jingle jingle!

jingle jingle!

27.2.16

COMMUNICATION


Sunday.
October.
Leaves race wind.
Darkness creeps in
closer.
Bigg Market.
Cruel autumn mist.
A passion filled throat
croaks:
“The only difference between a man and a horse
is a man eats porridge and a horse eats oats.”
The Catholic Evidence Guild.
A wiry woman sways on soap.
Streetlights,
playing about her face,
highlights each contour of her chiselled skin.
She spits out fire and breathes in smoke.

Cut.

Two blocks away our poets meet,
uneasily pace the stage.
Raking over the cinders of their published works,
they search for warmth in the drunken past.

Communication or division?
Coordination or collision?

Poets are feeding tonight,
driftwood from bed-sitter lands,
whispering lines behind locked doors:
shadows,
frightened creatures,
caves.

Frightened?
Why be frightened?

Deck out our billboards with your raging verse,
swamp our switchboards with your anxious calls.
No more of this scribbling in the dark.
You might as well be locked in prison,
as choked in the cells of your own derision.

Communication or division?
Coordination or collision?

Travelling home by train,
two twitching mates
waggle their sensitised fingers and laugh.

Communication or division?
Coordination or collision?



KEITH ARMSTRONG

the jingling geordie

My photo
whitley bay, tyne and wear, United Kingdom
poet and raconteur