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)