Drawing room or parlour.
Now a store room.
I write at an old table,
With drawers and planks screwed down on top.
A phone, a mug and a crowbar
Are my companions.
The street is silent for a moment.
Unlike the time the neighbour’s dog
Barked for three nights long, three long nights.
The ink in my pen runs out
And as I return with a new cartridge
Aware of the headache arriving soon
I step on a splinter of wood
From the busted up wardrobe.
My bare foot bared,
The silence is over.
“She would die or him, despite the fact he would arrive late at her funeral, if at all” – Nick Lovell
She would try for him, despite the fact he clearly wasn’t interested, or even very tall,
She would lie for him, despite the fact he would be the first to shout ‘Perjury!’ at her trial, if called,
She would buy for him, despite the fact he would ignore her beautifully wrapped gift of John Lewis smalls,
She would sigh for him, despite the fact he couldn’t hear her slow exhalations of air through the bathroom stall,
She would cry for him, despite the fact he would ignore her gin-soaked prone form propped against ns the kitchen wall.
The inspiration for this – whatever it is – came from the one line quoted at the top from Swindon based poet Nick Lovell.
Nick Lovell is a part time van driver, full time romantic, half arsed anarchist, eternal optimist and sometime poet. He currently holds 4 poetry slam titles from Nantwich to Hereford and enjoys writing for both page and performance!
Doombar, get in the van, drive to Rock, see what’s there. The sea crashing waves over there. The field, green grass. Tent, van, boiling potatoes. Chick peas soaking, hummus for supper. Where next? Drive down the road. New site, new sounds new places, new faces. The summer invites me and together we roll by.
Hands like spiders he preys on his plate
Sitting in silence she waits on her fate
Forking through the pasta
Won’t make time go faster
Sometimes you’ve just got to wait