elliott poems 2
4
he's not speaking today
a pad of post-its and a fountain pen with itallic nib
is his preferred medium of communication
despite everything
he has standards
I don't apologise
my explanation gets a little rambled
rambles a little further
a four by four rams into the window of the jewellers
machete wielding attackers fill their boots
a police helicopter hovers
shoppers wrestle with the police
and the gang
an elephant fires tear gas from it's trunk
aliens fire hail stones
the world explodes into strawberry bonbons
all matter breaks down into soap bubbles
the price of gas reflects the retail price
tesco give me £6.21 off my next shop if I spent forty pounds
he pushes a post-it at me
'nothing inspires me' it reads
a second follows
'the world is too dull'
a small boy starstruck asks for his autograph
it seems in the alternate future
his poem in this and that magazine
was world changing
a splash
the drop in the bucket
I feel worse now than ever
if only I'd get my mouth shut
swallowed my words
and not his
what do I really know
he is the man with an english degree of a certain age
not me
he is the man with shiela and elliott
not me
not me
but he
....
5
today no abstraction from me
just what is - in this alternate reality
we both drink expresso
and I listen as he opens the creaking calfskin reporters notepad
curate the velum pages
until he finds the poem he has been working on
the english degree of certain age
shimmers in the corporate decoupage of studied design
gone is the elliott
gone is the influence of shiela
now there is only transversive theory
where the words are redundant
and the poem is a series of gifs
that jukebox
as we must consider all possibility
but where is the concept
I want to say
were is the juxtaposition
in a world of only genius there can be no illumination
just as
in a poem of the infinite
only toe-tapping nothingness pervades - an endless lift ride to the basement
'but don't you see' he declares - pointing the mont blanc pen
which his drop in a bucket
which his new wave
which his triumphant alternate future delivered
in the shape of a mugged small boy wanting his autograph
'only when poetry means nothing can it mean anything'
this is beyond bad and good
though I check my absurdity
for no small boy was mugged
and we continue
to jukebox
the possibilites
of the same tedium for eternity
....
6
today I gulp latte
and try not to look at his accolytes
college types like himself
though the red brick of their yet unattained
english degree of a certain era
is more cut glass than his
he has them on leads
though in the world of his new found freedoms
they are not referred to by the common tongue
instead
in jest - only half joking - the yellow leather straps are called freeds
for his work has gone beyond
where once he sought the simple joy of ts elliott
that ease
that expression of the infinite
where once he balanced shiela's bloody
where once he longed publication
and found fulfillment in possibility
now he has gone beyond infinity
into a definite article
of constricted rules
in which the freed is the perfect symbol
for only he knows
only he sees
and his acolytes - disciplesque -
provide the loop of his greatness
his poem - for we no longer share
everything is him - is entitled
it's theme is perfection personified in the pixels of a full stop
on his phone
only on his phone
charged in his kitchen
oh how I long for the angst to return
that we might discuss again
a single rain drop runs down the pane
catches a rail of spent water
and commits suicide on the putty
in the hope that the sun will lift it back to the sky
so as it will again enjoy the giddyness of falling
