3 Poems by Ford Dagenham

SHE DIDN’T THINK OF ME (WET PANTS HANGING ON THE AIRER)

she said I DIDN’T THINK OF YOU.
she
actually
said
that!
she. didn’t. think. of. me.
(it is a crucial moment,
my hand is a dead creature
clutching a plastic and trivial phone
to a numb numb screaming head)
she said YOU’RE NOT ON FACEBOOK.
she
actually
said
that!
like. that’s. a reason!
(and some of me DIES.
Hello! corpse talking . . .
not this again!)
I said Silence
and
I said Tears
my
baby heart
stuffed
into. my. dry. mouth.
(I am Jack Bauer’s understated face;
I react but the cut is framed tight and kept short,
I am Jacks rogue SUV
heading into LA suicide)
and now hanging my wet pants out on the airer
will never feel the same again.
she hung them out, just one time, in the light
from a sepia window.
on some softly stale weekday afternoon.



ANOTHER

another
Sunday
on the sofa.
frost
appears
outside
by 4.30 pm.
another dozen episodes
of 24
(I am Jack Bauer’s unmade bed . . .)
another
endless row
of
whisky shots.
another list
of the dead comes out
the TV.
and mildly
I panic again
(without the old enthusiasm)
about
the Black Plague
and all the AIDS
growing in my beer fucked throat.
another pizza
I cannot afford
is delivered
by that
twat,
that
utter nerd,
that fucking life-happy kid from Dominos
again.

　

DIDN’T GO (NY)

I was going to go up to London town
going to drink and walk the streets there
get my misanthrope-on
then get out
before the
crush
vomit
tears
because
the end game must be at home
where its calm and its safe
but
I didn’t go anywhere at all
just
power napped
and
made sure
there was
a wide
range of
mixers
available