Poetry: Selections from Michael Pollentine

Stubborn Refusal Onslaught

I am so tired

Of patience

I want to smash its teeth

Provoke it to fight back

And knock me out

Because why shouldn’t it

Help out?

In my corner

Where everyone has left

No towel to throw

Nor revive

Count me out

Numb my brain

From endless washing

Machine torture

Thoughts of you

And what you did

And what I did

Big shots from afar

Moves for clinch

Trade body shots

Negating

Barbs

In waves

The dissection of every conversation

Of every glass memory

Of any photo

Even unfocused

Like a blistered vibration

A stunted lethargy

What a fucking mess

Exhausted I crash on a broken

Fold out bed

In a forgotten flat

In a place where you don’t know

I am lost

And separated from touch

I want to die

But lack the will

For violence

Yet harbour all the thrill

And the desire to fall back

To dirty my face

And ruin the edges

Apathy is holding my head up

And drying my eyes

Through apathy

I survived

Spent a week in an opiate triangle

Suck

Pass

Crash.

 

Sail skull fields

Long after music

Chokes.

 

Wake.

Drink hot tea.

Possibly eat cheap rice pudding.

Hard shit.

 

Repeat.

 

That was it.

Until we ran out.

A Recollection for James 

Prague.

She chose me over you

Stroked my balls

To get a bite

’60, 60, good sex, yeah,’

Yeah right.

Later at the club on a boat

Too many absinthes

Threw me overboard.

You saved my life.

Budapest.

Sat on steps with Irish guys

Watching pit bull twins

Kick the shit out of

A skinny dude.

Split.

Walked to our apartment

Two girls called me over

Pointed at you

And asked

‘Is he a black?’

Grandfather

Violent

Drank himself

To Death

When not gambling

Or running the clock

She didn’t go to his funeral

I never knew him

Online Date

Too intense

High

Later found out Valium.

Why did I go back with her?

Well, durr.

Stuck on some crazy horror film

And scattered a pile of cash

Over the bed sheets.

Kept expecting a man to burst out

And I’d contribute

A footnote to a YouTube video

About a killer couple.

Holding out for 4am

(The next train).

Said you wished to tear your coil out

So, I could get you pregnant.

Jeez.

About half three

The air tasted antibacterial.

Cutter’s Choice

Brixton. 2007.

Flatmate left a tenner for gas.

Stuck in the chipboard like a middle finger.

His turn,

Blew it off,

Because

He was like that.

Awoke 10pm.

The flat cold.

Oven colder.

Better go to the fucking shop then.

Harboured cold thoughts the way there.

Door: a black guy like a bouncer.

Odd.

Gave a nod.

Hindsight didn’t need gas.

Three Asian guys counter side and large black customer.

Shopped oblivious.

Munchies, milk, toilet roll.

Queued.

“You work for me.”

The black guy’s mantra.

The shopkeeper answers

“Right now, as you’re my customer.”

My turn.

Bagged up.

Asked for gas.

To my right this repetitive conversation.

“You work for me.”

Fuck’s sake.

Needed tobacco too.

“Right now, I do.”

Cutter’s Choice.

My brand back then.

And small green Rizla.

None? Shit.

Blue will do, but not red.

Paid.

Counted change.

Left.

Outside black guy nodded.

As did I.

It’s just polite.

Walked home and put the gas key in.

Michael Pollentine loves adrenaline-laced pulp fiction, characters that epitomise the freaky nature of the human condition, and peculiar landscapes. His main influences (after Iggy Pop lyrics) are David Lynch, Roald Dahl and exploitation movies. He lives in South Wales with his wife and their hamster Betsy.