I looked for Neil Dovestone, for a bit.

I looked for Neil Dovestone, for a bit
(With thanks to The Sonics).

Like all good walks,
Your sleuth begins
With a crawl.
Some folks like water,
Some folks like wine,
But i like the taste
Of straight strychnine.

Past dry stoned-walled
Teenage handbrake-turn corners
In 80s cars bought in the 90s.
I shake hands with this bar called Clarence.
Pub’s not working.
Not middle.
Just class.

A Navvie, a Commie and
Some Pendle Witches
Walk in wellies
Not me,
I'm past rugby league pitches,
Up past archers’ dwellings,
Wi’ John Willie Lees
T' ‘mountains’.
‘Mountains?’
Nay, lad, just ‘ills these.

Our victim,
Of what we know
Had overseas steel from
Knee to toe,
A Euston train without
An aim?
A ton thirty of tenners
For when the fat lady sings?
For who?
The wine is red,
Poison is blue,
Strychnine is good
For what's ailing you.

Strings sour,
Down wings,
Of misty dribble.
Head bowed, upwards.
The rainwater in tracks
Glows distant moon blue.
Glistens like the
Crystal swan, in the
Down there,
Christmas-lit window of the
Middle stone terrace.
Fissures of molten
Intergalactic lava,
Mixed in with sulphurous
Farm smell
The crags in the rock
Mimic the elbow crease
Of a Native American scalper.

Afar, the expanse of deep watery
Drown-thee dread of a
Hypnotic wind
Skips the midnight reservoir
In to an Artex ceiling
From the film Vertigo.
Who'd kill one dove
With 2 stones?
Thee’s a Mystery,
Four ghostly five,
Six helicopters,
Seven strychnine.

It’s down, now, detective, down.
Half cocked in London dress.
Make it to the next
Distant landladied
“You alright love...?” pub.
An archipelago of bitter pints
Aligned wi’ Sheik Rory o’ Yorkshire.

I ponder ‘pon the case in hand.
Beats me, this
Walter anonym-Mitty.
But if you listen to what I say,
You'll try strychnine some day.
Make you jump, it'll make you shout,
It'll even knock you out.

Rest in Peace
John Lytton

I like trees

I like trees,
You can sit under them and write about them.
Our leaders are like trees,
We sit under them and write about them.
I like chainsaws.

Pre-match peaceful pub poem #1

Peaceful Pre-match Pub Poem #1

 

The sun glints off the arse of a

Tennants tin in the scruff of the

car park. The weed of expectation

 

pokes it’s head through crack of the

day, as The Eagle and Tun in the

city of Brum, takes us in before noon.

 

Our six-foot host’s FA cup-coloured

whiskers, point “The Only Way is Up” –

No. 1 in the charts, last time these

 

snooper’s walls were licked by paint,

not darts. Perfect peaceful empty pub,

pints down, pool elbows sharp,

 

before the swall of a John Martin

painting, this more a John Martin

song, spot-on for the mood.

 

The blackboard boasts:

“Traditional Curry”

and strangely, also “Food”.

 

The scent is an ale and Bombay mix,

the carpets nod to Persian, the

jukebox plays any song you want,

 

as long as it's the reggae version.

There’s time and space to contemplate,

there’s bleachy pristine bogs,

 

some may say this part of town, has

gone all to the dogs, but here I find a

proper peace, on a blue-nose

 

blue-collar patch. The sunny, nervous,

half-cut hour, shame we spoiled it

by going to the match.