Tag Archives: poetry from Bootle.

Battery Low.

The four in the morning

Buzz, the phone

lets out

 a dying squeal of save me

in electronic Morse.

The screen is lit up

for a moment

with the legend,

battery low…

I sigh and continue to write helplessly

with a million words in mind,

all running towards

Oblivion

and I think to myself,

it’s not a competition

but I do know

how you feel.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

The Sound Of The Silenced.

I remember the conversation held

between the man in the stylish looking hat

and the woman who had asked him

about his inconsistent and doomed affair

and giving him advice on how to finish

with his lover; the fifty ways she mentioned

and whilst I only heard five that she recounted,

I hung around to listen further

as he pondered on how she would deal

with the same situation.

A moment, a second of silence

before she answered matter of fact,

“If all else fails Paul,

Ground Down Cocaine.

 

Ground down cocaine

derivative coursing through my early morning

veins, my dinner time blues and late night

saturated fat on old Jazz music

of which I cannot play a beat,

yet hear every note that the Sax man plays

in earnest down on 77th Street gun alley

where only the night before a man was killed for less

than murdering a rag time special

and looking at his killer’s broad

with a funny eye.

The late November sun catches my eye

and through the glass I take a look around the street,

His Full Stop.

 

We talked for a while, the great Detective writer and I

about his work, the meaning of crime

in the fields of Oxfordshire

and the bounty involved with novel murder,

between the pages,

in one sentence, the last moment of a book’s life

should be that the suspect is named

with a gasp and then nothing

else to follow,

with perhaps the damning of yet another

advert or list of books that the voyeur,

the seer of slaughter and unlawful death,

must own, at least

Dig Deep.

You scrubbed yourself over me,

making me feel dirty, a wash of panic

in soapy suds and irritating flakes,

a seventies child with memories

of you in the classroom and digging deep

in the dirt of my stomach to quell

the beast of panic, pushed harder

over and over again till people thought

perhaps I was driven, maybe I was,

but it came from the feelings of being unworthy,

push harder, I may as well be an unborn child

in the womb, push harder,

On The Road Past Wigan Pier (Or When Saturday Comes).

Beyond Wigan Pier,

flat caps are worn with a sense

of irony

to the visiting football fan

that made their way through tunnels

and forgotten history book sampled landscapes

of the once industrial blackened soot North,

Orwell no longer in residence

and yet in this barbarous age,

a depression in all but name,

the great decline of the 21st Century,

but as long as you can get your nails done

and have the latest must have Playstation

diversion, then obviously the world is just great and green;

Running Marathons.

You are all running marathons,

or perhaps still able to play

in a local league match

in which you can imagine

you are scoring

the winning goal in the Cup Final,

or perhaps feeling the burn down the gym,

or perhaps swimming the distance

of the channel every year

down the sports centre,

or perhaps doing something

that your body welcomes

with a parade and a joyful smile;

my old and dear friends from school,

I miss you more than ever

when I see you do these things

Daphne.

The scowl of your elevated Cornish brow

as you lean over the hard won typewriter

and understanding so much of the world

yet deferring

in part

to the men in your life,

that is how I always imagine you

Daphne,

A murderess I cling to

with hands gripped tight,

white knuckled and surrendering

my masculinity, a joke in your

once noble Gallic background,

this I gleaned from you,

I am poor

a servant in your house,

Only When You Are Dead.

They only tell you

when they hear

that you are dead,

just how much they love you.

The outpouring of grief on the streets,

The middle class avenues filled

with popular opinion and anguish

and in the houses of the fashionable

you get the sympathetic nod becoming of their understanding

and they hear the wails from the true believers;

they are unified when you die,

when the starlet fails to shine early one morning

or when the hero packs away his whip

one last time