SKYARTUK

on the canal

on the line of grey horizon
a man walks,
and is followed by others,
like a scene from Bergman.

our boat creates no wash
it seems,
and there are no footprints
on water

just dissolving waves
lamented by the 
call of the coot,
the honk of the moorhen.

the scale that measures
the river is light,
it starts the cold engine,
ties the tow-path moorings.

in this limbo
I cannot believe war,
cannot see death in the reeds,
do not even feel guilt

to be a boat with no wash,
to have eyes that
watch dusk rain patter
chocolate water.

maybe at this speed
there is more sense,
more detail,
maybe I am one delusion more.

the canal is a route
to the impossible past,
with that I understand
with that I close my eyes.

pasta and glue

in this scumbag lost and found
there's people coming 'round
and were drinking gin
'coz there's no food in.
when I open my mouth wide
I can feel my mind slide
as this damp squat
turns baked beans to rot
and Old man rust
is gobbing on my crust.
in the cupboard there's tagliatelle and UHU
which is OK if pasta and glue define you.

thing is, I don't think it does.

big brummie brekkie

I said I like it here
the people are nice
down to earth types
the sort I get on with.
she said you can't decide all that
on the basis of one breakfast roll!
I'd gone for the full english
as it happened
not the bacon roll
but that's beside the point.
the service was polite.
a woman in a plastic pinny
made a joke about
free range eggs
and called me ducky.
all the same, she said
it's three years of your life
you've got your career to think about.

but mum they do bottomless cups of tea
and the ketchup comes free!
but dear, it's three years
you can't pick your university career
on the basis of two fried eggs and chips.

but you can you know.