ROCKSTARS

 

THE SICK POET

“I’ve been sick recently,” said the poet. “So I haven’t been able to write any poems, and I’m looking for someone to cover for me.”
  “You’re looking for a supply poet?” said the other person.
  “Yes, that’s right,” said the poet.
  “What does the job involve?”
  “Well, you just have to write some poems and publish them on Twitter or somewhere.”
  “What kind of poems?”
  “They don’t have to be very long. Just short observational stuff really. Like, you might see a horse in a field and write about that. Something like, ‘Horse standing in a field/I wonder what you do all day/Or if there’s anything left to say’, something like that.”
  “OK, and post it to your Twitter account?” 
  “No, not mine, no. Your own, I think it should be. I’m not looking to take credit for someone’s else’s work.”
  “I don’t understand. What difference does it make to you if I post poems on my own Twitter account?”
  “I just think it’s important that poetry doesn’t suffer because I’m ill. It’s important. People need it.”
  “Right.”
  “So will you do it?”
  “Um, what’s the pay?”
  “There’s no pay.”
  “Oh, well, in that case, I’m afraid the answer’s no.”

SMALL WHEEL (2018)

Walking down Lordship Lane this morning, I encountered a man. The man was pushing a wheelbarrow along the pavement towards me. The man was thickset. He had strong arms. He could probably have lifted me off the ground with just one of them. Inside the wheelbarrow was a small wheel, such as might be found on a pram or a child’s bicycle, and a blue plastic bag. The man walked past a tyre shop. On Lordship Lane, you see, there is an abundance of tyre shops. If you’re ever on Lordship Lane and you need a tyre you’re in luck. The man stopped and offered the small wheel to the men that worked in the tyre shop. He held the small wheel aloft with one of his strong arms, and raised his broad shoulders in a questioning manner, but the men in the tyre shop did not want the small wheel. The man placed the small wheel back into the wheelbarrow and continued on his way, pushing the wheelbarrow along the pavement, down Lordship Lane.

DEIRDRE AND THE MAN (2018)

I am sitting next to a man who is texting a person named Deirdre. I try to read the texts over the man’s shoulder but all I can make out are the words "it won’t take me long to pack". Maybe Deirdre and the man are going on holiday. That’s nice.

FAT BARRY

We called our Christmas tree “Fat Barry”. “Fat” because it was particularly broad and big-bottomed, and “Barry” because, well, just because it made us laugh and seemed to fit. Barry’s one of those names that’s not popular any more. You don’t see many new people being named Barry, let me tell you. The name is just gathering dust, like old jam on a shelf, and one day you’ll turn around and all the Barrys will be gone.

NIGHTFISHING, OR FISHING AT NIGHT

Some men fish at night.
They have lights and everything.
The funny thing is you never see them fishing during the day.
Maybe the fish only come out at night.
Maybe the men only come out at night.
I think they call it “night fishing”, or “fishing at night”.

Lights and everything

CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS

It’s too early for Christmas decorations, and I know it’s a cliché, but it gets earlier every year. And I say it every year. Every year I say, “It’s getting earlier every year.” It’s getting earlier every year. And earlier and earlier every year I say it, every year, earlier and earlier. It gets earlier and earlier every year. And I think soon we’ll be living in a perpetual state of Christmas.

Earlier and earlier, every year