I spin the length of Dark Side Of The Moon watching the trees.
Two roundels stuck to the windscreen,
Support Your Local Hell’s Angels
Free State Of Avalon
No tax disc…
My neighbour lives in a Leyland EA. He looks thin and sick.
Says he wants to be a mechanic, which is just as well –
his truck never starts.
A man with a red beard smokes by.
He wears a trilby hat with a badge pinned to the band
The Man From U.N.C.L.E
Snow falls on the river.
Skeletons hang from the boughs
Updated poem, first appeared in Obsessed With Pipework, No.50
News From Nowhere
The cat’s whiskers? Snipped ’em clean-off with a pair of gold scissors on the day she stole baby Jesus from the Midland Bank nativity crib. Imagine that! And another cat, a black cat, a dead cat – on a sweep of gravelled drive, scooped up without ceremony, clang bang into the bin along with the beer cans and potato peelings. Later, a brawl in The Red Lion and when the officer arrived, someone whopped his helmet off and stashed it behind the fruit-machine for safe-keeping, and the hanging baskets in the street, part of the Town In Bloom competition were ripe for the taking, trophies to round off nine pint evenings.
Somewhat muddled, I bicycled through a lunar plantation, a cast-iron stove balanced on the handlebars trying to remember what he said, about breaking the window, the import of swaddling the brick in cloth.
When I crawled into bed I had to admit that lessons in chemistry, the periodic table in particular, were best appreciated when sloshed on sherry.
a revised version of a poem published in Tears In The Fence, No. 66, summer 2017
© Jonathan Chant 2020