Last Year's Man (Journey to Matlock)

A poem from 1986

pretty as a nightingale, she sits

in the engine

four stroke

caressing her valves

four of us

riding nowhere

Matlock, to be precise

which is

more or less

the same thing

for Matlock simply doesn’t exist

it is only a human facade

to make that town

easier to find

tagged, for identification purposes

did you think that when God made the world

he wrote out place names

and drew an atlas

and handed it to Adam?

Humid coolness pervades her

in this sordid town

that I know only too well

riding on...

darkness encapsulates us

orange lights streak across a reflected sky

the world of my left hand

melts into a starless

concerto

free house

public house

a false prophet for mere alcohol

is not given away

a pretence

to hide behind

all the better to con you with

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FOSDYKE

sounds like

a saga

“very flat” comment her brains

“except for the road which slopes

from the middle” retaliated her violet humour

the weather forecast

rained supreme

as we approached

Nottinghamshire

         !

GUNFIRE NOISE

yet I did not hear a thing

so for sooth am I going deaf

or is yon sign a deceitful liar

the rain soon died out

as did my desire to continue this poem