Poems
by The unfoldinghead

 

 

Revving The Engine

 

They can’t really

go that far

but the son

wants to learn

to ride his bike

so the father

starts the engine

demonstrates

how to rev

the engine

and let’s his seedling

ride around the block

for the best part

of an hour

till someone

from up above

shouts down

‘OI FUCKSAKE!

THAT’S ENOUGH!’

and I smile

to myself

reminded

to call

my own father

 

 

a man

with no interest at all

in bikes

or revving engines

but who I’m sure

would enjoy

yelling from his balcony

if he had one

 

 

 

 

 

Friends of Saint Alex

 

You’re going to write about

all our new neighbours

aren’t you,

she says

 

but I keep thinking

about the old ones

 

about the Cuban revolutionary loving

house husband

looking after his

dementia ridden

mother-in-law

forever tapping him on the head

 

about the accountant downstairs

too fat to walk

his moped

to the gate

 

daily clouds of engine exhaust

hanging in the stairwell

 

but mostly about

the balcony diva

tall, tattooed and time

for anyone with a cigarette

and a story

 

who fell from the second floor

and into a coma

just before we left

 

 

 

 

 

Boxing Day, 1998

 

It had finally

happened

 

I had been picked

to be mascot

 

it was freezing cold

and truth be told

I looked slightly

too old

to be a mascot

 

this should have happened years ago

I wouldn’t be holding

hands with the captain, no

 

but here we are

Gillingham at home

 

the family made their way

to North Bristol

and the match

was called

off

 

waterlogged pitch

 

I went home

with my mother

while my father, brother

and uncle

went on a pub crawl

 

it rained all day and

she said she didn’t care

what time

they came home

 

but

she went to the window

every so often

all the same

 

and though

she had already

made her mind up

to leave him

she went white with anger

as they stumbled in through the kitchen

 

shirts covered

in sweet and sour sauce

 

 

 

 

 

56 Days

 

Robert Pattinson

fucks a mermaid

on my spare bedroom wall

and I go to bed

thinking I should watch

more James Dean

 

The following week

I draw something

about cunts

and sit up in bed

sweating

brushing frantically

virus off the quilt

mushrooming

tentacles reach

into my neck

like Travis

the chimp

shaking

me awake

and I remember again

oh yeah, oh yeah

that thing

the BBC said

about times

like these

bringing

out the best

in me

 

 

 

 

Not Yet/Aspet’

 

A man leaves

the supermarket

with five full bags

a middle-aged mother

next in line

steps forward

‘not yet’

the security guard says

‘aspet’’ he muffles

from behind 50 cent mask

 

then a teenager leaves and

another man

‘not yet’

the security guard repeats

‘aspet’’

 

the mother

turns to me

and flips

‘CRISTO DIO!

GOD IS A FUCKING

WHORE DOG! CUNT!

FUCK THIS SHIT!

WHO THE FUCK

DO I HAVE TO

WAIT FOR THEN?’

 

half shrugging

I look down

at her six year old

daughter

and suddenly think of

that thing about

the mice

and the fact

there is no official

facial expression

for remorse

 

 

 

 

 

Little Squirrel

 

The first time

I ever saw

helpless fear

 

I laughed

 

because it jumped

so high

and squealed

so loudly

 

forgetting at first

it was dodging traffic

in the middle

of the M5

 

I began to cry

as it sank in

as I saw

the sadness etched

on my mother’s face

 

 

 

 

 

Penguin

 

Dave had

a unique method

for running

his newsagents

 

picking his ass

and scolding

paper boys

 

he had a doppelganger

we all knew well

 

Devito’s Penguin

from Batman Returns

 

at night

the sounds

from the top shelf

escaped tiny windows

above the shop

 

blue lights

licking a bare

light bulb

 

mouthfuls

of hot chips

laughing out steam

below

 

 

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