The Smith scratches his bald head
and sighs, exasperated it seems
by the famer’s
and the village’s
lack of understand his point,
that the horse is lame
and needs to be destroyed.
Why shoe a horse good only good for glue
He asks with arrogance in his voice,
educated not for the betterment of
those who seek his service,
but confrontational, weak livered
but full of supposed moral superiority.
He pays no heed to the cries and objections
that the horse can still provide a means
The back yard was covered
in the miniature jungle
of moss, earth bound mold,
secret fortress for the Viet-Cong
and hiding holes
for the alien Predator, casually
smoking Park Drive cigarettes
as it polished the remains
of a once scurrying beetle
late for work no more.
I have had no reason to venture out there,
like my childhood, when wet
or not allowed to go near my father’s
guinea pigs for fear of upsetting them
as I crashed a decaying
I still live
for Music, milk and Mars Bars,
never finding a replacement for them all,
the speed of the thirty three
and a third, always fulfilling
and fuelling the memory of fifty
pence in my pocket, a morning token
in which the early Walkman knock off
would play me the music of choice
on the way to school, passing by
the odd discarded milk bottle, a victim
of thirst and now drained
and allowed to stand erect, proud,
devoid of culture and parading the remains
Has anyone seen my Get up & Go
I seemed to have misplaced it
Hmm now where did I have it last?
I know I had it at Gulliver’s World at The Rainbows 30th birthday bash
Maybe I lost it on the teacup ride that was a bit of a rocky ride
Or could it be at the swimming pool I definitely had it there
It helped me do my fifteen lengths.
Is there a Helpline for a missing Getting up and Go
Their school uniforms flattered
their conversation, overheard
as it was
in coffee shop in Waterloo,
over tea and a snack before
heading back to school, tucked
back in blouse, the giggle of fifteen
year youth as they congratulated
themselves on skiving off a lesson
for an hour, and the slurp
of how they shall get fat,
should they do this all year.
I rolled my eyes, I could not
sanction or approve of such time wasting,
the skive, one lesson, all for a buttered scone
It felt…
nice,
to hear that I didn’t do
something wrong, that my words
committed to the screen
and bound by feverous desire
to get the story out of my head,
were good, better than good,
they were enjoyable;
it felt nice to not be
looked upon with despair.
Ian D. Hall 2017
It was with the once gleaming look,
a smile with a glint attached
and a face that radiated honesty,
that I thanked anyone
who had liked,
loved,
fancied,
drooled over to the point where
spittle ran out of the corner of their mouths
and they had the look of basting
a turkey for Christmas etched
across their sly grin chops,
kissed, French kissed,
snogged like there was tomorrow
and in some cases like there was no
day after that,
whispered down the ear such words
Again, I enter your domain
and feel the queasiness
of my symptoms take a tumble,
for your eye is uninterested
and your stethoscope brutal,
a cold metal harbour
for your five minute lesson
in your ignorance
and impatience, watching
the clock tick over, counting down
the sick, marking them off,
crossing them off;
the sigh of the same story once told
now the conjured message of disguised help
me please, modern
life the incorrigible scourge
of modern living.
I look into your eyes,
Fame, it’s yours.
I don’t forgive easy,
despite live
and let live
being a promise I try to keep;
fame it is yours,
for when
the time is right to introduce
a new character to the blank
page, the unhinged, staring eyes
betraying a gormless look
of intolerance and limp dick machismo
upon sweaty brow and fevered bullish,
prostituted personality,
I shall remember you
and give you all the fame
you desired.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Learning to read
the British Rail National Timetable
was a rite of passage
I enjoyed early
as my mum
would invariably
restrict me to one comic
only, purchased at the station,
as we made our way from Birmingham
to Plymouth
when I was a small boy;
exotic names, unheard of treasures
would find their way
worm like and lay eggs forever
into my subconscious.
I lament the passing
of such information,
lost to print it seems,
found only as an A to Cornwall,