underground<br />books.org
Like us on twitter facebook
  • UB
    • Roadside Assistance
    • 2013 NYC Poetry Festival
    • kiteFULLofWHISKEY
    • hotel romania
    • WHY we are different from pretend Genius
    • European Edition
    • The Unlikely Blond
    • [UND] >
      • INDIA
      • UBHomeVideo
      • WHEN I GROW UP I WANT TO BE A POET
  • POETS
    • Dylan Krieger
  • BOOKS
  • THE KITCHEN POET
  • SUBMIT
  • UB TRUTH
  • #JRPD
  • UBSHOP
  • UBTV
  • PS: Your Poem A Week w/ Philippe Shils

Richard Atkinson - 7 poems

4/5/2016

1 Comment

 
Picture
1. love stuff’n , FAT  LEMONS nonsense
 
she  said  she’d  hypnotised  me FAT  LEMONS
and  that whenever   i  wrote a  poem
and  thought  about  sex.FAT  LEMONS
 
that i  would  type  FAT  LEMONS in  capitals
and  not  realise  i  was  doing it or  see  it  after
and  think how  gorgeous she  is.
of  course , i knew she  was kidding
FAT LEMONS , my  god  she’s comely !
i’m  just  not  the  type  to  be entranced
put  under , FAT LEMONS

oh !  to  be  near  her magnificence again.

FAT  LEMONS , FAT  LEMONS
 
she  can’t  fool  me, pull  the  wool  over
FAT LEMONS  my  eyes.
 
her  eyes are  deeper than  FAT  LEMONS
a love jug  with  a black hole  in
and  to  many  warm  swirls  to  count
 
you  can’t help  but fall in
FAT  LEMONS   deep.

***
2. air
 
passed  by an  old  man 
who  looked  about  as  old as  anyone could.
bent  up  double, one  hand  on  stick ,other  on  wall
crawling  along, you  could  sense his  determination
 
to move  along. every  small  inch  forward counted .
stopping  me, he  looked  up, his  eyes  appeared  bloodshot
at  the  bottom, almost  gone
 
like  they  were  on  their  last  legs as  well
he  asked  if  I  had  any  matches
I said  I  had  a  lighter but  he said ,
showing  me  his  fifty  pence
that he  was  off  to  get  a  cigar.
 
he  called  at  my  door  once 
asked  me  if he  cleared away
some  of  the  rubbish  and  weeds
if  I  could  spare  some  change
I  told  him  not  too  bother 
gave  him some  change anyway.
 
so  I  guessed  he’d  got fifty  pence  from  someone 
for  clearing  weeds
and  had  decided  he  was  going  to live it up , for  a  change
and buy  a  cigar and  probably  did  not  have  enough
for  food ,tobacco or even matches.
 
would  have  offered  to go  get  his  cigar  for  him
but   figured he wanted  to  make  the  journey himself
and  that  just being  outside getting some  air
and  seeing  some  sights must  mean  a  lot
when  you know their  won’t  be  that  much more
air, rain, sights and  ugly funny people to take  in.
 
hoped  it wouldn’t  be  his  last  smoke ,
everyone  needs  a  perk
now  and  again, to keep  them  going ,
especially  when almost  their,
 
alone
weed  clearing
looking  for  half  forgotten memories
of  better  times
 
amongst  weeds  and  rubbish
their only  real  friends  left.

***
3. if  we  are  the  lucky  ones?
 
there  were  two  baby kids  on  the  metro
two  or  three  years  old
 
in  a  double buggy.
they  were  both  sucking  red lollipops
which  had  almost  disappeared.
 
one  of  them  started  banging  the
red lollipop  on  his teeth,
bang  bang  bang.
 
like  he  was  banging  out  a  drum  beat
to  the  sound  of  the  metro
 
then  the  other  one  started  doing  it
so  both  were  doing  it  in tandem
 
one  a  boy  and  the  other  a  girl.
all  kids  do  these  amazing  things
but  sometimes we  never  notice,
but  I  did.
 
the  girl  gave  me  this  huge  smile
as  she  was  pushed  off  the metro.
 
an  unreserved  smile  that  makes  you  wonder  if
it  actually  happened
or  imagined.
 
but  then  I  wonder 
all  the  time
 
if  real  life  is  all imagined,
especially  the  good  bits.
because  as  human  beings
 
our  live's  are  a  shorter  distance than 
a  squirrels buried  nuts.
 
surely  we  will  in  the  end 
know  more  about
death
 
and  it  might  last  a  little  longer.
as  in  an  eternity  and  a day
than life does.
 
that  our  reality  realm  is  really
death,
not  life.
 
life  is  for  a  short  short  while
before  death  knocks  us  for  seven,
again  and  again.
 
in life  we  see, smell, live, lurve, forgive, grow,
grieve, remember, forget, suffer, dance
 
and
grow  roses  down  the  avenues  of  the  dead,
if  we  are  the  lucky  ones.
 
worship  shopping  sex and  religion
and  sometimes  other  people  if  we  are
 
are  the  lucky  ones,
visiting  Bukowski’s lurve dog  from  hell.
 
it  makes  you  wonder  how  much  it  takes  to
make  it  happen
 
just  for  us  to  be  here.
for  A  to  meet  B
 
and  our  ancestors  are  the 
one  sperm that  got through.
 
and  all the  suffering  they  encountered
to  have  their  kids
 
and  then  their  kids
had  their  kids
 
and  they  suffered  beyond  what  we  can  imagine
to  have  us
 
and  we  somehow grow  up  into
the  essential  human  beings  we  are,
if  we  are  the  lucky  ones.
 
like  it  was so  easy,
to  be  an essential  human  being.
 
as  though  we were all
unique
individuals
 
kissing  the  face
of  death
 
whilst  laughing  with  friends  and  family
if  we  are  the  lucky  ones,
that  have  and  see  them.
 
as  if  death
only  happened  to  other  people.
 
everything  ends
metro  rides
 
even  red  lollipops
eventually,
who  loves  you  baby!
 
***

4. at  the  top  of  the  stairs
 
three  or  four maybe , sitting, huddled
with  elder  brothers and  sisters
in  semi  darkness
 
shush  they  say, keep still they  say
stop  fidgeting  they  say
trying  to  hear it  all
 
tiny  head on  scabby  knees
arms  clung tight around legs.
 
shouting , crashing , coming from  kitchen
mum screaming. dad  back  from pub
 
back  from  going  to  see  a 
man  about  a  dog  again
more  screaming, banging.
 
what  had  I  done ?
everything  was  always my  fault,
I  was  just  plain clumsy  and  stupid,
or  so  I  had  been  told.
 
the  dim light shining from  the  kitchen
illustrating  the  source
of  the  disturbance,
in  the  shadowed dust trail light.
 
is it the  kitchens fault
and  not  mine, it  sounded so  angry,
I  mused.putting  my  hands  over my ears.
 
then  leaving  the fold for Grans.
what had  I  done ?
maybe  it  was  the kitchens fault  again.
 
returning  to  the fold, un-noticed
years  later to  a Saturday only dad.
 
what  had  I  done ? I thought,
wishing  the kitchen
would  take  the  blame
for  a  change.
 
years  later, once, upon  drinking  too  much,
I would  find  myself, attacking  a kitchen,
in   a   blind  drunken rage.
 
as  though  I  were still mad at  it,
for  letting me  get the  blame ,always,
 
for  scabby  knees, separations, arguments
broken  plates  and  lurve dreams
turned ugly  again.
 
***
5. box  up  clever  the  voices  of  the  night


you  say  to  yourself,  stop  thinking
that’s  the  answer!

no  more  mind  battles!
just  you, the  drink, some  music, the  computer  and  the  night.
shut  out of  everything  except  the  night.

box  up  clever  the  voices  of  the  night.

but  they  will  edge  there  way  in,
they  always  do,
they  always  find  a  way.

they  seem  a  lot  smarter  then  you
more  street  wize, cooler, even  up-beat.

a  friend  even, to  your  loneliness.
although  they  never  seem  to  know  when  to  stop.
always  arguing!
swearing  filth  at  you!

they  would  go  on  forever  and  do  some  nights.
you  think  you  hear  them  sometimes

the  depth  of  night  is  like
a  wire  mesh  around  your  brain.

you  fine  tune  it  to  receive  every
noise, animal, car,  screech.

as  though  it  was  from  inside  your 
night  echo  mind
rather  then  outside.

you  fine  tune  yourself  to  in  coming 
sarky  loose  chatter   in  the  head
who  have  fighter  planes, battle  ships, mind  missiles, battalions.

your  minds  a  balloon, floating, not  here  or  there
or  somewhere  you  know  you  would  find  it

put  a  finger  on  it,
nudge  it  back  into  shape.

the  booze  is  your  blocker  of  loneliness, feelings, voices
and  the  night  is  the  drinks  companion
and  yours.

you  never  get  barred  from  the  night, never.
the  night  becomes  like  an  escape, a  life  chute.
a  parachute  jump  into  another  world  beyond 
reason, alienation, incomprehension.

finally  you and  the  world  of  the  night, voices, drink
feel  at  one.
a  strange  kind  of  peace  is  found.

you  have  given  in  to  the  voices
and  the  night.

the  computer  says  you  have  a  friend.
so  you  think  well, if  the  computer  says  so.

the  loneliness  of  the  night
makes  you  feel  the  opposite  of  lonely.

its  loneliness
and  its  hazy  world  view
is  now  your  only  friend.

all  of  it
every  dark  lazy   chattering   mad  fat  cat  piss  corner.

the  TV  buzzing  its  damn  interference
the  cat  hissing  their  sex  love  cry’s  in  painful  surrender.

your  empty  packets   of  mind meds and  bottles  of alcohol  lie  around 
like  forgotten  things 

you  should have  done  and  said
put  right,

organized  into  a 
cold  hard  day  dream  reason.

tidied  up,
like  a  sub  mission  completed,
coming  up  for  air.

***
6. be
 
be  indifferent  to  indifference?
be  bi-polar
be  manically  depressed
be obsessive-compulsive disordered
be  trans-gender
be  different
be  understated
be  underdressed  with  frills
be  over  dressed
be  the  wearer  of  hats
be  stupid  for  a  change
be  outstanding
be  misquoted
be  misunderstood
be  amazing
be  apparent
be  ethnically  diverse
be  strange  but  true
be  working  class
be  sacrifice
be  co-operation
be  spiritual  growth  man
be  re-birth
be  transformation
be  reclamation
be  nobody’s  fool
be  this  life-death  cycle
be  cancer  remission
be  hippy  dippy  shite
be  socialism
 
be  as small  as a  Victorian  wooden  compewter mouse
be  as  good  as  you  get  back
be  as  smallminded  as  the  worst  of  them
 
be  a  lurve  that  can  not  speak  it’s  *******  name
be  a  beatnik  hippy  punk
be  a  useless  drunk  writing  damn good  poetry
be  a  raging  alcoholic  writing  damn  bad  arse  poetry
be  a  smalltime  family crook  law  upholder
be  a  city  walking  the  ugly  streets
be  a  hurdler  who  falls  over but  still  wins
be  a  cross-dresser  stubbing  your  toe  in  the  morning
be  a  pirate 
 
be  the elephant  in  the  room
be  the  book  you’ve  never  read  but  know  you  should  have
be  the  righter  of  so  many  Tory crimes  against  the  poorest
be  the  Karl  Marx  brothers who  don’t  want  to  join  the  club
be  the  spark  that  lit  the  fuse  that  burned  it  all down
be  the  carrier of  the flame
be  the  bicycle  with  new  wheels  going  somewhere
be  the  kid  with  an  invisible  new  best  friend
be  the  train  that  never  stops  except  at  the  end 
be  the  inner  in  inner  lurve
be  the  anti-hero kicking  arse in  the sixties  TV  series
be  the  ranter  of  nonsense
be  the  99%  getting  fecked  over  again  and  again

be the poem  you cant get out of your head
 
be  Kate  Bush on  teen  walls in  a  sky  blue leotard 
be  Johnny  Lydon  in  positive anger subliminal  hypnosis  therapy
be  Kurt  Cobain in  a  white  dress
 
be  one  of  the psychic heroes  in  The Champions
be  an  under-achiever  getting  things  right
 
be  inner  change
be  inner  lurve
be  inner grief
be  inner  beauty
be  inner pain
be  inner sadness
be  inner joy
 
be  your  inner self
be  your  inner bliss
 
never be brainwashed
never  be  someone  else
never  be  the  same  as  everyone  else
never  be  indifferent  to  indifference
 ​
***
7. ​the  L  in  my   Lurve
 
I am something you forgot  ever existed
I am the spider in your bath
I am the fly in your soup
I am the sadness you forgot you had
I am the fly on your wall
 
I am death speaking loudly
when you thought you had
forgotten  all about it again
 
I am minus zero
when you thought it could not get any colder
 
I am climate change
when you thought there  was  none
 
I am the silent minority talking loudly 
for  a  change
 
I am the great book you never read
the one that could  have  changed
how you look and  feel  about life
 
I am the age you would be if you were
not quite as old  as  George  Clooney
 
I am the bloke on the bench with mental elf  issues
you never ever notice
 
I am the problem part of the city you fear to tread
 
I am not  that  old  and hooked on  booze
taken to get away from
all those who are dead inside
 
I am the film that changed your life
 
I am the poem
that made you laugh smile cry
or just write another one
 
I am the capital F in Feeling
I  am  the  capital T,s  in  Thought  and  Thinking
I  am  the  capital W  in  Willpower
I  am  the  capital C  in  Co-operation
I am   the  capital T  in Tenderness
I am the  capital  D  in  Deceased
I am the  capital G  in Grief
I am the  capital S  in Sorrow
 
I am not you unless I loved you
big  time
 
then I might be
and you would be
the L in our Love

1 Comment
richard atkinson
4/7/2016 02:00:59 pm

Reply



Leave a Reply.

    The Kitchen Poet is now Tumbling.  

    UB INSTAGRAM

    submit: go  here. enter text in box.
    Read the original 9 KITCHEN Issues
    Picture
    #1
    Picture
    #2
    Picture
    #3
    Picture
    #4
    Picture
    #5
    Picture
    #6
    Picture
    #7
    Picture
    #8
    Picture
    #9

      Join Our Free Raffle for a Kitchen Poet Cookbook!

    SIGN UP & WIN!
Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.