Rubbish writing by the way.

Rubbish writing by the way.

‘So I read your words

On the pad when you went to the loo

Is that all you have?

What are you a poet or a writer?’

I didn’t much like his tone

Perhaps I should have gathered up my bits

Put them back into my satchel and carried the whole lot

To the gents with me

Perhaps I will next time

But I was trying to be friendly

After all, I needed a lift

But I was needled

‘Perhaps I could scratch

A hole in your heart

With a sharp word

The blood would flow like wine

Awaiting consecration’

‘Not a poet then.’

He said

‘I smear a cross upon my brow

Blowflies congregate

Awaiting a miracle’

He laughed

I could have hit him but he just stood up

Gave a contemptuous look

And walked out

What was all that about

I wondered

Even though I knew I had blundered

Perhaps next time I would be polite

‘There is no blood on the grass

Even as leaves lie matted

On the floor

A grey wind blows

Troubling in disturb,

At these broken thoughts

Of Calvary’

Perhaps he was right,

A woman walked over

With a smile

‘I saw you perform at the pub

You made me laugh

I never thought I could like poetry

But I guess I do.’

I was trying to be serious

Ironic with a dash of post-punk chic

Who did she think I was Pam Ayers?

But I didn’t say it

After all, I needed a lift.