Wednesday, 20 January 2010

Front by Tom Pickard

there is something so familiar
in what is said I stop and listen,
a traveller's monologue of dark moaning trees,
chopped waters,
deserted street corners,
randomly disturbed light,
raised curtains,
doors flung open,
sudden precipitous avenues,
far away dogs brought near
it is insistent
secures my inner ear
we pick up the old conversation
neither of us understands

Tom Pickard

From The Dark Months of May (Flood Editions, PO Box 3865, Chicago);

1 comment:


    there is nothing more familiar
    than what I scrawl whilst pissed,
    a knacker whingeing to empty seats
    at poetry readings,
    deserted halls and cafes,
    my random jottings cast no light
    raise any curtains, or open doors.
    I unleash the dogs of bore,
    far away the audience runs,
    insistently ignore this shite,
    this earful no one understands.

    Thorn Prickhard