Poetry Pillow - 4th June - UPDATED: both parts.

So, what happens when you shove a gay into a cafe and make him read poetry?
This is me.  ENJOY :) x
Also, just so everyone knows, this is so my favourite job in the world.

Man In Road Knows Nothing Of Us - M. R. Wallis

This is the edited version of a poem I wrote on the 6th of May.  

Enjoy. x

—————————————

Man in road knows nothing of us, 

              thinks he does
doesn’t see thoughts, hear heart
man in road can’t feel talk.
                         Thinks he knows life
perfect family, perfect proper prim wife
doesn’t know mine died.
                             Doesn’t know
true life.
              Lives in and off plastic
cares about taxes, money all that
not us curled up in wet cold blankets.
sees only eyes in head slump,
drunk, shuffled stagger grump.
                             Doesn’t know names
only outstretched helpless hand begging
again
              again
                             again.
                             Could choose new names
he wouldn’t know.
                        He doesn’t know
true pain or gain, takes medication for headaches
we have every day
doesn’t know chronic agony.
                                            Does he?
Tell me,
man in road knows nothing of us,
              thinks he does
doesn’t see closed hand knuckled white
yellowed skin, thick leathered tight
                             doesn’t know true hurt
true dirt
              true cold, true world
                             or the meaning of a proper

                             s m i l e.
Knows clubcard points and airmiles

Doesn’t know
how to wank off at night
              when the city’s so bright
and watching you, hating you
              Doesn’t know the night like we do
              doesn’t see beauty in overcast days
              doesn’t fear the rain
              curled up
              two under coat on doorstep
cold, together.
              Groaning, the city: clowning,
Us ghosts asleep.
                             Frost crystaled up
                             piss dribbled
                             corners
                                            where we lay.
Man in road wakes in bed every day.

                                            Knows nothing of us,
              thinks he does.
knows only
                              g l a m o u r s  !
              Pretends to care.
knows nothing of me
knows nothing of us

just smells me …
thinks he knows me.
Just sees forgets me.

For Me - M. R. Wallis

- this probably isn’t in the collection, it’s written to the parallel universe version of myself - the person who didn’t write, who didn’t invest the time and devotion into the craft and instead lived an arguably ‘normal’ teenage life-

For Help - M. R. Wallis

For Dicks - M. R. Wallis

A secret: I wrote this poem drunk.  I really can’t drag myself away from writing much.  I ended up writing for nineteen hours yesterday/thedaybefore.  I wouldn’t give it up.

For This, My Pleasure - M. R. Wallis