Graffiti Artist
she pulls me and pint
and I write some poetry
no one wants to read
“what’s my toxin?”
“anything I can swallow,
make it a double chaser
for after the beer, no ice”
the heat from the whisky
severs the function of sobriety
– who needs it?
you’ve got to sip slowly
drink responsibly
– to begin with
and then maintain
a subtle silence
waiting for words and letters
to drip from the skies,
I don’t need to ask
where, when or why?
they always arrive,
if at times
a little late
it’s a weekday afternoon
and drinking etiquette
would dictate that I have
an alcohol dependency issue,
nah! - I’m just piss bored
with the system,
I’m dazed,
blinded by
the sheer amount
of applications,
rattled to death
by bus timetables,
benign regulations
and the fidget of
Palestinian flags being
thrust under my nostrils
all
because
some ancient ancestors
once colonised a tiny chunk
of conglomerate rock
.... god knows when!
it would appear
I’ve got to swallow
the propaganda whole
if I want to become
‘one of them’,
I tried it once,
never again
I found myself being
preoccupied with the pain
of ‘office speak’
I started to notice
my terrible punctuation
and I developed an intent
fascination for Prince Harry
and Meghan Markle,
celebrity lives became
more important than mine,
he who snoozes loses
so, I kept a tally of
budget cruises
with food included,
Nike Air trainers,
self-driving Teslas,
haircuts,
seasonal fashion
and chicken coup
apartments
that look like human
green houses
I decided I’d much rather
spend my time writing poetry
that no one wants to read,
I sit alone desperately
trying to bleed,
scratching at my wrist
with a blunt pencil
knowing full well
I might as well be scribbling
words with my own shit,
but, hey, you know
what they say,
throw enough shit
at the wall
and some of it
might stick,
I may well change
my occupation
to ‘Graffiti Artist’
I reckon I’d be
a dab hand at it,
slinging shit at the walls
24/7 waiting for something
to stick so passersby
can take absolutely
no notice of it,
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