Monday, 25 March 2013

Job Centre

I felt disillusioned and rudderless, which seemed like an appropriate response to my circumstances. Cropping warts from my fingers with a pair of nail clippers - 
Soiling the carpet. 
Long faces stood staring at me mildly disgusted, not amused,
Job? no.
Living rough in Manchester – rain - boredom - hunger.
I had in a week homeless discovered – that in places like this I could get
A few hours of warm stability amongst cold prolonged crowds - long-drawn out
Recession,  I lounged in a corner. Noticeable.
A guard, yes a security guard nervously glared not knowing what to do.
His lardy pale face grimacing like a baby farting, 
He began to approach, sluggish.
Today stank mostly of me, that an a artificial-zest, recycled air. And human misery.
The colour scheme - grey. Hairspray. Humid. I'm removed - yes forcibly.
From centre to centre.
Plenty to go around. They're not exclusive. 
A park bench.
I pass an hour staring at ducks, they stare back expectant.
I pass a stone – Oh the library prohibited, stealing furniture, a nasty business,
I can never go back. Weary books too.
Churches – cold and naturally righteous over and under bearing in equal measure,
I disappear into an art gallery. Striding along side Matisse, Picasso, Turner etc. 
Paint, frames.
White walls, and so forth.
Wrapped myself around a radiator. Not a raised brow.
I pass myself off as an instillation for the remaining day.
My title: 'Thanking you free culture'

1 comment:

  1. You really have your own voice as a poet. Your poems smell of urine and desolation, but lingering somewhere on the outskirts, a ghoulish delight in it all....