I catch you reading a paper, The Guardian or Observer. Not the FT, as its clearly not yellow but it could be The Times or The Telegraph, not the Sporting Post though, words are split into paragraphs not lists, although it’s difficult to tell from this distance. I don’t really know you at all. You are a species caught by my spiderlike eyes. Do you saddle soap your wife’s butt? Defecate on your children’s towels and piss in babies bottle? This poem is called The Spell.
Hunting silver all around, not silver at all
Silver writing on dimpled spines, not writing at all
Confirmation gifts all, not really gifts at all
Wizened crone hooks her finger at you, not really old at all
Banker with blue eyes ‘gets’ the blues, not really cold at all
Reflections mirror your actions, not really a stare at all
Ted Hughes’ poems say nothing, not a wifebeater at all
I know me, not a poet at all
I know meaning, no meaning at all
Words are my tools and reaction, not an explanation at all
You are my goal and redemption, and not a care at all.
Thank you for reading, for no thanks at all.
A. Watkins 2017
Created in Paint.Net
© 2017 Andrew Watkins
Cats-Jewellery Makes a cake
of flowers and meandering paths
iced with love and plenty of slices.
Wellington boots make a growl
while cows moo outside, cup of tea
dinner at six, go to your room play
or read until then or come down and join us
in the living room where records will play.
Into wait, it’s CLAIT and nobody knows what they will do
when they finally leave school. Go to college or go to the moon.
and with cows planet oxygenise fields of clover purple skies to come.
Inside seeds grow restless in plastic cups. Make your time now little bird.
Make them grow. Mellow yellow stare at the fire like it was your soul.
And imagine it burning gold as the doves take off wearing cufflinks of love.
Just now you will see little boy down the road has turned blue. Kitchen towel laid over his face before the council comes to take him away. Daisy’s will grows one day on his grave.
Rush, rush to catch the last bus home. In the future, we will all have bones. In the future, we will all have bones.
And scones and macaroons!
Andrew Watkins 2016 ©
I was daydreaming and along came a book deal from a local publisher and a publicity photo shoot. Trying to come up with an image that might reflect the contents of the book lead me to think that no matter what I tried people would think I was taking the piss so what better ploy than to throw it back in their face by donning a white officers pith helmet circa 19th century British Colonialism, and swagger stick with me wearing my jeans and eating a Subway Meatball 12 ” Sub? Afterall, I am not one to harken back to those days.
(30 minutes later)
OK, It didn’t turn out the way I expected but much better I think. Enjoy!
Image created in Paint.Net. © Andrew Watkins 2016
Images licensed through Creative Commons.
David Dewar, I wish I knew yer
I am sitting at home all alone
in front of my computer
Oh, David Dewar, I wish I knew yer.
You could read my palms for me, then you could
read me the psalms in correct order
David Dewar, I wish I knew ya
City are playing and my mind is racing
bring me a tablet and beer. And I’ll see ya, David Dewar.
David Dewar, I wish I knew yer.
I called my Dad today and he’s too busy
maybe we could get together and izzy wizzy
Let’s get busy David Dewar.
Dear David Dewar, I think this poem is lacking some feeling
What it needs is some explosions and meaning to knock on
everyday’s door and to blow it off its hinges David Dewar
Oh David Dewar come and talk some sense into me
If there is a light then just let it shine David Dewar
And let it be my guide, David Dewar, until I’m sorted out
on the inside David Dewar.
You can be my Goliath David Dewar, flattening the
crass and stupid, intimidating and lucid David Dewar.
Be My Dog David Dewar.
Be My Dog.
We can’t have any more good times David Dewar
We are too old and can read between the lines
of gossip, rumour and lies. nothing is a surprise.
Unless it’s a nasty one DavidDewar.
What would you prescribe David Dewar to a forty-something nothing
David Dewar. Wait A minute! I can second guess ya.
Walking is good and you get to meet people.
Jogging is the same, gets you outside and breathing the fresh air!
How am I doing David Dewar? Am I on the right track?
Talk to the women down at the local shops and find out what’s happening
Buy a paper and read all about it.
Don’t go shoplifting
Don’t start a criminal racket selling dusters at £5 a packet.
Don’t eat too much and take regular exercise.
Try and eat three of your five a day of fruit and vegetables
Only gamble in moderation
and spend what you can afford.
Talk to a bloke in the street, talk to all the people you meet
become a yes man and bid goodbye to no
Care for a creature so that in turn it cares for you.
Write to a prisoner on death row or volunteer for no dough
your payment will be the reward of giving.
How am I doing David Dewar? Does this sound familiar?
Don’t waste your money on labels when own brand is cheaper
Don’t go out for drinks buy them at the supermarket
Stop smoking and take up exercise.
Change your underwear every day, wear deoderant twice a day
brush your teeth twice a day, lift the toilet seat when you go. replace it afterwards.
Brush the dust from between the keys of your laptop
wipe stains off the carpet at once, Put stains in to soak.
Seperate cooked and raw meats in the fridge. Don’t eat too much bread, or anything that
tastes good to you. Everything is best enjoyed in moderation.
Are you getting bored David Dewar. I know I am and I’m just scratching the iceberg mate.
Say something David Dewar, Say something.
Oh you don’t want to be late. Sorry David Dewar.
Why Did I apologise, Why did I ask you? David Dewar.
Are you are saint David Dewar? A politician David Dewar?
Or am I just stupid David Dewar for believing that you could give me some life advice David Dewar. I think this discussion has reached the end. You can’t reply to my question
Because your a figment of my imagination.
I was made bankrupt in 2005 and since my life has been on a slow downwards trajectory through dodgy housing, mental illness, sickness, hospitalisation for stomach ulcers, depression and finally no improvement in my writing ability, although I did learn I can draw a bit!
But the author of Gullivers Travels was also a bankrupt so all is not lost.