Friday, 28 September 2012

Digging It

You lucky, lucky people might get two poems tonight because, while you are all out being the very life and soul and blood and bones of your particular town or city,  I am keeping an eye on things back here.  Somebody has to.

One day, hopefully soon, I'll feel well enough in myself to go out and flash the natives and perhaps vomit in a convenient doorway.  Until then, you get to read all my stuff.

Every morning I walk the same way to work and the very inappropriately-named Rue de la Paix is a little piece of hell that has to be negotiated.  I'm sure it will be nice when they stop fucking digging it up all the time.

Rue de la Paix

There is a shrug about the travaux,
a big-arsed digger swinging its rump,
distant memories of pavement, zombies
intent on espresso salsa out the way.

In the evening do not disturb.  The beast
rests, knuckle down on a pile of mortar,
little shanty bridges over earthworks,
to shops that carry on with bravado.

Every day the streetscape changes. 
I do not think there is a plan.  Boys
on the beach digging against the sea.
Sanctified in tape of red and white.

(I took this picture.  I started taking a picture each day and then got really bored.  When you walk the same way you kind of run out things to photograph unless you have an exceptionally good camera.  Mine doesn't do focus, in any meaningful way).


  1. My game at the moment seems to be deciding which line I like best... so far the last line has always been perfect... today, I vote for line 2.
    I will never look at a digger again without thinking of it as big arsed, swinging its rump.
    I love the photo too. J.

  2. Seriously, this is one big arse digger, and there are no barriers or any sort of protection, so people are walking to work all arond it nearly gettig knocked over by its arse.