THREE POEMS by SANFORD BLACK
French for the weekend
a roof rack on a space shuttle
a pilot, a mother and a third wheelin’ lover
spittin’ out rocket fuel as if it was prosecco
flying down the asphalt like there’s no tomorrow
a dream, an idea, sparked by Mother
too unique to fear, shouting
we’re coming, bayonets blazing, dear!
hold my smoking jacket, my fists are in the air!
a night in an airport, under moving stars and noisy comets
rocking the ground and rumbling the window sills
blankets held tightly, away from the prying eyes of the underworld
nasty dennis takes selfies next to his mates girl
causing a mental typhoon to whirl and twist and swirl
as crazy one-eyed joe battles the kid
standing in the darkness cracking the night with his whip
no time for this, this made up babble
let us not dither around this campsite mid-squabble
how about a jolly game of scrabble?
before I straighten up from this log
and trim your chase with my baton and dog
which coincidentally I’m sat on, in the middle of a sob
visage entre les cuisses
I want to bury my face in your... cat,
said the feline lover to the breeder
she looks hungry, shall we open this can of meat and feed her?
she’s breathing heavy, I think she’s ready, for a meaty supper
that‘ll slide down her throat real steady.
a horses hiney
a coin real shiny
faeces spread onto a dishcloth
but the portion is tiny
peppercorn seeds and creamy goop
a fly hovering around laying its eggs in your soup
dribbly words and bubbled laughs
spewing from mouths with gas from his ass
and Barry White singing
a song for the road
but his voice has been lost
and it’s gone an octave deeper
so now all they hear is a dullening patter
where words were once spoken
now, his voice vibrates the batter.
shaking vases and walking the frames
of kids with no faces and forgetful first names
such a shame
he vibrates on, all the same
horizontal stripes across a chest
a beret tipped forwards
pointing to a lively vest
ankles rolled to shins
revealing dainty pins
and shiny rims and trims
all of these things are just things!
the pauper in the gutter sings.
feathers turn yellow to white
and the day turns to dark from light
I’ll be sitting
counting bottles of wine that she sends,
but one day we’ll all go back
to france for the weekend.
Anywhere, we could be
in the black of goose, a twisted noose
not in the hoose! she laughs at the moose
now, the goose is chased by a dog
a hungry one at that, she’ll never win
the goose is angry and pecks at her face
but, it isn’t even a goose—it’s a duck!
she tries to run at the horse
not, though, a hoose
that’s a house where, lives, the little mouse
but not the moose...
a happy place, where everything, well, works
frowns hang on faces,
upside down, happy races
rosettes brag about 1st, 2nd and even 3rd places
stables creak in the beat of the sun
the hoose runs and cracks the ground like a gun
just for fun
the dog rallies and shouts with a grin
open this gate—let me come in!
the gate is opened but the dog remains
the hoose leaps high
his neighing, to her, just tames
the sofa, so comfy, on the grass
with a lampshade,
a microwave,
a cutlery drawer,
(and a hoover!)
sat around a bowl of fire
that singes the bum of a grandma
who doesn’t even notice
warm, she sits, in the night knitting, no lights
how can she even see?
we cannot be sure
she might even be asleep?
she’s slumped on the floor!
move grandma away from the fire
pat her down and pour in some biscuits
that’ll ease her chattering!
move her to the swing—that big hanging tractor tyre!
steps, built from mud
lead down to a gate
where a river awaits
to sweep you off to an ale house in town
(a mooring rail
a chimpanzees tail
a sign pinned in by a nail!)
where samples of dirty pants are handed out in glasses
try this one, Sir... freshly peeled from my legs, today!
I don’t think so but
I’ll try one of those familiar looking socks you’ve got on the shelf,
that looks tasty, crispy, bad for my health?
the sock is poked in
by a laughing black cat
gladly, who takes cheese for payment
if only he had thumbs to work the till
he manages, but badly
a hammer and chisel
cuts on shy knuckles
silly salt gets wrecked
holding onto wood, might of life
blood signage on sanded walls
smoke pluming to space
dinner calls
faster pulses and dusty eyes
blue sockets strike through cloudy skies
snails crawl out and leave a trail
all the way from neck to hip
elastic eased and easily, downwards, it slips
and a walk on a path that’s white like snow
though, hot not cold—bare legs, now, on show
now nosey faces with guns
peer out of tinted windows
questioning life, with envy, like nuns?
golden grass swaying
a crowd of ravers
yellow pollen dishes out sneezes for favours
a rumble on tracks bricked up to the sky
brave echoes follow as we walk
now, I can hear your honey as you talk
dainty slip-ons balance on the chalk
visions of summers and all kinds of mischief
pillowy natter as our hands kiss
different continents are great
but it never really matters
with you and your eyes close to my own
our dreams can travel far
Rome to home
Hebden to Coggles
New Zealand to Tickencote
anywhere, we could be, is fine by me.
Before the roads became congested
yellow, like the sun
opening the day with lust
young motors, one older than the other
one that’s ready
older than her brother
a seat made for one
a helmet to hide wide eyes
tipping toes, just about
holding on to the ground
keeping life balanced, a surprise
in view
an open road
yet, forever behind other traffic.
a number plate, unlike the rest
from a different place, alien
itchy, cloth seat covers
uncomfortable for bare skin and bottoms
time played its cruel tricks with a grin
a gear knob bigger than a fist
a steering wheel fitted with make-up
suggested and gifted
grease painted on with a cloth
though flies stuck to the bumper and stayed on
gun-metal grey
money fell out of five doors
I wanted to be you, chauffeuring tarts around
laying them down on the ground in closed car parks
wheel spins and twisted limbs
engines running and revving
without a care for all the other things
music stolen from a heart
the beatnik stripped and raped of all its parts.
we drove too far in front of your dead brother
I could never stand your judgemental mother
[saying absolutely nothing!]
borrowed wheels from my best friend
I left my knuckle on broken glass
overtook a ghost doing 100mph
this place, man, jesus!
we have to drive away from
but I’ll come back to Bedlam for someone.
I could’ve slept, in you
no room, though, for a past
not enough windows to last
window wipers burnt out
motors and emotions evaporated
we rallied up the hill to come down
and back down the hill to go back up again
too many deliveries for us to follow
not enough screenwash to keep cleaning mudded glass.
you rescued me from a sloppy gear stick
you, though, were automatic
windows remained tinted after 10 years
seats stayed clean despite crumbs falling from little fingers
beaten, then, by a lorry
scarred and abused by the past
the radio was our constant friend
no time to play or pretend, just a dead end.
sky blue
laden with bumps, scratches, marks and secrets
leather seats perfect for wiping and cleaning
headlights broke relationships
deceptively masked drivers faces
unhooked and removed skimpy bras
a bonnet strong enough to hold a moment
the ideal height to rev an engine
and raise the noise of lonely hearts
now
six legs under 6
7 seats in rows
a black and white field dolphin
exactly what the doctor ordered
a scruffy lad scratching and clawing
hold on to icey trails
adventure in a vessel with little legs propped up on pillows
tesco bags full of food blocking the rolling sky
dreams under stars and nylon
we love our road, our home
my X is 90.
Sanford Black is a writer from Grantham, UK. He has poetry online at A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Outcast Press, and has his first chapbook coming out late summer '22 with Alien Buddha Press. He is also the Worcester Amnesty Group’s Human Writes Poetry competition winner for 2022 with his poems “Azadi” & “Soap.”