Inspired in part, by the downgrading of exam grades in British schools this week, Too Late Now was written as a way of venting my anger and frustration at the stupidity of Mankind.
Probably because of the urgency I felt, prose did not seem the correct medium and so I chose poetry. To me a poem should, whatever its subject, pack a punch.
After it has rested, I may look at the poem again and rework it, hopefully make improvements. However, it felt right to share with you this raw version.
Discovering Bukowski recently. I thought I would share The Twins with you – read by the poet himself. It’s a poem that made me smile.
(source: rarestimp)
I’ll miss your ass.
“What just my ass?
I’ll get you a replacement.”
Will she speak the words you speak?
Or lull me with your lilt?
Or fuck like you?
Shall she raise her fists as you do?
Or bang heads with me?
“Probably not.”
No, thanks.
I’ll miss your ass.
up the hill toward the fields.
a man and a boy and a plane.
what does my son carry today?
Concrete sheep
On roundabout green
Donning Santa hats.
Approaching cars fill with laughter,
Children in the back seats lean and point,
“Mummy, Daddy, look at the shee—”
BANG!
Tributes flutter like Small Coppers;
Pulls my gaze like a Red Admiral.
And there like a ghost is the mother
Attending to the roadside grave.
In the chill of a dawn, wet With tears of dew, I saw a stag Broken and strewn, Limbs and guts Snapped and burst By metal, on bloodied tarmac.
Eric Nash 