Flock

By George Chopping

The sequel to Chopping's debut collection, Smoking With Crohns. A poetic feast. Please enjoy your meal.

Bus Replacement Service

Excuse me, is anyone sitting?
No
Do you mind if I?
Go Ahead

The rest of hustle and bustle get on
doors shut and the pushing and shoving goes on

Baggage and carriers
suitcases and holdalls
all being swung and crammed into crevices
above and below the heads of bodies
negotiating for seats (most reserved, few not).

Business Men loosen their ties
whilst wriggling out of pin striped straight jackets
Mothers do frantic head counts
of their oblivious and excitable off-spring

The train pulls away from the station platform
upon which
are the ones who missed it
sobbing mothers of potential college freshers
trainspotters
and the guard:

Have your tickets ready please Ladies and Gents!

Women scrabble around in handbags
male posteriors rise slightly from seats
whilst hands rummage around in back and front pockets
in order to prove validity for travel

Mummy, Mummy, can I show him the tickets?
Just let me find them first lovey, then you can.

Then the train derailed at a level crossing and they all died.

The One to One
(a poem about the importance of honesty in the first instance so as to avoid potential disappointment later on)

I am the mole that likes day light
The worm with an intolerance for soil.
I am the duck that refuses to quack when coaxed
By children with bread at the shore.

I am unsure about direction
Which way is balance
Where abouts stability lives
And so on.

I enjoy fishing for the extinct
Hoping through binoculars to spot a Dodo one day.
Life is too short to give up hope
Life is too long to listen to the likes of Boris Johnson.

I am not an anti-capitalist but I struggle to cope
with exploitation of the vulnerable and poor.
Plus, I think that catapults can be very dangerous
in the wrong hands.

I try to remind myself that nobody is a tosser
They are just misunderstood.
I toss occasionally. But I am not a tosser
(Most of the time) Occasionally I’m misunderstood.

I always try my best to try my best
But at times my best attempt at being my best
is not really my best.

I dont read enough books either
Apart from poetry
(which I don’t always get)
And Im not very good at listening or concentrating.
I often lack empathy, I am short tempered, badly organised, forgetful and without fail, reliably late for most appointments

I dont always look after myself well enough
Or take my pills on time enough
And I drink and smoke quite heavily. Regularly.

But I do really want this job.
When will you let me know whether Ive been successful, please?

Spit Roast
(A poem that compares the existence of pigs with that of human beings who work in minimum wage jobs).


Percival
you most beautiful pig
ex-oink-er
pulled pork on to a spit
Former four trotter, now upward pointer
Rotating, salivating
creator
 
Horizontal, pink pole dancer
A bap and apple sauce
Enhancer
Percy’s a pig
 
Succulent suckling
I could never boar of him
All over tender
If that piggy was a bank
He’d even be
an interest free
Penny lender
 
Honey brushed crackling
Was his wife called Jacqueline
And if Jackie ran a pub
Would she be a scratching vendor?
Encourage the playing of Jenga?
(In place of Backgammon).
 
Does she holiday on health farms?
Is she a fan of the mud bath?
Before relaxing in the sauna, Jacuzzi and swim
 
Does Percy miss her when she’s away
Hit the Lambs rum and Beefeater gin.
 
Do they both miss the old days
When they were in Wiltshire roaming free-range
Care free – happy as pigs in s***
 
Rather than working like humans
Behind the bar for six pounds thirty one an hour
But instead ending up in your sandwich.

 

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