While i am here & before i exhaust you with today’s Charlie poem, i want to say that Tim Miller at Underfoot poetry has asked me to be a guest editor, so i am scouting poets. If you’d like 6 poems published, send me 8 to email@example.com along with a bio, & a paragraph explaining your poetic philosophy, what poetry means to me, your process or all three; i am interested in transparency, i like the mysticism of form(ing) & function(ing) taken out the equation & rather have it filled with something about poetry. So this probably isn’t for those poets who think that poetry is a wholly inspired task. i don’t deny some of it is, but what is this mystery to you, rather than just the acceptance of what comes.
Let’s see what we can do. Hope to hear from you soon.
Some things to know about Charlie
Breath like a Goidel munching onions & sheep testicles.
More out of place than a Pict at a make-up counter.
Farts like a tiger after a gazelle supper.
As sincere as an empty stomach.
Not as ugly as Dot Cotton but uglier than Deidre Barlow.
Not interested in religion but it’s interested in him.
Looks as if he’s been cudgeled with a duck’s foot
& battery acid leaking from his arsehole time to time
& from his ear’oles if he ain’t ‘ad Weetabix ‘n rum;
“best get that looked at by the dentist lad”
—a beautiful incongruity of Charlie’s life.
He’d change his diet if the stove worked & his neurons had legs.
He wants a woman who smells of Osmanthus Fragrans
but don’t know what it smells like: never smelt it;
it isn’t native to the British Isles.
When he thinks (or thereabouts) he looks like a dog with itchy teeth
trying to gnaw its leg off, to satisfy the itch.
An orphan who cries his dead mother to sleep.
He reads to himself but only in his dreams: he cannot read.
His jokes flat as a witch’s tit,
as funny as the instructions to Ikea, flat pack furniture.
His love & kindness deep as a Beijing sinkhole.
He is Godly God’s purest object of creation.