Luke Kennard poems are back on the stacks & the shelves
At Asda, somewhere between the liver & the beans,
Some in cardboard boxes & some in plastic bags.
Mr Syntax does not always sell but, what the hell, he dreams.
So I think I will fill my blank pages with wishful thinking,
For the hungry poet there is very little choice between
Indelible, unpublished word & edible bread.
Man cannot live on water alone: I need copious quantities
Of hops, malt & barley to dilute it down to taste
Like the kiss of corrupted lips from an ancient grave.
Oh simile, metaphor, alliteration, allegory, onomatopoeia,
I'll take anything, Muse, just give
me a dose of poetic diarrhoea.
But she has hands like hammers & she punches uncouth
Words like nails through the rotting timbers of my mouth.
Wall Street : Money Never Sleeps
The released vulture scheme-soars to the city
Fresh from jail to the stock exchange, one corporate face.
He rejoices in the futures of bullet-dodging,
Spring-loading & backdated stock: money never sleeps.
This gecko is an individual lizard in the race
To attract the unwary investor, gullible gambler,
New money illegally avoiding income recognition.
Whether securities, troubled assets or relief programme
He circumscribes interference by the enquiry board
With insouciant but plausible deniability:
An adaptable chameleon amongst old, tropical bones.
The so-called sub-prime (sublime) mortgage crisis
Did not even dent his daughter's secret Swiss hoard.
And dare one have the temerity to ask: How now, Dow Jones ?
In the United States, in my mind, via the Green Fairy,
Donning our glad-rags & plunging into Johnny
Weismuller's Olympic-size swimming pool.
Chuck strutted his stuff & duck-walked along the honey
Pots of Memphis, Tennesses & through the Pearly Gates.
We jumped on an iron-horse & crossed six states,
Bought a quart of Southern Comfort in California
And drank from the bottle under an ancient brown sequoia.
Carved our initials in a heart on the Cherokee Chief's red jeep,
Told the local black lawman it was a typical English jape.
Saw the Great White Wonder headline on Positively 4th Street
Then mainline on Skid Row with Rick Deckard & Tim Leary.
And, as you know, I could never weary of expounding
The Philip K. Dick Improbable Reality Theory.
Merry Yellow Ambulance
Marco White has been eating horse-meat pies in Big John's.
He used to amble, but now he waddles.
I suppose eating that kind of creature
Is like feasting on a soft leather saddle,
But that's not the kind of ride he craves.
Next time we dine in Gordon Ramsey's
you order diet water
And I will skip around the tables without a rope.
What say we glide over to Derry aerodrome
And indulge in a brace of seven three seven ?
Or chase that merry yellow ambulance to the hospital ?
It could be our red hearts they're resuscitating,
Might be the grey play of our lives in the (operating) theatre.
At poetry readings you scream: But why don't they rhyme ?
And I will sing lustily along to the drama of Les Miserables.
Robert Ensor 2010