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.
