2 Pints for Saint George

0
31

Across the estate and a threatened seasonally adjusted shower

but the glasses are on to refract light and neighbours

out t’pay rent and tax are smiling good-willingly in shorts.

Vasanth tells me his name whilst disclosing

he does not keep stamps under the counter

only he says Wasanth in a tamilish fashion.

Famous red-topsare celebrating the four-hundredand fiftieth

birthday of a dead playwright (for forty pence

and a pair of tits still, never mind eh).

A full sheet of first class commemorative Buckingham Palaces,

collectors’ sheets so don’t expect a letter

costs eleven quidish,this day and age.

The three forty seven t’market’s had its a/c fitted

and no advertising down its vibrant-red side.

Delightfully refreshing,but I’ll set up a steering group

for the flag-issue,having the requisite the noted

builder’s ‘fuck-you’ gene.

Across the cut not raked green

municipally managed I notice the daisies and dandelions

are uncut by the litter bin underneath

the cctv camera and the Royal Oak

signeage bearing a crown and the aforementioned tree leaf motiif.

There are two early doors,retired working men not members

of the community facility,where other members in the abscence

of the other hierachy weild the power to ask

an errant man to leave.

A fat man wobbles along a kerb in a very

highvisibiltysweltering jacket.

It must get cold when you’re ill.

The bunting-remnants of old union-jacks flutter

lightly under the crown.

At the bar fresh bunting for today

has something Danish written across the red cross

and I mumble something coquettis about disrespecting the Flag.

Charlie,the old pikey,with a critical story

too long to retell here’s out in his unwashed pants and clobber

sporting a trilby the colour of the earth he treads daily like a religion.

Candles are blooming on the chestnut tree by the surgery

and it is starlings have the freedom to feed on flies

in unswallowed skies,(though a cormorant bearing the bad luck

of an old wive’s tale was spotted menacing this early morning.

Peppa Pig’s theme park rubs by

on the second bus t’market as my

refelection on un-neutered patriotism

sends the Royal Oak sign a creaking on it’s hinges

Laboured dissent and a postal van,

day-caring Grandmothers with a trusting child in hand

trotting off to buy the beans.

Not even a whispered mention of the church admonishing

the state about poverty.

Today in salutation of great men,their wives

their loves and all women

the ingredients are clearly described on an

industrially etched glass,it goes like this

for the willing and the knowing:

Cornish water english maltedbarley, wholehopflowers,

a bright yellowrefuselorry and Sharp’suniqueyeast.

I am reminded by gentlemen reclining to mind my head

as I reason with my love of this land whilst a pair of Pakistani doctors

with their crisp-creased rolled up sleeves

take to the street for an ultra violet lunch.

I think of William Blake buying them a pint.

A blackbird sings and a thousand pages

are written in a second.

Back from market the advertising hoarding

is letting off a limping blazered schoolboy

and three hell’s angels gently purr by.

A balding-greyhaired-mod in a Paul Weller parka

strides out on a visit to the twenty four hour

tourist destination of choice.

(a harried nurse running to catch a sandwich

in her dettol costume)

Everything shall be resolved just about

if the magpies will stop parking

on the double yellow lines

and we manage to find the vegetarian spaghetti

Peter Handley


Peter Handley was born in a small village next to what was Sherwood Forest in the first decade at the beginning of the end of the age of Aquarius. He has been variously described as an arty farty twat and an Indian Oscar award winning actor and writer. He is published in numerous literary journals, trained, amongst other places, at Bristol Old Vic Theatre School and continues to tell stories and bullshit in all the right hostelries to promote positive growth all around the world and in his back garden. His first solo exhibition of works on paper is due out in a fancy gallery in Vienna late 2014.

To report this post you need to login first.
Previous articleTourism businesses urged to step forward for well-deserved recognition
Next articleMichael Portillo and the Monsters of the Pliocene Epoch
Dorset Eye
Dorset Eye is an independent not for profit news website built to empower all people to have a voice. To be sustainable Dorset Eye needs your support. Please help us to deliver independent citizen news... by clicking the link below and contributing. Your support means everything for the future of Dorset Eye. Thank you.