Three Poems by Jim Gibson

Plastic 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)


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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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