Posts Tagged ‘Shopping’


April 17, 2017

Barely raining, a troop of three of us head for Tesco Express, the route follows the line of a sheer drop, railed off by some concrete posts and thick gauge galvanized poles. Beyond is quarry which has been reclaimed by plant life, its earth consists of yellow clay and sandstone and I was told as a child that a fossil of a coelacanth had been found there. Now nettles, brambles and stickybudded sycamore trees rise above the bank, while bluebells and flame orange calendula heads laugh from the human tippage. Far below, deeper nettles, goose grass and rosebay willow-herb become one with hawthorn and spindle bushes, the blanket of spring green stretching far across the valley into the dim urban bricks and the grey feet of the Clent Hills, punctuated only by the unnaturally long white carcass of the Dudley Hospital. At least eight men must have heaved the safe to the brink of the precipice and probably ran pushing and kicking through the brambles, to make sure it landed deep into the thickets. Those same men whose destiny lies in that hospital, outside the main doors still hooked up to drips sucking on cigarettes held to their lips by their remaining mates.


April 10, 2017

The spring is a shock, I feel guilty to have lived beyond the dark small days into the blue sky that glides over the shimmering glass of rectangular authoritarian lies.

The hazy passing car afternoons where the self-conscious poor, hunch over our Formica tables, tea and leathery excuses, of buns. No matter about the silver soaring flights of the busy.

Yet still, exhausted I sit in someone’s semi-public back seat, he says I look tired out,  with a lisp, as I am driven through the back streets and the traffic of the match or no match and the radio sport and the Hollies. I am both leader and most vulnerable, this dangerous ride on the back of an eagle is easy and I don’t care if I fall off as the violence in my father’s van left me accustomed to accept death in a vehicle.

Shopping Script

February 18, 2017


For me each week looks the same, alone with the time that has no humour and gives back no value. A mountain of fabrication, humanity not quite desperate, but near to the end of function. The choreography of saving and losing of money, isles of holding back and of dull passing – and isles of letting go – to hunger or small hope. Somewhere between egg boxes, washing powder and rows of frozen food cabinets, I loose this mammoth acropolis of false light and dim grubbing, inside a greater city with the power to bring forth voices of the dead with epiphany – and the loved, with tears of un-lived life.. I pull myself back to push and lean the miles unmarked, this pathway, this tank of brief optimisms and mounting fear, as anxiety overpowers the weary last drops of spending… stemmed – slammed shut – aborted! The checkouts ahead – this throbbing worst moment, voices can’t help lift, pack or pay, I alone, sometimes heart racing, head swimming, the fear that I may never pass through.