Tag Archives: prose



Michael Arnold


you look at

the world

and feel

washed up.




it’s raining,

you’re all alone,

the rents

due on

this peeling



and the car

won’t start.

She’s left with

the asshole


the hall

and left you


the bills

which you

can’t pay.

Then you

see a news


on TV

about people


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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Filed under Poetry and Prose


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


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October 21, 2013 · 3:43 pm

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


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


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



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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Filed under Poetry and Prose