Not even a pen,
not valuable enough of Michael Parkinson’s
solemn delivery
urging me to grow older.
I received a letter, friendly in its content,
signed by machine, my name at least correct,
could I be worth up to a quarter of a million
pounds at the time of my death; worried
that I have the odd cigar, I enjoy
a cooked breakfast, over weight but happy,
I looked for the smaller print,
the kind in which makes you think on,
to survive and leave a penny means… what
I refuse the mask, there are no cameras
to catch my image, I wouldn’t care
anyway; the graffiti is my mark
and will, very soon, fade away.
I spray words of hope, anger, refined
and polished, screwed up ideas, a tag,
a tag of mine, wretched display of art,
this tag, this art, not for the faint hearted,
my display not fit
for comment as it is scrawled in blood;
fine lines of vein dripped venom,
remember, this is my art, not for hanging,
I’m not for hanging
I heard you had died,
the modern fail of internet, claiming lives
before their time, modern fail
of finding news before it has even happened,
to cause sensation, perhaps untold grief
in the faces and minds of those that care;
I heard you had died, taken away
from us, not knowing how to mourn
without remembering the name you gave me,
a moniker that somehow stuck,
that name of Rufus, I hoped to hear it again
now that I know it was a false report,
For those just walking on by,
pulling their coats closer to their skin,
It was surely nothing more than
a piece of litter thrown carelessly
out of a window of a passing car,
the jetsam of the age, too busy
for a bin, for the black plastic bag
collection on Friday morning at seven A.M.
Yet, no rubbish, just all dead
inside the remains of this wind battered nest,
no sign of mother, sticks clumped by rain
and sod and tossed from the tree with force.
Your mouth is on the button, ready
to take a shot at anything
you see, that flags up
in the tiny mind held up
by small hands, business like attire,
small orange sun
glowing hot and stare mad cold with bluster
and rhetoric, good for nothing
but column inches and inches and inches,
diminutive boy, slow to realise
that the shit is not in some far off country,
not in a hole created by mortar
or bomb, or bullet, or lie,
but in your own back yard, Commander
Don’t let your toothbrush
lay on its side,
head down
in despair
as it thinks lonely thoughts till
you dare tackle the plaque once again;
at night,
when you are sleeping,
thinking happy thoughts.
Spiders,
big and hairy generals
of the eight legged kind,
 are happy to
use the bristles
in an effort
to ease the pain
and discomfort
from the spider like piles.
Ian D. Hall 2018
There She was walking
down the street, she got done
for DUI now she’s out on her feet,
serves her right, serves her well,
now her feet are going to swell,
she drove whilst pissed,
she deserves to go to Hell.
She used to look good, she used to look fine
but she caught the judge on a good day
and copped a lengthy fine.
Before He knew it, the police were on to him,
smoking pot at the wheel and polishing off a gin,
It is never about just the album,
the vinyl, the picture on the front
that greeted you, the small
detail of mass produced typed information
on the back that caught the serious addict
in mid stumble with their fingers…
…it is the wealth of memory
that each album represents,
you might instantly remember
or pause to reflect
who you were with that fateful day
when you spied something that caught your heart,
that made it pound faster, groan under the weight
of another lost love,
I always expected you back, Esther,
Evil somehow finds a way
to slither into view,
the smell of riches brings out the dead
and once buried, Dracula like, the vengeance
you feel at the sleight you perceive
drips from your fingers
as you contemplate the kill,
Hush, Hush, saccharine false sweet Esther,
your painted smile betrays your malevolence,
wicked, splintered heart, beating out of time,
beating to the sound of misery;
you are happy now,
imagine how you will be
when your immorality gains a foothold,
The day a machine
writes a sonnet
to woo a woman’s heart,
 sees the spark
of a single line blossom
like the early stages of an apple,
not ripe for picking, still flowering,
the early bud of inspiration lose
and gain, a single moment when dew rises
and is perched sweetly, temptingly
on top and in sight, when a machine sees that
and looks upon it with cold dead eyes
in appreciation
then I shall know I have been beaten;