The Dead Geraniums Poem

I am not an ecumenical beast, she told me
Jesus, I had never heard that one before
She was wheezing as she climbed the stairs
Shredding paper, forgot she was allergic to the dust
Paper dust? Old bills, dwindling congregation
Too expensive to keep open, running costs etc
I don’t like the thought of sharing another chapel
There’s a reason we went separate ways you know
No I didn’t know.

I was helping her clear the house
Her family’s terrace house on the side of the hill
Typical Welsh house, love spoons in the hallway
Brass trinkets and gaudy lustre ware on the dresser
Her husband’s porn videos hidden in the shed
Teen Arse Action and Home for the Holidays
Tapes mouldy with Llanelli damp and rat piss
I’d binned them before she could find them
To save her from any faith based embarrassment
She’d told me how he’d made wooden things
On his lathe, in that shed

for the Eisteddfod in ’76
The heatwave year in which we all had melted
Must’ve been pretty steamy in that shed, I thought
Turning shafts of wood into phallus shaped leeks
The dirty bugger, the lives we leave concealed eh
Tosser should’ve had a clear out before he died
I tripped over a pile of his LP’s leant like slates
Against the side of the shit brown shiny wardrobe
Max Boyce Live at Treorchy Rugby Club 1974
Land of My fathers by the Morriston Orpheus
Male Voice Choir.

My God, what dross
Would you like a cup of tea dear, she called out
I’m alright ta, I shouted back, eagerly rummaging
In the wardrobe, a bundle of Woodworker mags
Tied up with string with some Spick and Spans
And a single photo of a busty blond with bouffant
Leaning on the railings of the bus station
The words To my Darling Vaughn, June ’72
Scribbled on the back in pencil
I slipped it in my pocket and ran down the stairs
Calling see you later as I opened the front door
Are you going dear?

But we haven’t made love yet
I disappeared down the street . . .

. . . why did you have to come to me that way?
shapeshifting into my dreams as someone else
someone that made me run away from you
out the door and down the street instead of
well, you know what we could’ve done
but it never seems to end that way does it?

and she smelt of dead geraniums too

BUY ART !

BUY ART ! BIG ART !
AS VAST AS YOUR HOUSE ART !
SPLASH OUT YOUR FILTHY CASH !
NEON LIGHT SOME WORTHY TRASH !

BASQUIAT YOUR BATHROOM !
LICHTENSTEIN YOUR LIVING ROOM !
CRANE SOME MOORE INTO THE YARD !
EMPLOY A PERFORMANCE GUARD !

BUY ART ! EXPENSIVE ART !
A GOLD AND DIAMOND SHOPPING CART!
PAY MORE MONET THAN THE NEXT MAN !
JUST BECAUSE YOU GAUGUIN CAN !

A ONCE IN A LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY !
GIACOMETTI - KAHLO - KANDINSKY !
A FRAMED LETTER OF AUTHENTICITY !
GENTILESCHI - PICASSO - BOTTICELLI !

BUY ART ! CHEAP AS YOU LIKE ART !
BULK BUY IT DOWN AT WALMART !
ORDER SOME POP IN YOUR LUNCHTIME !
NEXT DEGAS DELIVERY WITH AMAZON PRIME !

IT'S ART FOR ART'S SAKE !
WORTH A FORTUNE OR MERELY A FAKE !
STICK IT IN YOUR FAMILY VAULT !
IT'S ONLY ART AND NOT YOUR FAULT !

BUY ART ! BIG ART !
BUY ART ! EXPENSIVE ART !
BUY ART ! CHEAP AS YOU LIKE ART !
BUY ART ! BUY ART ! BUY ART ! BYE BYE ART !

Kitsch-masterpiece---Chin-010

Chinese Girl by Vladimir Tretchikoff

 

chasing

what was it
that I was chasing
way back when
I rode my dreams
by sea and Downs
and river paths
and later
holding onto
aquamarine railings
a hungover sun
squinting on the horizon
gulls prospecting
the promenade
for breakfast
before the tramps
rose from their slumbers
like preserved timbers
exposed at low tides
I wanted
what they wanted
a dream of something
out of reach
soaked in sun
and Special Brew
the shingle on the beach
made us stagger
drunk on love
and laughter
but love is a lie
you said
but I wouldn’t believe that
I kept on chasing
chasing . . .
chasing . . .

posthumously unrecognised

it's all still there
said the voice from out of nowhere -
a shadow of an echo that barely stirred
the settled down dust coating every blurred surface
that ever dared to hold a candle
to the faceless figurines lined up for show
in the hallowed cabinet

look in the drawers
or in the wardrobe with the inlaid doors
stored moth-eaten clothes all hung in rows
there are clues in the cobwebbed attic too 
where the woodworm obligingly crumble 
the very structure of this artifice
that we call life

it's all still there
said the voice from out of nowhere - 
words barely legible just as time is an illusion
canvasses daubed by the would be masters
songs existing as nothing more than whispers
only waiting to be discovered
praised and lauded