Poem 122

From October 1982, so one of the sixty I wrote at the rate of five a week … rhyme backed up rhythm for me – it was more often than not just how things came to me – but it was super unfashionable in the poetry of the time … I didn’t care, I didn’t have any standing or career to jeopardise …

( nuclear apocalypse angst? … a bit hey Mr. Businessman protest-y … but could also be taken as more existential than that … )

Mr. Grotesque

Mr. Grotesque jumped out of bed
his wife and his kids were dreaming
the toaster banged like rifle fire
and the coffee pot vomited steaming
out the window all the stars were red
and the wind screamed from the east to the west

the weather report was nothing like this
when's the sun coming up? said Mr. Grotesque


Mr. Grotesque adjusted his tie
shined his shoes as black as a submarine
the radio cracked in half and broke
in the middle of a silent theme
Mr. G advanced to the door
handsome strong and well dressed
but the wind outside tore it all away

so much for that said Mr. Grotesque


he drove downtown in his long black car
the streets banged together like doors
the wind wore a bracelet of buildings
and for charms it rattled the stores
his car it ran on human souls
guaranteed to be in excess
but it farted and died beneath him

I'll pump the accelerator said Mr. Grotesque


he decided to walk but soon got lost
in a field full of open holes
the only sound his empty jacket
flapping from the top of a pole
he found in the pocket two grains of red wheat
that the scything wind had threshed
and stepped into a varnished elevator

to the basement said Mr. Grotesque