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Poems
by Mark Anthony Pearce
A Pseudo Faust In The Covid Age
‘There’s nothing worse than a half-educated man’- M.E Smith
There was a time
My mother dreamt
Of books
With arms
Legs
Mouths
And eyes
Attacking her
Because of
My obsession
Age has not
Cured my affliction
Now a library
Is growing
Underneath
My bed
Daniel Dunglas Home
Attempts to levitate
Speaks with
The dead
Conjuring up
Rapping and knocks
Peter Saul’s
Day-Glo disgust
In manic palettes
Of reds and blues
Stars and Stripes
Have been exiled
To Tartarus
It’s a Pandora’s box
Of unread words
Mephistopheles
Is my pillow
And I am
A pseudo Faust
In the COVID Age
Bristol, May 2021
You Gotta Do What You Gotta Do
On the train
Commute home
She took
The time
To comment
On the dead look
In my eyes
While I wondered
What the best
Face mask is
For glasses wearers
Work was over
I had returned
From the battle
With my limbs intact
She informed me
That WW2 fighter pilots
Took off their helmets
To cover their balls
‘You gotta do
What you gotta do’
Bristol, May 2021
Harden Road
‘Get a fucking grip
Of yourself!
You’re a forty year
Old woman
Not ten!’
He is wearing
A short sleeved
Green shirt
Screaming
Into his phone
In the broad daylight
On a Friday afternoon
Before retreating
To his car
No second act
Or curtain call
Bristol, June 2021
Poor Ethelwald
Edgar the Peaceful
Had a friendly title
He wanted
To marry
A woman
Celebrated
For her beauty
But one of his
High ranking
Officials
Beat him to it
In retaliation
They say
The Peaceful
Had him slain
Presumably
Like Rufus
In his
Hunting accident
And Edgar
Got the girl
Lost in the mists
Of time
There are other
Things to worry about
But a dear friend
Lights a candle
For the murdered Saxon
Meanwhile my candle
Is already
Burning at both ends
Hélas pour moi
And ha ha ha
Bristol, June 2021
Haruspex On Braggs Lane
I watched
A seagull
Who like some
Ancient Roman
Discovered the will
Of the God’s
According
To information
Gathered by
Examining the entrails
Of a rat
I stared at
The rodents liver
Heart and intestines
But I had
No wings to fly with
The omens
We’re not looking good
Bristol, June 2021
Knitting Helps His Anger Issues
He is trying
To write a book
About the tumour
That’s growing
Inside his head
The surgeons
Already poked
About inside it
His mother
Was drinking
Her life away
And made it clear
She didn’t give
Two shits
About the life
She squeezed
Out of her flaps
He’s a father
Of four
Can’t see
His first son
Because of
A toxic ex
And her
Twisted family
Another ex
Named an
Evil bitch
Tripped him up
On a stairwell
With a newborn
In his arms
He has a habit
Of naming his
Offspring
After suicided
Pop singers
Although
It is certainly
Possible that
The Illuminati
Killed them
There is
He tells me
An extraordinary video
On YouTube
About that
The names of the
Living and the dead
Are tattooed
On his arms
As reminders
He mentions
His sister
And a crazy
Ex boyfriend of hers
Who made the
Trip from Hanham
To Stockwood
Just to beat
The living crap
Out of her
He reads
A Felix Francis novel
To calm his nerves
And knitting
Helps his anger issues
Bristol, June 2021
A Smile As Sad As Sunday
With brassy
Orange hair
And a smile
As sad
As Sunday
Can of Beer
In his right hand
Raising his head
Towards the heavens
He explained
That the clouds
Contained diseases
He once
Was a soldier
And his spine
Had shrivelled up
London, June 2021
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