Fantasia with Impressionist and Time Lord
(The Johnson Arms, Nottingham)
No-one could accuse this boozer
of not being eclectic: on one wall,
Doctor Who artwork; opposite, Cezanne –
The Card Players, two guys separated
by a rough-hewn table, a bottle
of wine even rougher on the palette
and a wager of a few coins, nobody
folding, the outcome in the balance.
This is where a Tardis would come in handy,
hop back to the shabby bar
on the night in question,
see if Cezanne and his sketch pad
had quit the premises by the time
the smug fantail of the winning hand
was set down on that rectangle
of splintery wood; or if he’d stuck around
to find out whether the evening resolved
in a grumpy handshake
and the redistribution of coinage,
or the table overturned and a blade
pulled by one or both. Or a trading
of effete blows, the pair of them
laughed out of the joint as a blue box
appears in an inconspicuous corner.
Suppose They Had a Meme and No-One Cared
Suppose the pepper-spray cop tossed
the can and joined the protestors.
Suppose planking was restricted
to saw mills. Suppose Chuck Norris
inspired non-violent epigrams.
Suppose Picard’s hand was out-thrown
in delight. Suppose Leo slouched.
Suppose Hitler didn’t react.
Back Road
Wrongly pegged as a shortcut,
potholed, narrowing between fields,
trees and hedgerow shoulder to shoulder.
Ground mist emulsifies to fog.
Shapes slide out of the grey – barns
big as hangars for ghost squadrons,
dry-stone walls like conga lines
of broken tombstones. Movement
behind a gate: figures manhandling
something, dumping it. The bullet
of a crow aims for the windscreen,
veering away a wingbeat before
the moment of impact. Main beams
smash into the rearview, mirrorballs
under controlled detonation.
Remote
“Ah, but that’s just the point, sir.
It won’t work on your television,
As well point it at the microwave
and press 3 for a lasagne.
I do apologise, sir,
no intention to the facetious, I assure you –
merely a comparison I could have phrased
more elegantly.
No, sir, the point is
that it changes one’s surroundings.
The office boring you, the four walls
of your home a little too constrictive?
Point and click: beach, mountains,
white water rapids; nightclub, casino,
den of iniquity; race track, boxing rink,
armed robbery. Gangster, lawyer, dictator.
“The volume control? Just as you’d expect, sir;
silence, after all, is golden. Except
when that thrash metal gig is just the thing
to make your neighbour wish he’d never
flapped his trap, ogled your daughter, kept hold
of your lawnmower. Delete as applicable, sir.
“Exit button? Emergencies only. Improper use
will invalidate your consumer rights.
Aspect? Nothing to do with screen ratios,
sir. It refers to your aspect, sir; the way
the viewer sees you.
You misunderstand, sir:
I said it wouldn’t work on your television.
It’s designed for a much more powerful set,
channels in their millions, broadcasting
endlessly. An audience you wouldn’t believe.”
Neil Fulwood is the author of film studies book The Films of Sam Peckinpah. His poetry has appeared in The Morning Star, The Interpreter’s House, Nib, Full of Crow Poetry and Dissident Voice. He is co-editor, with David Sillitoe, of the forthcoming anthology More Raw Material: work inspired by Alan Sillitoe.
Constellation: Lampyridaen 