scarecrow poetics/essays

Another Night

I had a headache
took two pain killers
the bright lights don't help my condition
neither do the laughing bouncers spitting on the floor
outside Norwegian blue.
Moving on through bottles and pint glasses
hours go by
endless wasted nights
slutty girls dance who pick out identikit haircuts
to dance with,
boys with tight t-shirts emblazoned with retro
Americana slogans
hula girls
welcome to the Bronx
Boston university
white, brown and ambient yellow.
I watch these peacocks present
drunken compliments
bitter rejections.
that’s harsh.
We walk back like we always do
in search of a taxi
I drunkenly push a wheelbarrow
through tombland
Glenn helps me lift
and we hurl it into the wensum
drunk and disorderly
eighty pound fine,
what a waste of time.


Rise

Maybe it’s just the winter,
the cold Siberian sun
which has replaced the Mediterranean sun
which appeared occasionally during the summer
in amongst showers of rain
which was neither one thing nor the other.
my orphaned hand
it rests on the mouse
whilst the other rubs rampant.
during the day I struggle to get a rise
maybe a bit of morning wood
as the dawn sun shines throughout the trees
her hot little ass
floats past in those tight denim jeans
nothing
but now I’m worried
trapped in the midnight pub
as the drinking clock
circles
time moves forward pushing the boundaries
like an upside down cross inverted in blood
that other girl with sunken eyes
anaemic gothic beauty
a body to die for
a partner to rest with
in an oak coffin lined with pink velvet.
In my mind
I was whipped and spanked
hoping something different
might give me a rise
but still nothing.


Friday, like any other day

Thank you for letting us see your work, we're sorry to return it
in the stamped address envelope that you kindly sent.
I wake up to this and wonder where all the good mail is gone
leaflets about Car Insurance, letters about Credit Cards with criminally low APR and pyramid scams, oops I mean schemes.
As I writer it seems hardly worth going on, it’s like punching yourself in the face.
Today is Friday the 13th.
Work, went well
which was nice
had fish and chips for tea
didn’t go out Friday night
Saturday is tomorrow,

Glasshouse Showdown

At times it pays not to retaliate.
This guy pokes me with his middle finger
right in the middle of my chest
what you gonna do about it
nothing I guess,
as I don't know how to fight
I could have punched him
but if you don't fight on instinct
and just take a drunken swing
then its pot luck in the dark.
It’s even more hopeless when you are slow off the mark
he walks away with a smirk on his face
and the chance of retribution
has been and gone

Richard Wink © 2006.

Richard Wink was born in 1984 in the 'Fine' City of Norwich. His poetry is based upon real life experiences and the complications of life, reflecting both the sacred and the mundane