Poems
by Mark Anthony Pearce
The Day Piers Corbyn Addressed A Small Crowd In Bristol City Centre
There was
A handful
Of supporters
Carrying signs
'No Covid trax
Or vax saves lives."
'We Do Not Consent'
Stop Nazification Of UK
A lady
Holding a sign
'Masks Are Muzzles'
Nearly tripped over
One of the fountains
Which an
Ex Lord Mayor said
Looked like
Twenty old men
Pissing in a pond
An onlooker
Explained
She was a nurse
And told them all
To go fuck themselves
A beer bellied man
With a pint of lager
Stumbling
Through the crowd
Insisted that they
Shut the fuck up
Another onlooker
With her partner
Recognised the speaker
Oh look!
Theres that Piers Corbyn
Hes a prick!
Nonetheless
She decided
To take a picture
Of the man
On her phone
One of the protestors
Asked me
If I was a journalist
As I was
Looking sceptical
I told him
I was simply
Standing still
And listening
With no agenda
Bristol, August 2020
Chillingham Road
Tutting away
Like an old crone
On the Metro
At the far end
Of the train
A passenger
A blond headed
Stout looking man
Wears no mask at all
Almost looking blissfully
Unaware of current affairs
Us servile
Awkwardly conform
Looking like surgeons
Without scalpels
Clueless
Without expertise
Another man sits
His mask rests
Around his stubbly chin
With a smirk
Holding a thermos flask
In one hand
Earphones in his ears
Music piping
From his phone
An attractive rebel
With a cause
Next stop
Chillingham Road
Newcastle, September 2020
Cooking Wild Atlantic Breaded Haddock Fillets While Rewatching Turnages Greek
The father is dressed
In a filthy mac
Singing about
The decomposition
Of the wholesome body
Of our Sceptred Isle
The mother
Dressed in prole attire
Squeals about how
The grim reaper
Stalks
Foul and pestilent
The son and wife
Thatcherite dolls
Comment that such
Common folks eyes
Are intoxicated
With the envy
Of their success
Surrounded by
Classical statues
And Mannerist paintings
Meanwhile outdoors
The people
Are dropping like flies
Some shake their hands
With feeble limp grips
Because their scared
Terrified of plague
And the lovers
Are petrified
Of stroking
One anothers loins
Lest a new law
Against the infection
Outlaw them
Its the plague at work alright!
Bellows the father
Baritone
Casually turning the pages
Of a tabloid newspaper
Theres something rotten in the city!
Meanwhile
Im waiting
For the fish to fry
Barely conscious
Of the Prime Ministers
Three tier strategy
Christ the smell!
Somethings burning!
Bristol, October 2020
Poem Written After My 35th Birthday (For John Dorsey)
at 35
phil ochs hung himself
in far rockaway
-Poem On My 35th Birthday
John Dorsey
On the day
Of my
35th birthday
I noticed men
With
Straggly beards
And
Bandaged hands
Pick cigarette butts
off
Integro litter bins
I saw
A disgraced
Entertainer
Walk alone
Yearning
for Walnut whips
And
I looked up at
A tower crane
at Castle Park View
The hoist rope
Swaying sadly
From its
Upper sheave
Which made
Me think
Of the
Hangmans noose
And how
Jack Ketch
And his ilk
Moved on
Years ago
To think
Myself
And all of us
Had got this far
Trembling
From the slow garrotte
Bristol, November 2020
Hamblins, Redfield
His head
Resembled
An uncooked
Pork belly
With
Rind attached
His wife
The quiet one
Looked
Embarrassed
As he barked
Very loudly
About
Wanting
To kill
Rita Ora
The ravers
In Yate
And anyone
Not willing
To do
As they
Are fucking
Well told
He waited
Patiently
For his
Cod and chips
He was
A decent man
Bristol, December 2020
Mississauga
You cant get
No dog food
The store is shut
Empty parking lots
Its a land
Inhabited by ghosts
While drivers
Wait in their cars
For all lifes essentials
To get stuffed
In the trunk
And its cold
So cold
And plenty of snow
And the black dog
Sticks his nose
In frozen water vapour
Wagging his tail
Unable to control
Its hanging tongue
Bristol, January 2021
Did Ernest Hemingway Have A Sense Of Humour?
She was surprised
Yes
His poems
About dangling dead
From Christmas trees
And liking Canadians
She was 69
And I thought
It would be rude
To ask her
If she ever had
A "soixante-neuf.
I certainly hadnt
The bells
Toll for thee
And also for me
Bristol, February 2021
The Cash Machine On Hollway Road
Can you get
A fiver out
Of this
Cash machine?
He kept repeating
Like a mantra
Like a chant
Like a prayer
He waved
A ten pound note
In his right hand
Fervently
While repeatedly
Sticking out
His tongue
Five hours later
He was still there
At the cash machine
Asking the
Same question
Still sticking out
His tongue
The same
Ten pound note
Clutched tightly
In his trembling
Right hand
Bristol, March 2021
What Would George Sanders Make Of This Sweet Cesspool Now?
'I am going into the birch forest as my pills will be taking effect soon'
-Martin Kippenberger
What would
George Sanders
Make of this
Sweet cesspool now?
Even if John Cage
Sits on the toilet
In my bathroom
Trying to reassure me
That after
Thirty two minutes
Nothing
Is boring at all
GG Allin is
Sitting in the kitchen
Strumming a guitar
In the dark
With bushy hair
Growing over
The corners
Of his mouth
Telling me
Hed rather be in jail
There are no
Rice and beans
And there are no
Nuts and seeds here
There are no needles
Or spoons
Or Jim Beam
Just me
And the fetid odours
Of my pjs
Wafting about
These four walls
Maybe its hell GG
But its home
Bristol, April 2021
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