3 Poems

By George Vincent

The slug

The slug has died in its own juices
At the front of the unit
Where we lift the shutters up
And wait for the Italian man
To replenish our supplies
He likes to shit in our toilet
And he always flushes twice
Because he is conscious of the smell
We let him
Because sometimes he comes out with funny, wonderful turns of phrase
Like the time he got mixed up
When we asked him how he was
He replied
‘Same day, different shit.’
Speaking of which
An hour late, Tom wanders in with a coffee
And some excuse like
‘Ack! She can never just be ready when it’s time to be ready!’
Rolling himself a tab before beginning the mix
Sneezing and sniffing
Out of his old cocaine nose
Complaining of hay fever
In October
The slug is brown and its juices are red
And I wonder where he crawled from
Just to die there
Or if he noticed the coming and going
Of two bum pizza chefs
Prepping dough in a car garage
Mia’s sister and boyfriend are coming over later
For a long-promised game of Monopoly
And I’m supposed to be weaning off the drink
Jesus Christ
Two hours in the bracing cold
Waiting for this little, shitting Italian to show up
Looking at the slug
Having nothing to say to it
The sad
Dead
Wet
Thing
He was probably just hungry
For some flour
Or an old onion peel

Cheviot Dream

still up the mountains
in dreams
whole-body twitches
whole legs deep in muddy bog
ducking into grouse holes
for blowjobs
tears by the kissing gate
behind the wind
inside of the backpack
I told you
You can do it
One foot in front of the other
It’s easy for me
What’s not is
I only learned how to hold your hand
Up there
As you were blown into the sky
Blue coat and smile
Almost broken into pieces
Like anything ever loved
Waking up
My shoulders are numb
Under the pillows
Tingly, rounded
Thighs ache
And breath hangs sour in the damp air
nothing so exciting any more
driving to work
to the buzz of the blender
through San Marzano tomatoes
the upping of the yeast
now the pipes are nearly frozen
I bought you the blueberry gown
When we moved in
Because you were jealous of mine
We know our babies
Only by names
We like or dislike
Often when I am 70mph
You will ask me
Names for boys or girls
And I will
Erm
Looking at the green archway of trees
Towards a future of little hands and fingers
And the same pains
All over again
Change of colours
Riddle of funrun years
Asthma attacks
Hold-breathed seizures
Your daddy is waiting in the yard
Mammy is home
Peeling the potatoes
The world
Son, daughter
Still makes no sense

Amour, Fatty

Come what may
I have a feeling like it’s
Already happened
It is the same day
Like lined white paper
The pen moves by itself
Writing as if already written
It’s the same road
And thin slither of cracked pavement
The same cars parked on it
Honda, Fiat, Ford
The same colours
Grey
Red
Chrome gold
It is the same hedge
Neglected like public hair
Branches green and reaching in every possible direction
Underneath the pylon buzz
Waiting in single lane traffic
It is the same thing
Feeling like throwing up and shitting at the same time
Blood like hot jam
In supermarkets
Church toilets
On Cretan beaches
The wheel turns and gets stuck in the mud
The watermelon juice dribbles down a grinning chin
Pour ice in the raki
It goes cloudy
Pour tomatoes in the blender
It makes sauce
It is the prayer repeated so many times it becomes useless
It’s the shiver in a sick bowel
The dust and the blue paper towel
The buckets and the knives and the bones
And the sockets which spark and explode
The pipe that bursts
And rots the wood
The black mould
It’s a head wrapped in cling film and made to sing hymns
It’s the fire that rains snowy embers on the dishwasher boy who never grows old
It’s the tooth chipped on a pint glass
It’s an ocean of oil
It’s the same thing
As feeling fucked
Being late for work
The same as failing an enormous endeavour
The same thing as living naked in a metal box and chewing the fingernails of wisdom down to the
pale fleshy nub
It’s parmesan cheese
Semolina under milky fingernails
Brushing your teeth and tasting raw chicken
Ruptured haemorrhoids in a cold hangover shower
It’s the same as love which knows its luck and walks into the terra cotta desert each night
Obscuring the uproar of thunder in a plastic pink bauble

The dogs bark
No one comes home
Just before dawn, there are footsteps on the gravel
Outside

I told you
To keep the window closed

George Vincent is a writer from the North of England. He works as a chef and writes when he can. His first collection of poems, ‘One fine morning’, is soon to be published by ANXIETY PRESS.