the poets of liverpool
THE POETS
OF LIVERPOOL
A
port city only cares for two things :
commerce
& the avant-garde.
Cobwebs.
Wet
cobbles.
The
poets leave the Tate & crowd
into
the Baltic Fleet. For their words
the
mermaids part their fins.
The
Irish left behind some ballads
and
the ship owners have drowned themselves.
The
poets put a pound in the head of a Baptist
and
words chrism its tongue with red beads.
All
the trainee corporates are in the barbershops
paying
for the privilege to talk property
and
not have their necks cut for it.
At that point we move to the Belvedere.
Did
you ever meet a poet who’d trained as a barber?
The ones who forget that language stems
The ones who forget that language stems
from
the umbel of ideas are already drunk
and
wringing out the taxis.
The
poets aren’t even qualified to be poets
but
listen, they have a few ideas of their own,
holding
the timekeeper in a headlock,
starting
the night again at Last Orders.
Loose
coins spawn the floor of each bar
and
cruiseships line the docks
like
the broken shorelines of package holidays.
The
poets hold their last coins to the window
– foil suns –
– foil suns –
as
the ships move like vending machines
over
the scrapheap of the horizon.
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