Long Warehouses Poems
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It was one of those sunny days, that later on merge in memory, and you can’t tell one from another instantly, but on the second sight they discern, each with its own number of little events. There was good visibility from the second deck of the bus - my memories start when we are standing at a junction on red, we need to cross a major motorway. There are not many cars moving along the motorway, we keep staying, I remember a delivery biker, and a yellow DHL van in front of us, it looks like it is going to attend in the same direction. Finally, the light turns green, and we slowly cross the motorway into a narrow street. The low-rise houses are half-hidden by trees - the spicy smell of linden trees in bloom wafts in through the half-open window on my side. We pass an industrial zone, a string of concrete warehouses standing tightly together, then we descend into a valley, then the road goes up the hill. Soon we stop in front of the barrier - ahead we see the car park, small groups of people here and there - tourists who have come to see the Seven Sisters, and perhaps to swim in the sea. I descend a fairly steep path down to the sea, and finally I'm down on the shore. Although there are people wandering around, I don't notice anyone, and I can't hear what they are saying. I manage to sit down on one of the rocks warmed by the sun, and just stare at the water, at the calm waves. It doesn't matter whether I exist or whether someone else is looking at the sea, as long as I stay in some incomprehensible flat that serves as my home, although my home is something out of the realm of unrealisable fantasies. But there is no law that compels one to have a country, a home, habits, a job, a family. I don’t have a country, its the country that has me, for reasons beyond my comprehension, same is relevant about that bogus home, job, family, habits. I agree to relate to some point to a number of things that are not my own, its not a big trouble. But I don't belong there mentally or spiritually. I take advantage of this oversight of the overseers of order, and slip away to where the waves reflect the light of the sky. Who I am, doesn't matter. Can be anyone, or someone you happen to know.
The drunk
A thick plastic curtain of the type used in warehouses he could not see through
to other than shadowy figures moving around he knew he saw a past that
no longer belonged to him.
He sat on the edge of his unmade bed, drinking warm beer when a sharp knock
on the door of his flat
it was the landlord looking at him with contempt, said he must pay the rent tomorrow or else!
Despair sizzled through his body needed a strong drink one mixed vodka and cold coffee,
while asking himself how it had come to this losing his job because he had been
“outspoken”, told his boss to off
Drinking the rest of the beer, he decided to take the bus to the farm he once lived
as a child; he had been happy there and to trace his life from there
He got off the bus in a small town near the farm. needing a drink, but it must have been early
the cafe had no ale he had a coffee which he mixed with vodka; when that
was seen they had told him to leave
He bought a tin of cola and sat in a park drinking thinking of this unfriendly town full of Jesus
people with no sense of humor
He took a taxi to the farm, now a gated community the river was gone, the wooden bridge
across it too, where he used to sit under and see tiny fishes nibble at his toes- gone, ing gone.
A man came and told him it was private property and looked as burly guard on duty
Down the main road where they were widening the road, a workers’ shed
he got in a found cold coffee and mixed it with vodka, he must have lost the sense of time
all of a sudden it was morning the workers were coming.
He got a bus home and walked to his flat the landlord said his mother had paid the rent
and taken my belongings she wanted to see him
At her flat sat many people, even the boss who had fired him; thought this assault is called
intervention; telling him his problem was booze, he was a good guy when sober
They left in time for him to go to the nearest café for a few more beers before closing time.
The next day, he had, a shower and dressed in clean clothes
He went to a meeting where people appeared feverishly happy and laughing out loud.
No one will remember
all the names of the bodies
laying in pools of blood
in all those back alleys
and side streets
burned out warehouses
and by-the-hour motels…
They don’t talk about them…
Cause their lives don’t matter…
All those bodies just lying around
decaying as fast as our minds.
Our children stepping over em
like they were just another
discarded used condom…
Looking down at ‘em
and saying how disgusting
to just leave them lying
around like that…
But it don’t matter…
Because they only give them names
if there is a way to get some fame
for the next live broadcast at six…
And if it’s a white dude being stabbed
by a knife-wielding black man on heroin
oh boy…
Then stay tuned for the news at ten
and they’ll recycle it
again and again.
Tell you all about when
somebody
somewhere
somehow did it…
Cause ratings do matter…
We wonder why everyone
has become so numb.
Are we all so dumb,
to let life be squeezed away
with the press of a finger and a thumb…
If it ain’t some gangster
with an itch to scratch
holding a gun up to our head
then it might
be a nuclear warhead dropping
sending people
to the ground
flopping around
with their eyes popping out.
Either way, they’re dead…
How they died doesn’t matter…
I’m not here to make an excuse
for the way the hate
and abuse has turned
our kids into something
without any feelings…
I must admit it no longer
sends my senses reeling
when I turn on the news and see
another mass killing…
Or murder and destruction
children abductions
drugs and thugs
bombing planes
derailing trains
volcanos and earthquakes
covid
abortion
and another
school shooting…
Makes me wonder
what the Hell’s next…
But then I think…
Does it really matter?
NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE, ENGLAND
Half-Scot, half-English and ill at ease with the past,
Newcastle is sooty black from its coaly drama,
And the breathless town was always in a hurry to grow,
Narrowly avoiding destruction of its past or leaping over it.
Up on the plateau, industrial power-engine city:
Its earlier Norman Castle and Black Gate narrowly missed
By the frenetic hammers of eager Victorian builders.
Elegantly-proportioned Grainger Street and Central Rail Station
Pause unwillingly to admit the Scottish-style lantern-spired
Sandstone cathedral with its delicate shade of sooty industrial black.
Down at the riverside - an earlier town of shipyards and arms factories,
Quayside warehouses with watertight flood-doors,
Its precipitous narrow old port-streets carved into the gorge walls
And pierced by cold winds from the North Sea,
Is leaped over by a platoon of high-level metal bridges.
Across the Tyne, inelegant, they grab the opposite bank and bind the city to England.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
NOTE: 1 Newcastle is situated on the north ( = Scottish ) side of the River Tyne.
The town was an epicenter of the Industrial Revolution,
with coal, steel, chemical, engineering, and shipbuilding
industries, and was also a major seaport.
2 Norman Castle, Black Gate are remnants of a pre-medieval past.
3 Grainger Street, Central Rail Station are 19th century redeveloped areas.
4 Cathedral (St. Nicholas) dates from 14th century.
O Mighty Atlantic…
What is this fascination which I have with you?
Could it be a part of me your lays trapped somewhere in midst?
You are like an old confidant with countless secrets you hold!
There’s an ancient one which haunts me today, and you guard it well…
Like the miles of warehouses, hidden within your belly
Where spirits of my ebony ancestors lie, shackled in rusted chains
Never again to see the rising sun?!
I know not why this had to be
And do I dare to ask God, Why?
So, I wait; for in time all will be revealed.
The centuries march on; they’ve left behind the invisible scars
Broken spirits, lost and weary, walk an unforgiving earth,
Carrying within fractured souls the abject pain of ancestral spirits
Separated by the gulf of time and buried, frozen in the deep.
Do you still hear the sounds of terror mingled with mournful groans;
The piercing wails of vibrant girls; and young men’s angry roars?
Do you hear the soft murmurs of young mothers comforting a child?!
Was their agony so bitter that you could not console?!
Do you recall the sound of each one’s last, labored breath?!...
I hear their screams and groans; their piteous pleas and angry roars
Echoed by wild winds and crashing waves on dark, stormy nights!
I have felt the cold and dismal pain that “waters” hate,
A dark, heavy cloak which broken spirits don.
We survived the middle passage and "seem" free;
But we know that a mortally wounded spirit cannot fly!
And though rusty chains no longer hold, spirits are held fast in place!
Where are our eyes? Give us eyes!
Father, give us new eyes so we will see!
~*~
Matchstick Bikes
To tinkers and toilers
I salute,
From mending boilers
to weaving jute,
Man and boy
for generations,
I will unemploy
your occupations.
To brewers in sheds
I sink a few beers
To wet the heads
of our engineers,
From flat cloth caps
to matchstick men,
I will see the collapse
of pushers of pens.
To bakers, tailors
I wish you well,
To the soldiers and sailors
who fought and fell,
From doctors, nurses
to hobnail boots,
I will give your purses
to thieves in suits.
To the grieving docks
I drink a toast,
To tackle and blocks
and shipyard ghosts,
From warehouses, workshops
to fishing trawls,
I will flick my mop
in empty halls.
To union dues
I shake your hand,
To cleaning loos
and farming land,
From railway gauges
to industry,
I will turn the pages
of history.
To factory lines
I raise my glass,
'Neath abandoned mines
of times now past,
From overtime
to austerity,
I will frame the grime
for posterity.
To the silent mills
I tip my hat,
To what ever ills
and this and that,
From a steelworks spew
to a builders hole,
I will stand in a queue
to draw my dole.
To finance, the city
I bow in awe,
To show no pity,
to flout the law,
From sellers, buyers
to pickets and strikes
I will slash the tyres
of your matchstick bikes.
© RJVHorton2016
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Drones abound the London sky
Search lights stray and flick to something and nothing
The bicycle dings its bell every sixth house
As the warden swishes his front tyre left and right up the empty evening street
The council house drapes of black and brown are shut tight regulation tight
He's coming he's coming tape up tape up she shouts
Don't want another fine for light
The grub is ready at the back door for a quick dash to the air-raid shelter in the night
Sirens whail and bellow and bomber engines humm in ever louder melts
Fire fire and the engines leave the call centre and head the regular route to the city
God bless em souls the dear old lady calls as she stirs the black current jam
Whistling bombs and Stucker dives throttle and hurtle a miss
But they land too well and devastate the docklands and the strip
Hell's fire rages along the wharfs as fire-ships spray the warehouses
Brave soles are they who stay out amid the descending droplets of terror
Face the wrath of Germany's luftwaffe who continue to pour water and pull souls
And morning cannot come fast enough for to French shores a retreat
Arrival of Dawn and the last bombers chug away hasseled by the RAF
And down descends a lonely Tommy ace one of our own bewildered lads
Parachute wrapped and Tommy sitting on Sally's polished red front door-step
Here are her two prides of joy: One sitting on the other; the live one her brother.
(One of her biding memories of the London Blitz)
Night time Bombing raid in London's fair City during Second World War
Feeling the desolation, of smothering air
Hemmed in by crowds; the obliqueness of fear
Throng of the city and no sight of the sun
Incessant noise and the desire to just run.
And I drive.
Arterial routes clogged by metal and wheels
Schizophrenic drivers living others ideals
Neon and lights sizzling the sides of the streets
Marketing signage, greed’s consumer receipts.
And I drive.
White picket fences, roses, and manicured lawns
Ridiculous box housing, erected for ludicrous pawns
Playgrounds, big supermarkets, cafes and parks
Sprawling suburbia with its pools built by sharks.
And I drive
Warehouses dispensing the needs of the hordes
Industrious factories like cash castles of lords.
Sawmills busily feeding more desecration of land
Refuse collection sites completely sterile and bland.
And I drive.
Ten-acre barons on frivolous bundles of dirt
Escaping urbanity in the unproductive outskirts.
Postage stamp fields supporting ponies and kids
While toffee nose parents sit in ultra posh digs.
And I drive
Paddocks of cattle dispersed through productive farmland
Shiny new tractors with men toughened and tanned
Marshmallow hay bales pimple the face of the ground
Irrigators urinate on earth until drowned.
And I drive.
Magnificent mountains covered in beckoning trees
Clear running streams and whispering breeze
Wild flowers gently waving as robins flit all around
Radiant true colours and smoothing calm sounds.
And yes I am home.
As I watch the sun descend from view,
cast shadows across the land anew,
Floating warehouses engulf the sky
thus the shadows never die.
The drones which fill the evening air,
aren’t drones of old to thus compare,
but silent, programmed to communicate,
delivering goods and never late.
The chip implant within my hand
is my identity, you understand,
encrypted with a micro currency
for transaction approval of efficient fluency.
The robots, just like silk to touch
for which nothing is too much
parade the house, each play their part
like humanoids devoid of heart.
From cars that fly to boats that hover;
with 3D printers, everything’s on offer,
from building houses, making repairs
to all items in need of spares.
We sleep in pods with medical guile
monitoring organs in high tech style.
Ageing, now a long lost plague
of a distance past so acutely vague.
The cell phone, an archaic relic
now holographic, almost psychedelic,
run your life, in complete control,
total dependency with no parole.
Vacations restricted not to Earth,
so choose the planet of your birth,
Venus, Mars even the moon
places you will visit soon.
But species die out day by day,
we can do nothing else but to pray,
for nature’s habitat must prevail,
not advancements which the humans hail.
Turtle spawn can be placed very deep and vertical in glowing colourful beds. But Atlantic highways stuff their coffers with gold and thus adorn the paths created with magnitude of sparkly stench. Extra moving ignorance is the ejaculations from a large wide mouthed frog. Bulbous eyes. Spotty dresses and vests deny vested interests and instead self multiply like amoebas. It is wise then to create some watery road works. For nothing new can join a row of inter related fake fantastical made up regurgitation. Dancing symmetrically. Words delivered in patterns. Placed. And a demonic sweep. Radiuses' are akin to boxes in warehouses. All the same. Nothing escaping. And nothing entering. To bring forth change is to ask Mr whale to breathe over the piles and poles whose only purpose is to stop change. Entertainment energies exploding erotica exotic experience explained. When the pan joins the show. Boil with randomly spaced ingredients. Tell a star to leave or alter it's ways. And perhaps there will be then an avenue for ascent once more for the free form flowing fragrances. Good. Musically mystifying moving monuments. Good. But before all that. Bake 99 eggs in a circular pastry and add sage. Then curtsey to the oven. Whose heat is replenishing the start. Journey. Cosmopolitanism z
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