Issue 13: January 2007

Simon Barraclough | Dean K Farrow | Valerie Josephs | John Stiles | Tim Wells | Dean Wilson

JOHN STILES

Incidentally I was tinkering

Incidentally I was tinkering (for a wee while)
Till Kev came round (Kevin H. inter-office)
And then I was visited many times by people
I didn't see all week, right at the end of the day.

One, with nice hips (hip waders?) wanted money,
repayments, was oh so helpful, rattled on slightly
above-pitch. The secretary spat under her breath
Flexi, too? And now she's had it, the Finance

Director knelt down amongst noise, passed through
the files, amidst the clatter, his secretary sat beside,
taking dictation, looked at me (was it misery?)
This will always puzzle me as we rarely speak about

anything except golf. There are some fantastic driving
ranges, SE28 I think but that could be Swansea for all
I know. I'm not from this part of town. I'm a port rat,
I come from The Port near the canal, y'know:

Embrees U Pick, Hiltz's, Frenchies, Swinging Bridge, y'know?

 

Mad Pilgrim Poet

I could care less what you think of me, they
might say what a cunt or poor you, point
to the pages of Odd John and so is this

revenge? A real get goer! In London to promote
a book but you made him sign the book ‘Mad
Pigrim poet’ but he got you, you said sensitive

eyes, you have sensitive eyes and then he felt
for a second victorious because you paid for the book
(but five pound when the full cost was eight).

Available in Canada? I doubt it, Arms read by
Madeline Sonik and Adam Getty was in stitches,
too, in fact we all fell about, under tables, listening
to that mad, carry on.

 

Down the Dykes

Stay oat the sandpit en offa Monkey's Island, don you
ferrs go near that dump, either one of um.

What Daddy say?

Dead chickens hangin trees enna case Ten Penny.
ShurGain caps beat right inna dirty ground.

Stink? nuthin like the smell a diesel fuel, chicken shit
en whatdotheycallit: fertilizer?

Jerry's trailer's off limits too.

Our mum, bigger than a man, almost, slammin the door, humming.

Hmmm hmmm hmmm.
Hmmm hmmm hmmm.

The dykes
The dykes

Me and Lio on back are CCMs watchin the sun fall
over Gaspereau mountain, both us lay back inna grass
didn't think it be better with a girl.

Hell what'd that fancy pants say to a pack a matches
with a hard on?

 

Italian Verb Drills

Pigeons and Pellet Guns

by John Stiles

"Leave them railroad ties where they are, Curtis,
en git back on the lawnmower."

Ol man Barretson got out the truck put his Drum
tobacco on the hood of the yellow Datsun.

Then he looked me over like my parents
were worth sumpin to him. His cigarrette bit the dust.

"Buy them there railroad ties en you'll pay forty
dollars a quarter. Wouldn't turn my nose up at
good creosote if I was you."

The oil in the mud puddle was like a rainbow.
A rainbow of guns going off in the sky.

"You seen Curtis' new pellet gun haven you?
Cocker twice an off you go."

My friend with the crooked finger screeched.
Run back in the house.

"Now you tell your father I got a pool table, Selby,
that's got a few balls missing. I'll give it to him
en them there railroad ties for access to that Orchard."

Just then Curtis come back out the house with a case
of Pop Shoppe Pop.
Another cigarrette bit the dust.

"Where you boys off to?"
"Killin Pigeons," said Curtis.
"With what?" Said Mr. Barretson.
That pointed finger went out like Captain Hook.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Curtis smiled like he was dummer than he was.
But I knew the ticket.