10/20/2016 0 Comments Three Poems by Jim GibsonPlastic Powder Open steel beams Line the Factory walls Steel grinders echo Ear muffs must be worn Shouting orders The suit and hi-vis gaffer Parks Merc between Transits Rolex in the sun; winking Workman inject moulds To create plastic for the objects That no-one would think Need, at some time, producing Gary’s helmet sits atop An unfreshly shaven head Pot-belly pops out vest His stubble turning grey He wanders around the open space Nodding at Dave Sliding forklift pallets Onto Reach Truck’s plates Gary’s daughter doesn’t come round anymore Now that her mum won’t let her Because John’s Moved in He needed a place to crash And Gary did him a favour But scales, foil, weed stench Leaves an unliveable aroma How could he kick John out? Who was the one who bought off Gary’s debt? By some cold means, those hooded human beings Don’t cause a threat anymore The last time he saw his daughter He agreed to have her for New Year’s eve Where the two stayed home Dance-cheered to the beat With a Breezer in her hand And Budweiser in his Head’s both full Of New Year’s New Dreams The shadow The red bricks don’t define us The lines in the concrete aren’t the lines on our palms But it’s undeniable that they’re a part of our being It’s not the Sunday streets that lack the patter of feet It’s everyday The shop sells Happy Shopper To the inhabitants That don’t need more To those who have no car -secluded- Fields and woods line our boundaries The pit-top now a housing development If you ask an older person they’ll soon tell you About Thatcher About their coal allowance About their friends that died down the mine But to us that’s the shadow we were born under A darkness of origin unknown Yet knowing – somehow – that it could be brighter I don’t feel anything for the past before me Not remorse, sorrow or triumph I understand the pain through a reasoned mind Yet in my gut it’s all words and pictures And when people tell me stories, I nod and agree But in reality, we’re here And what you’ve said Means fuck all To me Childhood Ethics At the pond they’d throw rocks At frogs trapped in floating Tupperware prisons Splashing Missing The ripples Quickly Dispersing They’d poke and prod the beehive With a sturdy arm extension stick Then run Off In different Directions Away from The hoard of bees Then at the trains station They’d all throw stones Until Jack chucked a brick I can’t believe (regret filled his soul) you did that That’s fucking (surrounded by his friends) bait mate You horrible (he never felt more alone) bastard (he looked at the floor for company and decided to walk home) Bio: Jim Gibson grew up in the feral plains of England in an ex-coal mining village, Newstead, where the lack of employment was overshadowed by the grand home of the poet Lord Byron. This juxtaposition could have been the trigger that started him on his literary path. He is currently the fiction editor for Hand Job Magazine, where he tries to encourage the lesser voiced truths of our society. Find him at jimegibson.com
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