Looking For Jeremy Corbyn On The
18.26 Great Western Railway Train From Penzance to London Paddington. from Prima Materia, 2018 Looking for Jeremy Corbyn on the 18.26 Great Western Railway train from Penzance to London Paddington calling at St Austell, Par, Bodmin Parkway Liskeard, Plymouth, Newton Abbot Exeter St Davids, Taunton, Bristol Temple Meads Bath Spa Reading and London Paddington Eyes right to see conductor’s buttocks framed in a green coat he’s asking for tickets he’s asking a man for his ticket “Excuse me.” The man has lids shut and is resting his chin loosely on his collar “Old fella!” “Excuse me.” Shit, he’s dead Shit, he’s fucking dead “Excuse me mate!” A stir, a gasp fish on a frying pan he stares at me with my pupils I communicate “I’m not Jeremy Corbyn. Have you seen him? I know he likes trains.” But the man just stares then fumbles for his ticket I now set regular vibrating alarms using my wrist watch I set them to stop me from falling asleep dead Eyes forward to see two pink bobbles atop another bobble who is taking photos she snaps snap — snap — snap she snaps a picture of not a pout or pose but a porous expression leaking out how grim life is she texts the picture asking the soon to be recipient ‘Will you be my boyfriend?’ She is not Jeremy Corbyn (the girl taking serious selfies) her soon to be boyfriend isn’t Jeremy Corbyn either Eyes down to see a pair of swirly, whirly red patterned boots having a conversation with two scraps of tangerine peel Their owner is holding Tony Blair’s face in her lap stroking his thin, page-boy hair typing love letters to him on her Macbook, making an eHarmony profile to cleverly seduce Tony Blair She has his face in her lap but she wants more New Labour to be Nude Labour saucy Tony Blair and his kinky wink he’s got those winky eyes even on matted paper even after photoshop He looks at me through the gap in the chairs and he uses his winky eyes to ask me “Have you seen Jeremy Corbyn? He uses trains and I thought, maybe he might be on here using this train, it’s just he won’t return my calls...” I blink back “No, I haven’t seen him but if I do I’ll point him in the direction of your face.” After watching the vacant seats fail to manifest Jeremy Corbyn I decide to give up my search Who am I anyway? Just a lowly pagan in a black tie coming back from a funeral What would I do if I actually saw him on the train? The same thing I did with Phil Jupitus at Jersey Zoo? Point and say his name “You’re Phil Jupitus.” “You’re Jeremy Corbyn.” I imagine he would say more than Phil Jupitus maybe he’d point back and say “Hey, aren’t you that pagan wearing a black tie, coming back from a funeral?” I’d probably stare a fish in a frying pan and somehow tumble out “Tony Blair’s face is over there and he wants a word with you.”
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Fleeting
from Prima Materia, 2018 These pasty arms made of plaster hold the imprint of your tiny body shrivelled little thing The hands remember the feel of rubber — a ball of elastic bands folding into lumps Your vernix coat, moisturiser with a water-base, it washes away but my mind refuses to clean the memory with a towel Could I make buds of it, scented and stuff them up my nose to block out the dreaded aroma of roses? Gazing into pools of dribble cobalt cries that scratch the marrowbone clear out Hollow bones for rattles shredded nerves in place of peas or dried rice There is a nagging feeling that soon, crow’s feet will not be the only pattering, and learning to fly will shortly follow I’ll watch you float amongst the stars Selene in orbit with Leo stalking close behind Naked
from Prima Materia, 2018 When I strip my clothes off they become possessed — not air a figure forms, the buttons eye me and pass judgment Milky blues squint to decide fate Could my hair be unravelled as a cotton wheel, loose from my mother’s wicker basket? The sleeves go flat to break my back slams, orders community service They made a teacher out of me by dyeing pound coins red and slapping me in the face with a fake, rolled up degree Congratulations Mrs Boulton, it’s a civil servant The stitching in the shin of my jeans reads through my CV makes suggestions and labels my measurements with bullet points — sharp as poppers on a fly I try, but the wigs and whips lacerate flesh until steam escapes and fades my body Hard times breaking rocks with your skull — repeating the same questions with only doubt ever bothering to reply If God were real, I imagine him to be sat on the toilet crushing silverfish under his shoes As I strip bare I see marks on my arms old scars and contours I am unfamiliar with them For the first time I know how many chest hairs I have I know their names; meet all of their kids I scold the material, now I am judge Being naked, you feel the cold more squirm at heat you know what pigment is hiding beneath how different it is to the colouring and freckles others see |
POAETREEHere you can find published and unpublished and never before published and publishy poetry from Thom Boulton, from his collections Prima Materia (2018) and Gebo (2021) as well as his online only collection I Have Eaten The Dead For Breakfast (2022) ArchivesCategories
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