scarecrow poetics/essays

Sunday, March 18, 2007


Welcome to Peckham . . .

Monday Morning

I slept straight
through my alarm
and woke at 10am
in fact I hadn’t
even set it
to go off.
I jumped out of
bed and peeked
through the blinds
and saw two
men doing the
junkie shuffle
through the grey
Monday morning.
I thought
even the junkies
aren’t as lazy
as I am
these days.

The First Night Of Snow

There were three murders at the weekend.
Then last night I awoke at 3am and it was freezing. I looked out the window to see a policeman and a policewoman chasing a car thief along the street and into the park. The policewoman was not what you would call thin, but man she was quick.
She caught up with him and as she made an arrest, it immediately started delicately snowing for the first time this winter.
It was like a textbook idyllic chocolate box scene, all those flashing blue lights, barking dogs, out-of-breath policemen and silent snowdrops falling across London.

How I Made My Millions

It was a hot day and I was sitting in the park.
when suddenly it came to me, just like that:
Sweet pizzas! You must invent, manufacture
and market sweet pizzas! Just think about it
for a minute. Combining the public’s love of
pizza and cake, you can’t lose. And consider
the potential in variations. Blueberry jam and
mascarpone. Maple and pecan. Hot fudge and
chocolate. Mmm. I jumped up and punched
the air with delight. I was going to be rich. Rich!

Killer Right Hook

I grabbed my camera and walked to the park to capture the pink winter sunset but two school girls were kicking holy fuck out of one another in the midst of a baying throng of about fifteen boys and girls in loosened Friday evening uniforms so I waded in and tried to tear them apart but they were pulling each other’s hair and swinging fists, eventually they were prised apart when another girl bit one of their hands and as they broke away, one of them, a chubby black girl with bloodied teeth and wild eyes, let out a killer right jab to my mouth and I had to hand it to her, it was a good precise punch, and the throng took a collective intake of breath but the fight was over, the girls were all out of punch and after a while they all kind of drifted apart and went their separate ways until there was just me left standing there in the mud, rubbing my swollen jaw and wondering what had just happened. The pink sun had set. It was dark. It was December. My thirtieth year.

Peckham Sunset

A sunset over Safeway
presents itself like
a medal worn proudly

around the neck
of a great Olympiad;
a once-rippling Greek God

who has now fallen, crippled,
clinging to his memories
like he clings to his mottled medal.

View Of The Park From The Window

two men deftly slice the top from
an aluminum can dug out from the
litter bin below my window
turned sideways and fill it with
water to smock their crack through
as Carla, the Eastern European
Jehovah-seller buzzes my intercom
for the third time in a week;
this is not a literary imagining
or a memorable incident or
anything that matters to me but
it is the truth of a Monday morning
living in reality, Tuesday 23rd Jan.

Quote Carved Into Concrete With Stick On Peckham Pavement

To sleep,
to dream!

Ben Myers © 2007.

I'm a street fighting writer, pugilist poet and hapless fly-fisherman. I have published a number of books and am a founder member of Captains Of Industry record label and The Brutalists ( I write lyrics for The Gulag. More details can be found: My fiction has appeared in a number of collections and websites such as 3AM, Dogmatika, Zygote In My Coffee, Straight From The Fridge, Bookmunch, Blatt,, Dreams The Money Can Buy, Open Wide etc. I have also been known to write for publications such as Kerrang!, Alternative Press, Time Out, Plan B, Q, Bizarre, DrownedInSound, Melody Maker (RIP), Playlouder, Record Collector etc. I have nearly 3000 friends, and they all hang out in my one-room flat every night. I dream of apostrophes. I'm broke.


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