
the best ones come
when your fingers
start typing. I've known people
who keep notebooks
packed with these little
turns of phrase,
or break off conversation
to tap them
in their phone.
but then
the eventual poem
always seems
to be about getting
to that line - twisting
like a cat
through a fence crack
to reach at
baby birds. you sit down
at the dinner table, tired
after work,
laptop going
and wine open,
and let your hands
go walking. mostly
it's just more
of this stuff. tired
jerkish self-
satisfiedisms
all about the state
of modern
poetry. but sometimes
god talks. trees blossom
and wood burns.
