Man and Girl

Willow Pond
The bed magazine ashtray can of pop, Coca-Cola curtains are drawn full bin that smells of apple cores magazine that is open to a page for men’s fragrance and behind the closed door and inviting well-lit hall with doors off it niggling doubt before floating view of other people doing the same walking destination prisoner absorbing images of self rooted to the spot the sky above the unknown behind you? blue car controls before you steering wheel on the wrong side makes you think of churches you have been to drinks and sandwiches on a day out Pikachu vicars and friends sons and lovers the magazine blue.
in shadow model in half light large letters blue bottle GIVENCHY in black 48 points high in the  bin that smell is nauseating so you have a pot of yoghurt the magazine glossy 300-400 grams golden haired beauty stares at you from every page film stars with designer stubble and dark suits full body shot expensive shoes glamourous blonde Australian actress, blue eyes, white teeth, gold earrings and Versace dress Nicole Kidman is her name chiselled jawed model wearing suit smiles at you big dialled watch gleams at you from the opposite page, the smell of the magazine tired behind your eyes double vision Neil Gaiman JK Rowling Blue.

© 2017 Andrew Watkins

The Expectancy

Like  a bad smell lingering just below

of ice and fire concealed by leathery skin

serpentous forms slither and sinewy wind

around limbs, that will wither and die

and the great moon’s clock impassive

tick then ever so slowly tock.

Crows caw in the graveyard dark

and cadavers stir below the ground.

It’s the horror call and I answer putting

down coffee cup in slow motion. The colour

drains from my skin and my eyes bulge wide.

The pot belly becomes corpse bloat and with

slow shuffling steps, I step outside where the

world is bathed in the incandescent glow of an orange fire

which makes my eyes corpses hollow and my hair

a grey and white matted twist wild and inhuman.

Others join me and a low moan is heard that I echo

and soon the zombie hoard is gathered waiting for

human flesh. overhead the crows circle and wait for

the expectancy: death.

An attempt to write about feelings that hover just below the surface: social anxiety.

The Porcelain Eye

Dusting you with joy was something I enjoyed.

I knew it because of the way it made me feel inside

and to top it off you smiled like a chicken.


Cracked and veined, we would walk there and be,

the golden couple, I am back there now

and I wish you were to, to

see the porcelain eye that I have for you.


Roses upon black earth I laid at your feet while in

my head beat a foolish beat. How could I have

been so blind at the woman by my side?


Fighting birds, fighting bulls, all the world

I would give to have you again my porcelain eye…


Horses hooves announce us on a Christmas

romance into the forest where…I fight…

fallen and falling, until the break of day.


In a fire built of twigs, marshmallows,

whiskey taste buds burned sour  laughter reaches the trees

under which I get down on my knees and beseech you

never to leave me again



Perhaps my heart still beats that same old foolish beat

that you used to love, perhaps in another in town another street.

I will be found again by somebody new, hurt and broken too

and for them I will have the porcelain eye just like I have for you.




Hangdog in my brow, eyes and soul (body)

Hangdog in my bones, my muscles, my legs,

Caught in between currents at sea

in a boat in a whirlpool

Vultures cry overhead

I am addicted to my bed

Suffering withdrawal I lie out

Calamities are calling

But I am deaf

I am focussed, bread

dead. Yet I breathe

and as I write this feel

something other. Personal,

Social, Public, personal,

persona, persona non grata.

Hangdog in my wrist, in my fist

fingers, hand, eyes, brow.

Hangdog has got me.

Will not let me go.

Stiff, unyielding, not alive

not dead. Not doll, not lead.

The ache in my back, kidneys

migrating, pain shock.

paracetamol, doors locked.

Personal shame, public blame

undying flame, stupid game.

Master and slave, dog and hangdog

winner and loser, alone but not alone

heart-tugging, souls shrugging

personal shame. It’s the name of the game

we play in life, who is up, who is next, who is out.

Fingers curl around my heart

and squeeze and shove. moving muscle

moving me from alone to convalesced.

Norton knows of my pain and on the

great plains I am next to Saffran Grass dead and

rotting already gone, yet at home I live, on.

The sounds from without punch a lonely

beat on the house on the street where

people shall meet and greet and glower and

soap and shower in full view of everyone.

My lamp glows steadfastly, its LED’s

unthinking, unaware of the milling around

of folk and their stories that bear heavily

like wild animals exploring man’s world.


Old B Is off to the laundrette

Looking for some trouble to get to know

stop off for a pint on the way back

End the day lying on his back

Old B is off to the DHSS

With mobile in his pocket and an 11.00 am

with a plastic associate to help him

get some dollars for messing around with

Old B is off to the Pub

With a here and a here and a game of pool

He sets the words to rights and is

his right hand is friend and fool.

Old Old B Is getting evicted

Still he smiles at the evictor and makes jokes

Nothing’s too much trouble for this twisted

twisted loved up criminal

Old B is now a bum officially

until he lands again on his feet

An old Greek saves him from the streets

And a two bedroomed flat is his recompense.

Old B has got a story to tell

He’ll make you balls turn blue and

give you a thrill as the liquor flows down his neck.

Join in and get him pissed, then sit back and watch.

Old. Old B knows everyone round and about

and works for half of them helps the other half out

When he is needing he is met by giving

and brings home things all day long.

Old B is meeting his friend

And stories are told leading up to going out

And you stay at home and wonder if the magic

will rub off on you own boring life.

Good Old B. You mention something a bit of the other

and out rolls a speech not unfriendly

about how he once knew a queer who

was as hard as nails and had no mates.

Old B went to Borstal in his youth

then graduated to adult prisons when

his luck ran out and his home was raided

just more fun for the jailhouse bum.

Old B used to do over banks for fun

and wrapped in a plastic bag was a gun

used to scare the Spaceballs agasint the wall

then back to his family in the Cotswolds.

Old B was a character from a shared house from long ago

He would fight for the weak and bring down the strong

So we could sit together and sing a long

Despite his faults, despite his faults he was a mate.

Name changed to protect the innocent.

I Saw

Light on a Tree

I saw you as like the bark on a stout tree, dark and hard, protecting and essential for the life of the tree.

The sun was present somewhere behind the cloud so it was bright cloud that I saw to the left side of the tree hugging branches and the edges of a squirrel that stuffed its cheeks there.

Upwards there was a hole in the cloud cover and grey sky peered down at me.

Beneath me was grass, green and as I struggled for a metaphor…defiant of the brown soil and man-made faded greys,  glorious green, alive and well.