More Lockdown Poems
by Mark Anthony Pearce

 

Alban Berg Died From A Bee Sting On Christmas Eve

 

‘Ní Lá Na Gaoithe Lá Na Scoilb’

(Don't Make Hay on a Windy Day)

-Irish Proverb

 

Sauntering up towards

Black Boy Hill

A popup Gazebo

Flew towards me

At that

Precise moment

With grotesque

Delusions of grandeur

I was already thinking

Of my own obituary

‘Pseudo Poet

Killed by

Market stall

Pop up tent’

I thought

Of McCarthy’s

Inflatable sculpture

‘Complex Shit’

A giant turd

That took off

In the sky

Bringing down

A Power Line

Shattering a Greenhouse

And a window

At a children’s home

I thought

Of Alkan

Reaching for his

Copy of the Talmud

From his bookshelf

And it toppled

On top of him

This is supposedly

How the poor sod died

Once I walked past

Ladies Mile

Where once

Women graced

Their social grandeur

And equestrian skills

But by the Depression

Working girls

Whispered furtive invites

For business

Hiding behind tree trunks

To dodge Policemen

A large branch snapped

Off a Lime

Fell onto

The ground

Right in front of me

It was a very windy day

And all

I could think

About was that

Alban Berg

Died from a bee sting

On Christmas Eve

 

Bristol, May 2020

 

 

 

 

 

Salamano

 

‘Salamano has ended up looking like the dog’

 

-‘The Outsider’

Albert Camus

 

Meursault

Was correct

When he noticed

Similarities

Between pet dogs

And their owners

The day after

Our Bank Holiday

Much like

Every other day

That preceded it

Losing track of time

And common sense

I saw this

Tall blonde lady

Walking her Terrier

I’m sure

They both smiled at me

Terrifying

Simpering

Unctuous beings

The ever obsequious mutt

With the always

Doting tyrant

I blamed a head rush

For such queer visions

And knee-jerk judgments

And I damn myself now

For not using

More direct

Simple words

And plain language

As a tube inches down

A patients throat

In a nearby hospital

As the sun gleams off

Many silver cannisters

Of Nitrous Oxide

Scattered

On the city’s pavements

Ennui has a face

Its beard needs a trim

It’s me

Like Salamano’s dog

With the mange

Woof!

Woof!

 

Bristol, May 2020

 

 

 

 

 

Hud Played By Paul Newman Shape Shifts Into Dominic Cummings

 

‘I can’t stand Dominic Cummings’

-Peter Hitchens

 

Hud

Gets his

Winchester

From out

His truck

And fires

Eight shots

With it

The Buzzards

Barely flinch

Hud curses them

But Hud’s Dad

Isn’t too happy

About what he did

Buzzard’s keep

The homeland clean

And one of the

Commandment’s

Out there

Is Thou Shall

Not kill Buzzards

‘I always say

The law was

Meant to be

Interpreted

In a lenient manner’

Says Hud

Who Suddenly

In his

Rockmount

Ranch Wear

Metamorphoses

Into our

Prime Minister’s

Senior adviser

Whose choice of dress

In his low slung

Dark Chinos

Creased white shirt

Sleeves rolled up

To his elbows

Like his recent speech

Made no apology

 

Bristol, May 2020

 

 

 

 

 

Nice 2 Metre, 2 Metre Nice

 

He was sitting

On a bench

Not far

From the

Hot air vents

Where often

The homeless

Bring their

Sleeping bags

Or sleep pods

He was black

With an Afro

Wearing

A white t-shirt

A fat lady

Clutching a belt

In her right hand

Stomped her way

Towards him

‘You lay another hand

On my son

And I’ll have you

Fucking killed!’

‘Move Yourself!

Move Yourself!’

The boy

With the Afro

Kept barking

Until the lady

Walked away

Despite

The death threats made

Both had observed

The two metre rule

 

Bristol, June 2020

 

 

 

 

 

Crinoline Skirt

 

‘And thus a slave to fashion’s laws

Was snatched from out of Death’s hungry jaws’

 

‘An Early Parachute Descent in Bristol’- William E. Heasell

 

In 1885

A barmaid

Determined

To end her life

Threw herself

Off our city’s

Suspension bridge

Her Crinoline skirt

Swelling with air

Made her crash

Upon the muddy banks

Of the River Avon

Death that day

Had no second helpings

135 years later

Walking across

The same bridge

Where we have

To observe

Two metre measures

Keep walking

And not overtake

A plump lady

Acne on her face

Peers over

The wrought iron edge

331ft above high water

I know what

She is up to

But I stick

To the rules

As I always

Tend to do

No crinoline skirt

Will save her now

 

Bristol, June 2020

 

 

 

 

 

On The Day The Shops Reopened

 

You weren’t going

To find me

In the queue

Not that that made me

Feel exceptional

I wasn’t messianic

For a Monday

I walked past

My dosser pal

On the swing bridge

With a crucifix

Tattooed on his head

And I had no

Change to give him

He’s lacking electricity

And my words

And promises

Are not recharging

Any batteries

I saw a fat girl

Fall off her bicycle

Was it really so hilarious?

There wasn’t any laughter

Coming out of my mouth

A passer by

Was puffing on a spliff

I resisted breathing

For a moment

Realising I was as ugly

As nearly everyone else

The day the shops reopened

 

Bristol, June 2020

 

 

 

 

 

Marie-Chantal Contre Le Docteur Kha

 

‘The Blue Panther contains a virus that could annihilate mankind or give absolute power to its possessor’

 

From ‘Claude Chabrol’ by Robin Wood and Michael Walker

 

The French Hitchcock

Made a spy film

As an excuse

For a

Tour Gastronomique

Of Marrakesh

I struggle to concentrate

Reading about a film

I’ve never seen

My stomach rumbles

And I’m

Trying to lose weight!

Trying not to imagine

The pleasures

Of dining

In Morocco

There’s this business

About some deadly virus

That could

Destroy humanity

Odd

Something intended

To be frivolous

Silly nonsense

Takes on

A curious relevance now

I’m no longer picturing

The villainous Dr. Kha

Blue Panthers

Spies and Counter-Agents

But Wuhan

Bats and Dean Koontz

It’s as if the virus

Has contaminated

This Studio Vista

Movie Paperback!

No bloody chance

Of escape!

 

Bristol, June 2020

 

 

 

 

 

The Tables Have Turned Sid, The Tables Have Turned

 

The father

Wore a T-shirt

With an image

Of Aleister Crowley

Beaming off his chest

A skateboard

Tucked under

His left arm

And his

Adorable little boy

Pointed at a mural

Where a Hare

Rode a Greyhound

And the little boy

So beautiful

So kind

Had a smile

So pure

It hurt my eyes

A little boy

By the

Nearby underpass

Pissed up

Against the wall

Like the

Manneken Pis

Of Brussels

I could only think

Of the words

I heard the father said

To his son

As exquisite

As any bronze statue

‘The tables

Have turned Sid

The tables

Have turned’

 

Bristol, June 2020

 

 

 

 

 

A Good Job I Was Wearing Underpants

 

It was a number

Of weeks ago

What day

I can’t remember

This frequently

Frightens me

I can remember

The dates

Of the reigns

Of Kings

And Queens

And old wars

But hardly anything

Of the present

Perhaps to escape

To the past

Is a curious refuge

From this

Terrifying present

Anyway

I’m digressing

Yes

It was a number

Of weeks ago

And I’d headed

To my apartment

When I heard

The buzzer ring

It was the postman

I had another delivery

Of another book

It would take years

For me likely to read

Or maybe

Never read at all

The postman

Was a friend

Who nearly

Ten years ago

Asked me to read

My so called poetry

On his local community

Radio station show

And I talked

And I talked

And the poor fellow

Couldn’t get a word

In edgeways

I can remember now

His smile

How kind he was

Now he was

Delivering my mail

He was working

Through the crisis

And I was

On this furlough

Idle and crackers

And not being

Much at all

Our conversation

Was brief

But I wondered

If during our catch up

He’d noticed

That my flies

Were undone

A good job

I was wearing

Underpants

 

Bristol, June 2020

 

 

 

 

 

The Language Of Demons

 

His eyes

Looked like

They could of

Popped out

Of his head

At any moment

Gericault

Could have

Painted him

Chilled me

To the bone

Snapping twigs

With his

Filthy bare hands

Like he was

Breaking the necks

Of little children

Face contorted

Speaking

Gibberish words

Sounding

Like the language

Of Demons

I walked on

With fear

Still hearing

His laugh

As he followed me

Out of the park

Up towards

The traffic lights

And then

The cycle path

He kept following me!

And he picked up

A big stone

And I thought

This could be it!

And I was alone!

I pictured the scene

My head split open

Chunks

Of splintered bone

And brain

Smeared

All over

His wide eyed

Satanic mug!

A man

With a can

Of some

Dirt cheap poison

With a nose

Like

Modest Mussorgsky’s

Came into view

Accusing me

Of judging him

‘There’s a lot more

Going on up here!’

He said

Pointing

At his

Fat shaven head

‘More going on

Up there than yours!’

I wasn’t disagreeing

At that moment

I’d rather

Have been

A Squirrel

Or a Pigeon

And got

The hell away

From them all

I was relieved

When a friend

By chance

Recognised me

And said hello

I was thankful

For that

It’s impossible

To be anonymous

In a city like Bristol

 

Bristol, July 2020

 

 

 

 

 

A Bat Killing A Pigeon In Dubrovnik

 

‘Somewhere in China/A Bat took a leak’

-‘COVID-19 Blues’ Wheeler Walker, Jr.

 

‘What could I make to compete with the horror going on?’

-Francis Bacon

 

Don

After stealing

A bottle of whiskey

Suffering

From DT’s

Watches a bat

In his bedroom

Kill a mouse

Spilling its blood

It’s a scene

From a film

My mother

My stepfather

And myself

Are watching

Don

Is Ray Milland

Acting in

‘The Lost Weekend’

Directed by

Billy Wilder

And

It’s truly horrifying

The blood

Oozing out

Of that

Poor mouse

As horrifying

As the woman

Shot in the face

On Odessa steps

Thanks to

Sergei Eisenstein

As horrifying

As Goya’s Saturn

Devouring his son

But enough

About Art!

And enough

About films!

My mother

Said she saw

A bat

Killing

A Pigeon

In Dubrovnik!

I close my eyes

And think

Of wet markets

The violence of life

And

"The unreliability

Of uncorroborated

Confessions"

 

Bristol, July 2020

 

 

 

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