Would but we wore that wool with a will,

us but a flock ‘neath the cross of a hill.

No more wishing wearily, waiting, watching

the water walk west past the weir

well worn

and rubbish running with it.

Picture now:

The Summer bank’s drinker in limbo.

Writing about drinking and only rambling about writing.

A damp footed colossus.

Heels between but neither being

‘neath the navvy’s buck wild swallows,

nor the noble bard’s swimming pen.

“Chinese women use tight shoes to transform human feet into hooves such as cows have.  And what of the ladies of our day? What barbarism they indulge in, especially the women, the actresses! A beautiful walk is one of their most enchanting charms. And it is sacrificed on the altar of fashion and silly heels.”

- Stanislavsky. Building a character

The lumpen’s peat the pinto bean
No need of meat a complete protein
Boil him with rice and lob in a can of tomatoes
Set for the day and you’ll fart like a feck.
It’s like the back end of an old transit you’ll be.

By god there’s a lilt in this.

When times are tough,
your stomach rough
and the dole till Wednesday away

You could do a lot worse
sure haven’t I seen
it’s a fine feed you’ll get
in the bag of pinto beans

Stay well clear of heinz baked
beans in a can
Usurpers
Not even Irish,
Cunts to a man

You’ll get the same stuff dried
and only quarter the price
soak them in water and leave them the night

It’s the same stuff there you’ll get now,
a pure cod!
And only addin to them what’s in the tap
sure we’re not paying for that yet thanks be to god

Did you ever hear anything like it in your life?
The Pinto Bean, by god what!
Oh I’m telling you.
Permanence.
That pome I mean to say is a pome that’ll be heard wherever the rat race is wont to stall

FRONTPAGE

“After I got my coffee machine working, I was eager

to renew my focus” said Mahmoud on Thursday.

A Donkey waits for his visa at the Lamu immigration office, Kenya. After beaching his boat in a storm, Donkey had no way back to Europe. “If I don’t fix the engine first, I’ll be too slow to avoid the pirates on the Red Sea route. I’ll have to go around the Cape. “

On a savage sea,
Stories took flight.
Tellers, cast men.
Their stories, my birthright.

That same sea blows a wind here.
And life it gives all the same.
Mackerel lie out on stalls with no ice
A stink!
And only salt to cure them.

That same salt is on the wind
And it’s in the walls
And it runs through them,
The way any good war metaphor would illustrate.

But no war metaphors here for a sea we dont fight.
On his boat, Grandad wouldn’t even curse it.
For all the wind and rain and waves,
He’d give not so much as a spit.
Or so say the teachings of the prophets.

But safe on land
And estranged from it, and the sea
And the prophecies born of both,
I’m free to curse and point my finger.

Like a desert, it lies between us,
Cruel and unrelenting.

But seas and deserts both are crossed.
Estranged men sit around here selling trinkets.
Blue desert rags cover their heads -
A reminder that their fathers crossed seas too.

And the blue casts a hope all over.
I see it now on bottles, barrels, flannels, cans
An alienated symbol.
Like a window candle on a Christmas eve.
But like that light, a hope all the same

I brush my teeth with coffee
when my mouth needs to work a bit late.
My teeth are gone a bit yellow
But my smile is always great.