Prospectors; On the Quays; Life; Too early; Discovering charles

Prospectors.

as if the gods were anything

but a thing to drive machines.

and men packed bags together

and struck out for wilderness

alone, with the straightforward

hearty manner

of prospectors, to come back

bent double, raving

prophesy, swearing

on rabbits

and the spirits in grass.

men watched skies

boil with light and wind,

twisting the clouds

like potatoes

in stewed gravy.

and they caught the gods,

trapped them

in churches and set them to work.

and prayers functioned –

things moved

about other things. the god of rocks,

making rocks fall. the god of the earth

making them settle.

On the quays

the horse

could fall over

for boredom. it’s a hot day;

july, and she’s biting

her bridle. gasping

and pulling at air

with the strength of a broken

ac box. she is tossing her head

and playing about

with her weight. the cart

is empty.

someone is smoking

a fag. beside her

cars go by

and bin lorries.

it’s awful.

I don’t like looking.

and the air smells stale,

like hotel rooms

and summer.

Life.

blocks rise like mushrooms

and the city’s grey

decay. they rise

and I wander about them

and wonder at the point

in the future somewhere

when they’ll stop finally

looking like intruders;

something crashed from space

or risen deep

out of the sea.

like visiting

damp buildings

and toecaps

through dryrot.

all buildings once

were ugly. there is life

and there are places

to live.

Too early.

friday evening. no plans.

chrysty’s got bored

and gone boozing

with her girlfriends.

I’m not invited

even though I like

most of them – it’s just

that tonight

is girls night. “minge drinking”

I told her this morning

and waited to laugh

until she laughed. in the house

alone, I open a beer

and look out the window.

try reading a book, try

music. I’m bored

and the dog is

on the sofa beside me.

she’s bored also. we’re bored

together. and that’s the thing;

we’re always together

and somehow that

isn’t boring. like buzz of a fridge

and the movement of clockhands –

the sounds so invisibly

there. my legs go heavy,

my belly goes sagged

and the battery

dies in my phone.

I look at the clock

above the fridge, sitting like an owl

on a window. 9pm – too early.

far too early.

Discovering charles.

I remember;

early on in college

and discovering charles

bukowski – I worked

after class

in this office by the river

selling windows,

and sometimes

I’d show up early

and sit in a bookshop opposite,

drinking coffee from a paper cup

reading Factotum

and Dog from Hell – eventually

I even bought a copy.

god help me

it was in my blood

too long. I thought

the only books written

were bukowskis. wrote long poems

just like him. imagined

you needed

a bad job

and a hangover

and to love

and hate the girls. wrote stories

which went nowhere

and were always

about bars.

I was lucky

really

in my choice of girlfriends

at the time.

most of them

quite sensibly

couldn’t stand the fucker.

DS Maolalai has been nominated four times for Best of the Net and three times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019)