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!

There’s that Piers Corbyn

He’s 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 Turnage’s ‘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 another’s loins

Lest a new law

Against the infection

Outlaw them

‘It’s the plague at work alright!’

Bellows the father

Baritone

Casually turning the pages

Of a tabloid newspaper

‘There’s something rotten in the city!’

Meanwhile

I’m waiting

For the fish to fry

Barely conscious

Of the Prime Minister’s

Three tier strategy

Christ the smell!

Something’s 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

Hangman’s 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 can’t get

No dog food

The store is shut

Empty parking lots

It’s a land

Inhabited by ghosts

While drivers

Wait in their cars

For all life’s essentials

To get stuffed

In the trunk

And it’s cold

So cold

And plenty of snow

And the black dog

Sticks his nose

In frozen water vapour

Wagging his tail

Unable to control

It’s 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 hadn’t

‘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

He’d 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 it’s hell GG

But it’s home

 

Bristol, April 2021

 

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