Individual Pride

~ J.C. FitzDerick ~ Leave a comment

I prop today’s Evening Standard behind the priority seat’s folding desk.
     en-route to sleep alongside my love.
The paper naturally dog-eared from today’s avid reading.
I’ve positioned it so that yesterday’s mini genocide can draw another pair of hands to take on its tear saturated text.

Bhs black trousers, polkadot blouse,  with her hair… frisson.
I catch my new travelling companion’s eyes scanning the papers bold typeface.
I think she’s re-read today’s title, she leant over
nearly embracing the nape of the next row.
She reclines.
Her bag’s yawning mouth hung politely upon her knees,
a book lifted from her bag;
5lbs in 5 days.

*****

Evening Standard – An English newspaper often handed out for free on public transport.

Poetry

~ J.C. FitzDerick ~ Leave a comment

Life’s fleeting dramas,
between the weekends first petite verre and it’s last exhausted exhale.
                  
  Perched upon each moment,
I lament the slow passing
of the day’s million stories,    I sit
appreciating it’s finite beauty;
neglecting word, metaphor and so too their immortality.

My admission, My love

~ J.C. FitzDerick ~ Leave a comment

The air is voilent today,
and I reflect on the too long it’s been
since I’ve written to you;
about how my fingers trace the subtle valleys of your back.
How my eyes bat away your tangling tresses
as I whisper kisses behind your ear.
Since I’ve used far too many words to deliver a message I tell you daily.

But my live performance is never as eloquent as my literary self.
My three word admission my gun, bullet, my entire arsenal.
I worry if it is enough. Perhaps…
To offer a humble love in its raw form.

But if you wished
I’d gather the words of love from all languages,
to uniquely submit to you each day
my admission,
My Love.

This Is Art (!)

~ J.C. FitzDerick ~ Leave a comment

This is real Street Art.
Passing snap-backed supra-beings say gawking at the Cass-Art aerosol cans
spraying a haute-couture satire of our post-modern globe.
You see this Street Art represents something;
the impotent critique
of artists whose Guardian reading parent’s
lamented Maggie’s closure of the mines north of London,
while saving for their loved one’s housing deposit.

This Art covers the vandalism of before.
Those graffiti cans smeared the marks of a pre-developed community.
What message did that graffiti have?
Nothing legible to those subscribed to The Guardian nor Mail.
Nothing at all, save
the names of the former youth of the estate,
it now priced to evacuate its dutiful placeholders,
so that those formerly lamenting the closure of Maggie’s mines, now
have a place for their children to pursue their adult childhood fantasies.