Bang

it's october. fireworks bang
like cracked knuckles. sparkle
like frost forming beads.
I like this time of year. remember
being fifteen – making pipe-bombs in alleys
with Chub Dolan and fat
Gerry Cloherty. listening to them bang
under cars. fast movement:
running away. shooting repeaters
in play-honour duels in a carpark.
the dog hates it: she's constantly
under the sofa, but I understand
the impulse – I still aim my tires
to crush a plastic bottle
or an apple someone dropped on the street.

Summer coming, and the colours

someone had moved it
to down by a dustbin.
it couldn't have died there –
that would be considerate.
something had killed it,
perhaps. and it was a seagull,
head back, twisted up
like the hook of a coathanger.
and you couldn't tell signs
of what violence had happened –
I suppose though
that things do just die.

this was 6pm, daylight
in smithfield – this was
summer coming. and the colours
all beautiful, soft greys and white
like the sun as it lands
against fine granite buildings
and damp cement paths
in the daybreak of dew.
and swans die, and pigeons
and people, and buildings
fall down without warning
as well. and the eye
was left open, as round

as found seashells – the kind
which you pick up
and wipe the wet sand off
on your pants when it's january
and day is just breaking
and you're out on your own
walking on a beach.

Mark

I'm told he’s not going
to get back on shift –
not barring some mental
improvements.

he’s had trouble –
it's true – left roofs
open sometimes.
went drinking instead
and was useless on Mondays
and fridays; lost nails
and claw hammers
in places where children
might find them.

unlocked his staff
van on a blind city
corner; found it later,
pulled open and left
like a crab shell –
drills stolen by fingers
and pawned. some people,
I think, are immortal
though. he will be back –
there are things he can
do, which is better
than most people really.

we'll dig up his bones
out of bogs one day.
find stone-chiselled statues.
find buildings, see paintings in oil.

March 2, 2025