Tag Archives: poetry

Escape.

Escapism

Michael Arnold

 

you look at

the world

and feel

washed up.

 

Outside

 

it’s raining,

you’re all alone,

the rents

due on

this peeling

dying

bedsit

and the car

won’t start.

She’s left with

the asshole

down

the hall

and left you

with

the bills

which you

can’t pay.

Then you

see a news

item

on TV

about people

drinking

too much.

 

You think.

 

If…except the

lucky few

we all live in

this peeling

dying world

is it any wonder

we try

to escape

in our own way.

 

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Poetry

The Problem With Tides

      Michael Arnold

I watch the death throws

Of a Mid – Atlantic storm.

Climbing breakers pummelling

Rocky outcrops.

Spray, high jumping fallen

Boulders, crashing

Down like monsoon

Rain, soaking

Green slimed rocks;

Soaking me.

Your laughter teases me

As it did at breakfast,

When you said

“Let’s go down to the cove

There’s been a storm.”

Why are you laughing?

I turn – in horror.

Your laughter fading

Into an angry

Foaming sea.

Why did I listen to you?

The tide comes in

On angles here;

Every cove, all the way

Down to Lands End.

I’m cut off.

I see your face

I hear your laughter

In every plume of spray

Washing over me.

Fear roots me like

A statue carved from

These ancient rocks

That will be my grave.

Then a hand grabs

My shoulder, shaking me,

Waking me.

“Come on you, if the drink

Don’t get you

This weather surely will.

Get in that doorway over there.”

It’s the blue people.

I can’t tell them

She was calling me

Again.

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October 21, 2013 · 3:43 pm

Another Street Poem

Sleeping In the City

 Michael Arnold

 

Red/blue zeroing in;

Striking

Converging,

Enveloping me like

A shroud on a corpse.

 

The ceiling cracks,

Ice – eyes wink at me.

Am I awake?

I don’t know.

 

They’re coming again

Like millions of cilia

Disguised as

Globules of sweat.

On my head

On my face

Everywhere, everywhere.

 

It’s too late!

A blue – veined moon

Laughs its last laugh

Before turning

Watery, fading into

A stage – set background

Of cobalt.

 

Now I’m awake.

6.30 am

The monsters re – wind

Towards the sun.

I still have the red/blue,

An old blanket.

The soul savers must have

Visited in the night,

Covering me up,

Keeping me warm.

 

I must return the red/blue.

I must stop drinking.

I must stop sleeping rough.

I need a place.

A home.

(c)

 

 

 

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More Street Poetry

 

It’s Friday Night Again 

Michael Arnold 

 

So… You’re two in the morning drunk.

Nowhere to go,

Clubs closing,

Taxi queues forming,

Fights breaking out,

It’s Friday again. 

 

A guy walks up

Asks to lend a fiver.

That’s Bristolian

For borrow a fiver.

If I had a fucking fiver

I wouldn’t be sat

On this bench

Musing about a bed,

Anyone’s bed.

He mumbles something

And tries his luck elsewhere;

I won’t tell him

He’ll probably get chinned

Before the night is out.

 

A young girl screams so loud

It’s like in my ear.

Another girl is trying

To get her to the taxi queue

But she won’t have any of it

She wants to dance.

Now this girl falls over.

Somehow she manages

To do it in slow motion-

I think.

She’s all skirt and blonde hair

Prostrate on the floor.

I catch a glimpse of her pants.

 

The  young guy next to me

Is trying to take a photo

On his mobile phone.

I chuckle and weird thoughts

Enter my head,

Which I just as quickly dismiss 

As dreams from the past.

 

Police sirens kick off

Somewhere near

And a fight breaks out

Between two young men.

A couple of girls start screaming

And it all fizzles out as quick

As it started.

 

My head is fuzzy with booze.

But suddenly I remember

I have a bed, I have a room.

And in my room under the sink

Is a full bottle of Chianti….

Now I can go home.

 

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More poetry about life on the street.

One in the Morning

Michael Arnold

 

You know

you’ve had enough.

It’s one in the morning,

the sensibles

have gone home

but there’s one

more place

you can try.

The bar

is in lock down,

but there’s a back

entrance

and what the hell

if you get raided;

he gets a fine

and you get warned,

or the other way round.

 

The beer is warm

the spirits expensive

and you wouldn’t

go there in the day

it’s such a pit.

You order a beer

and the barman

fills it short.

He looks at you

quizzically

and says I thought

you wanted

a topper.

You get it filled

and ask for a brandy

on the side.

 

A sister slinks

up to you, asks for

a drink

and spells out

the proposition.

It seems,

for a tenner

you can go home

with her, get a bath

and spend

a leisurely night

in her bed.

You politely refuse

which makes

her sweet mood

melt faster

than an ice cream

in the Sahara.

She calls you a

prick and picks out

a sweaty fat guy

who looks like

he’s got a tenner

to waste

and is not worried

about a months

‘clap’ appointments

after.

 

The place stinks

of sweat

and stale perfume;

so you have

a couple

more drinks

and go home.

Trying to remember

which is north

and if you

should follow

a star; any star, as

long as it improves your life. 

 © 

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One of my poems about life on the street.

 

Drink – Michael Arnold

 

I am lifted from reverie

To see beyond horizons of my soul 

in a place that has no place on earth.

 

I improvise my thoughts

And at risk of driving myself mad

Open my eyes wide.

 

A renaissance confronts me;

Random figures-naked- walk before me.

Are they Gods, the beautiful people

 

Dining on ambrosia,

Existing in pockets of sun

Within verdant pastures?

Have I been transported here?

 

I wrestle with a haze of thoughts,

Hoping to ignore the truth.

Drink has raped my mind once more.

 

I am ensnared in this filthy doorway,

My few belongings beside me;

My world is controvert and dark.

I pick up my bottle.

 

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