Six p.m. Saturday Evening
It blows my mind to think of all of the
Human lives with all of their own private
Sorrows and joys, even in this little town
Six p.m. on a Saturday evening, just think
Of all of the different slices of life
Happening right now in all of these
Small houses. People getting ready for
A night on the town. The women
Putting on their make- up and curling
Or straightening their hair. The men
Drinking a couple of cans to help them
On their way, rubbing their hands
Together with glee at the thought of
A real good piss up. Or the poor
Lonely souls, watching crap prime time T.V.
Sadly looking forward to Monday
Because at least there are people
At work they can talk to.
Then there's me, writing poetry
In a £1 notebook, writing down
All of these worthless thoughts
There are thousands of other
Stories too.
I can't help but wonder, and I wonder
Why don't you
Far Out, Man !
It's a late summer evening
It's close to 10 'O’ Clock
I hear the birds singing
With the pleasure that they've got
I am 48 years old
And life is getting rough
All the beliefs which I've been told
Are nowhere near enough
Christ on the cross
Buddha in the lotus position
To me, it's all lost
All just superstitions
We're just floating on a ball
In the middle of nowhere
If there's any miracle at all
It's that there's any life there
I don't believe in any deity
I think that is cosmic enough
And it blows my mind for me
When this life is getting rough
The Real Realities
I was reading Lorca, and about his poetic theories
The difference between ‘ imaginative poetry ‘
And ‘ inspired poetry ‘. I was feeling pretty good
Thinking about writing a long, stream of consciousness
Poem. I went downstairs to get a coffee
Noticed that the cat's litter box needed changing.
Well, if there's one thing to clear your head
Of poetic fancies, it's changing your cat's litter box
You're thrust into the real realities
Of life. Piss and shit.
I forgot about a stream of consciousness
As a stream of cat urine ran down my hand.
Instead, I came upstairs and wrote this
The literary equivalent of what I've just thrown away
My Nightmare
Every writer thinks they're writing great stuff
If they didn't, why on earth would they bother
Each one thinks they're a genius, craftsman or seer
That they're better than all the others
Who wants to think that they are mediocre
To admit that they are no good
When they feel art in every heartbeat
And literature flow through their blood
At least 90% have to face up to the fact
That they never got it quite right
No, they weren't what they thought
They weren't quite good enough
Their names will disappear into the night
It is one of the saddest things about humanity
To live a full life, yet get nowhere
To be born at the bottom of the mountain
And a lifetime later to be still standing there
To never make a mark upon the Centuries
When you see the rubbish the public is fed
The morons get rich and move
To L.A.
You're stuck in Stoke and might as well be dead
On Poetry As Flower Arranging
Reading a slim book of poetry
On life and it's mutability
Poems written from inside of
A safe, cosy, middle class cocoon
The words have no sharp edges
To burst the balloon
Poems about flowers
To while away the hours
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next pot of tea
Not poetry for you and me
Or anything like reality
Poetry as a gentle hobby
Like baking
Or flower arranging
Not poetry from the gut
That comes raging
Like fists planted upon the page
Poems of loss, or love, or rage
But tenderly placing
Each word on the page
Like a delicate flower
To be arranged
I don't hate the woman
Who wrote this stuff
For her this obviously is enough
I envy her easy life
It's lack of struggle
It's lack of strife
Perhaps one day it will be me
Writing of such superficialities
When I'm fat, well fatter
Rich and content
And all of my life force has been spent
I'll sit in my garden
And smell the flowers
Then, while away my hours
In my hobby, writing poetry
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next pot of tea
Thrown Away
I remember when I was young
Much younger, just left school
In fact. I was in college, I was
Supposed to be studying to be
An engineer. I had no interest at
All in engineering. The only thing
About college that was fun was
Going to the pub at lunchtime.
Eventually, they threw me out
For turning up two hours late
For afternoon classes so drunk
That I could hardly stand.
Anyway, I remember the main
Lecturer as he kicked me out
Of there. He gave me a real
Bloody lecture. He looked down
At my file, open on his desk and
Told me how I had thrown away
Every opportunity I had ever had.
I think he meant the scholarship
To a posh, private school that I
Was given aged eleven.
I absolutely hated it and left
After a year.
“ Every chance you've been given
You just throw them all away.”
Perhaps that's why now, all
These years later, I find myself
So often rooting through the
Rubbish of life.
I'm trying to work out just what
It was I threw away, and seeing
If I can find it again
Browsing
Browsing through my phone today
I saw something ;
‘ Click HERE for a free pdf
Of Charles Bukowski poetry ‘
So I clicked and
The next thing I saw wasn't poetry
But hardcore porn and messages
Supposedly from women who live
In my area who are desperate for
No strings sex with any man
Available and willing.
Obviously these women don't exist
I hope these women don't exist.
That attach such little value
To themselves.
I only wanted to read some poems
Perhaps a few I hadn't seen before
My God !
Is this what they do now
To lure people in ?
I must be getting old
I really wanted to read those poems
My Motorbike
My wife often asks me
“ Why do you have to write
So often ? Every day you
Sit there tapping away.”
Well, if you had, for example
A huge, fast motorbike
It doesn't cost you a penny
To ride it, and no matter
What hair raising stunts
You do on it you are
Guaranteed to never get
Hurt, and if you practice
Enough then, you never
Know, you may end up
Being a professional
Motorbike rider. Then I'm
Sure you'd ride it as much
As you possibly could.
This is my motorbike.
Watch as I slide it into the
Bends, in a minute or two
I just might attempt a huge
Death defying leap, over 15
Double decker buses placed
End to end. Yes this is my
Motorbike and I am never
Ever going to stop riding it.
Garlic Bloody Sausage
for the last week or two,
my wife has had a craving
of some sort for garlic sausage,
and cheese slices. I've tried
every shop, and nearly every
supermarket in town. today,
the first shop I tried, an absolutely
huge supermarket didn't have any.
So I tried the new one, a supermarket
that's only just opened. victory !!!
Internet found it straight away,
not a problem, not a problem at all.
so then I looked at the cheeses,
there we're two types of cheese
slices. surely I couldn't go wrong
here. how wrong I was ! they were
the wrong type, so then I had to
go back into the supermarket,
Istand in line, waiting to be served.
when I was seen, eventually,
by a bored and surly black woman,
I had to ask her if I could get a
refund of one pound, and forty
nine pence for a packet of the
wrong sort if cheese slices..
then I went back into the shop
for the THIRD time, to buy another
brand. of course, these were the
wrong ones too. by now I was
beginning to lose my cool.
So off to a third shop we went.
in this shop luckily they sold the
type my wife was after. I say luckily,
because if they hadn't, I think that I
may have strangled her.
It's not the big things in life that will
finish you off. it's the little, petty
stuff that you never thought were
of any importance. it's the garlic
sausage, and the cheese FUCKING
slices that drive a person insane.
Ian Lewis Copestick is a 49 year old writer from Stoke on Trent, England.
He started writing around 2000, but due to a lack of confidence, and the lack of a clue where to send his work, he wasn't published until 2018.
Since then he's had over 350 poems, and several short stories published.
His book " Detritus Of The Drunken Night " was published in 2019 by Cajun Mutt Press, he's also been in several print anthologies, and nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
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