1
we meet for coffee on wednesdays
and discuss his problems with ts elliott
his legs are thin and he does want to eat peaches
but more than that he cannot find the energy
to switch from long stanzas
to short
I'm tired of writing about myself
he says without quotation marks
clearly we have a barista
a law school drop out
for our coffee is patterned in honour
of something or another
of which we have no knowledge
and do not care
he stabs the design with his spoon
and unquotably sighs
for the clean air act
that deprives him of yellow fog
and the english degree of a certain age
that stops him writing rythmicaly
in long sweeping sentences that break out of the implied concrete structure
and then short ones
it's the bloody full stops he continues
if I leave them in they get in the way
and if I take them out I want to put them back in
and all this bloody spring everywhere
bloody daffodils I paint them red
and then shiela says that I am stealing her coffee spoons
that's her trick you see
blood everywhere
why she can't enjoy the relief of the menopause
oh don't quote me
we sip coffee and watch the world pass
wishing a black and white photographer
could catch us atmospherically not smoking
I'm just pleased he has dropped the silver cane
and the caution
2
I am a little alarmed by the two shots of hazelnut syrup
he has a jaunty spring today
'how's elliott' I ask, lifting chocolate powder
from the froth of my cappuccino
with the back of my spoon
alls well with elliott I hear
and with shiela
he points and states that the world is as sunny
as the day is overcast
pleased with the double negative
he sucks sugared coffee from the biscotti
testing his denture against the hardness
no
elliott is great he adds
he has no issue with elliott
peachy
no
yes
no
what do I think of americans
and more specifically strumbert and weiss
nine peacocks fly past burtons
the grammarians
fifteen peacocks float on silk cushions
you know who I mean
one lone butterfly scimitars an ant by the drain
the language police which dislike star trek and passivity
I refuse to name them
don't give them house room
coldly grate them
'have you tried just writing'
but the english degree of a certain age has him by the throat
muffled in is black woolen coat
with his red brick scarf
I watch his eyes whirl with syrup
and maybe a touch of shiela
3
it seems shiela has really gone and done it this time
not only has she decided that sex is the best thing since sliced onions
he laughs at this reference to shakespeare
and produces a hand written draft
he has written in response to something or another
in this or that
literary magazine
'response is never useful' I casually observe
sipping a raspberry milkshake with a hint of coffee
among the ice
oh know I am wrong
and we get it both barrels
with all the smoothness of imitated early elliott
as he reads a bus drools by time drips people do what people do
pass unobserved on the most part
certainly in art
unless it is a low budget film
when the same faces circling a window
draws attention to the hair lip
or the third extra in search of stardom
what do you think he asks
is it not ts elliott
does it not stand alongside the literary greats
will it be banned
I do so hope so
blood drips from the toes of the elegant woman at the next table
her shoes are perfect for her style
she leans over and thanks him for reading
'poets must bleed or their words mean nothing' she says
dangling her shoe
adding to the puddle on the floor
they exchange cards
in the style of kindred spirits
with an english degree of a certain age
while he is not looking
I take his poem
and eat it
his reputation must be protected
4
he's not speaking today
a pad of post-its and a fountain pen with itallic nib
is his preferred medium of communication
despite everything
he has standards
I don't apologise
my explanation gets a little rambled
rambles a little further
a four by four rams into the window of the jewellers
machete wielding attackers fill their boots
a police helicopter hovers
shoppers wrestle with the police
and the gang
an elephant fires tear gas from it's trunk
aliens fire hail stones
the world explodes into strawberry bonbons
all matter breaks down into soap bubbles
the price of gas reflects the retail price
tesco give me £6.21 off my next shop if I spent forty pounds
he pushes a post-it at me
'nothing inspires me' it reads
a second follows
'the world is too dull'
a small boy starstruck asks for his autograph
it seems in the alternate future
his poem in this and that magazine
was world changing
a splash
the drop in the bucket
I feel worse now than ever
if only I'd get my mouth shut
swallowed my words
and not his
what do I really know
he is the man with an english degree of a certain age
not me
he is the man with shiela and elliott
not me
not me
but he
5
today no abstraction from me
just what is - in this alternate reality
we both drink expresso
and I listen as he opens the creaking calfskin reporters notepad
curate the velum pages
until he finds the poem he has been working on
the english degree of certain age
shimmers in the corporate decoupage of studied design
gone is the elliott
gone is the influence of shiela
now there is only transversive theory
where the words are redundant
and the poem is a series of gifs
that jukebox
as we must consider all possibility
but where is the concept
I want to say
were is the juxtaposition
in a world of only genius there can be no illumination
just as
in a poem of the infinite
only toe-tapping nothingness pervades - an endless lift ride to the basement
'but don't you see' he declares - pointing the mont blanc pen
which his drop in a bucket
which his new wave
which his triumphant alternate future delivered
in the shape of a mugged small boy wanting his autograph
'only when poetry means nothing can it mean anything'
this is beyond bad and good
though I check my absurdity
for no small boy was mugged
and we continue
to jukebox
the possibilites
of the same tedium for eternity
6
today I gulp latte
and try not to look at his accolytes
college types like himself
though the red brick of their yet unattained
english degree of a certain era
is more cut glass than his
he has them on leads
though in the world of his new found freedoms
they are not referred to by the common tongue
instead
in jest - only half joking - the yellow leather straps are called freeds
for his work has gone beyond
where once he sought the simple joy of ts elliott
that ease
that expression of the infinite
where once he balanced shiela's bloody
where once he longed publication
and found fulfillment in possibility
now he has gone beyond infinity
into a definite article
of constricted rules
in which the freed is the perfect symbol
for only he knows
only he sees
and his acolytes - disciplesque -
provide the loop of his greatness
his poem - for we no longer share
everything is him - is entitled
it's theme is perfection personified in the pixels of a full stop
on his phone
only on his phone
charged in his kitchen
oh how I long for the angst to return
that we might discuss again
a single rain drop runs down the pane
catches a rail of spent water
and commits suicide on the putty
in the hope that the sun will lift it back to the sky
so as it will again enjoy the giddyness of falling
The Blue Book
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