Two Poems
Back On The Road Exhibition
birmingham was bombed by upset stockbrokers
the day after christmas.
an old girlfriend and I stumbled across it
and
picked through the wreckage
looking for survivors –
working, as always, from the outside in.
bloodied, thin people limped toward the giant doors of the university
seeking shelter.
inside we found kerouac
lying dead straight
in a glass box--surrounded by the thin people.
his skin had turned slight and stained but we couldn’t pry him out
and that field of thin people would not move,
unstirred by our cries--
a field of little trunks--little matches.
so we left, seeking help.
next we found a mountain of singed books--
we thought they were still smouldering but found the smoke
coming from a cigarette in bukowski’s hand
who was perched on a splintered bookshelf arguing with ginsberg.
one outrageous line and they were ours.
thus, the four of us continued
running dangerously low on cigarettes.
finally, a busker in shiny shoes,
with bob dylan’s wild hair and hands caught us outside a bank
on a chord he had strung across the path.
we threw three pounds and a note at him to buy our escape--
he let us go for being artists.
it was only then that we returned for kerouac
who was running out of air.
we were there an hour or more, pulling at the sides,
ripping holes in our jeans, sweating, swearing, cursing anything but each other
and the beat of his poor heart fell
and fell still.
thus,
we mourned, becoming angular and grey
and quiet.
"I have a poem I want to read"
I paused.
"I'm waiting for the right time"
and I took a drag and slugged bitter coffee that made my tired heart beat
and whisky that made my cold chest warm.
we sat in silence, golf-ball eyed from the morning’s hit,
perfectly in silence,
and then
"it’s time!" the church thundered,
and every housewife stopped, suddy and sullen,
every punter set down his tongue and guinness and bowed his head,
every artist crumpled his heart and sat cross-legged on the studio floor,
every traffic light blushed red (causing many major collisions)
and every child stopped to
hear me rise and cry:
"I'M IN LOVE"
the insulted clock struck me three times
until the blood left my mouth like an oil slick,
my weak fingers parted
and dropped the cigarette butt to
set the whole city alight.
at the university, the thin match people
sparked on, one by one, and
in his box,
jack smiled.
Asexuality
I am sexless.
We spend this night like jellyfish.
We sting and sting
each other and it thrills me.
We tie
in careful knots
until we fill this tank up.
This spills over--this
water that will never be
drunk.
Stevie Blue is a student from Leicestershire. www.humblevoice.com/misterblue.