And finally, the last poem chosen for us this month by guest editor Jessie Joe Jacobs is a fantastically bitter persona poem from Dave Medd.
History. You can keep your bleedin history.
It aint mine. Deny all knowledge, lineage,
bastards. Who cares who screwed who in bed or
battle. Pigs have got it bleedin right.
Export cans and Guinness clatter
down the cobbles, through the watter,
puddled in the muck and glitter,
History pissed off months ago. Twisted
her arm, left a weal of bruises, bitter
rubies, tab end pearls around her neck.
Tompa said he fancied her in that tight
black dress. Talk, no action Tompa. Now she
always goes out in that dumpy tracksuit cushion.
Black and red are bitter colours.
Fogger says hes bound to pull a
bird tonight. Days got duller.
History got shut down with the pit
when grandad died. Coughed his last on the bar room
floor. Mother mopped up. Look, she said still
two parts brown ale four parts black shit
fifteen years on down the road from madness.
Dog turds on the pavement crumble.
Kids do wheelies with a wobble
just to make the wrinklies tremble.
History got knackered, snapped off like a
gatepost Hendy clobbered with his brother’s Harley
(Cobblers). Down the drain like mams engagement
ring. Our Sarah said our Simon hocked it.
History got knocked down, redeveloped,
where the tree root cave, the bushes den,
stream for newts and taddies was. You can’t
play there now no way. Notice says so.
Thin laburnum, little privet,
hedges mark the edge. They love it
where our Lucy says shell have it,
History got no reason, rhyme or time.
Not for me. I make no sense me, no.
I wasnt there when they fucked up me. Im
result of situations and events.
Oily rains. Playground entrance.
Lightning forks a bitter distance.
Someone better assess my significance,