Archive | July 2013

Who I am

blood of a poet
I’m a writer
who keeps his writing
to himself,

a traveller
who avoids
other travellers,

a musician
who never
plays,

a worker
who doesn’t
wanna work,

a drinker
who wants
to give up,

an Englishman
who lives
overseas,

a leftie
who can’t stand
the left,

a joker
who rarely
laughs,

a lover
who expresses
hate more easily,

an opinionated man
who keeps
quiet,

drunk
when I need to be
sobre,

sobre
when I need to be
drunk.

– Lennie Bezwik

Junk City

junk
Junk City on
the bedside Island,
lit by a sun
from the all-seeing lamp,

the great clock
stands upright,
a bright red body
of towering height,

ticking on,
the handles circle
as nothing in the city
moves,

a post-apocolyptic
land with no inhabtants,
the mobile phone lay flat
beside the notepad

and earphone wires
tangle in
the neighbourhood
of sunglasses

by the wristwatch
station and
the felt-pen
shipyard

and pennies
in the pot,
scrap metal
of a junkyard,

an old industrial
ghost town,
Junk City on
the bedside Island

– Lennie Bezwik

Carlos in Mouraria

carlos in mouraria
Drunk and alone
on my way home
I met this nutter
called Carlos
from Amadora

in the narrow
dimly lit alleyways
of Mouraria he said
hello and we
ended up drinking
beers in the little
fado house of
Largo da Severa

and as the bar closed
we stepped outside
and he saw his pretty
‘cousin’ and introduced
me to her

then he approached
another lady and I started
to think maybe
this guy is nuts
or a pimp
or a sex pest
or something

so I said good night
and left the alleyway
and he followed
right after me

yelling wait wait
and I waited

and he asked me if
I had one or two euros
so I gave him two euros
and then he asked me if
I had another euro
and I said
go fuck yourself Carlos
and he said thanks
boa noite amigo!

– Lennie Bezwik

Mountains in the Kitchen

mountains-in-the-kitchen
From my humble
kitchen window
I see mountains
in the distance

I can only
see their peaks
but it makes
a massive difference

It’s a faded
misty line
far beyond the tops
of buildings

but I see it
and remember
that the city’s not
a prison.

– Lennie Bezwik

Alone in McDonald’s

alone-in-mcdonalds
One of the saddest sights
in the Western World,
the sight of
someone eating
alone in McDonald’s,

the sight of despair
in their eyes
and solitude
in every little nibble
on their burger
and fries,

an even sadder sight,
your own reflection
in the mirror
inside McDonalds,

as you tuck into
your burger
in isolation
under the bright lights
of McHeart-Attack,

you’re alone and
feel shit about
what you’re feeding
your body,

Ronald McDonald
the grim reaper of
fast food consumers
laughs at you for
being seduced by
that bright yellow m,
the symbol of
everything that’s wrong
with our poisoned world,

you get up
after the meal
and look in that mirror
again,

you appear the same
to others
but look fatter
to yourself,

you know
you’ve sinned,

the grease and
artificial flavourings
sink their way through
your suffering body,

it was dirty,
it was wrong,
you tell yourself
it was just that once

but the devil’s got you
and sooner or later
he’ll drag you back down
to McHell.

– Lennie Bezwik

That Bastard Rabbit

The dark little rabbit
A dark little rabbit
whispers warnings
in my ear and tries
telling me what to do
with tear filled eyes
and agonising cries,
he makes my heart
weak and my legs
tremble and I pity him
but I want to
kill him.

– Lennie Bezwik

Benfica Espresso Cup

broken-mug
My little china
Benfica espresso cup,
a mini handle
on its side,

the eagle soaring
on its body,
still I never poured no drink
inside.

My little antique
holy grail,
a chalice from the rubble
of a Lisbon jumble sale,

empty inside,
once filled for years,
a life span lasting
much longer than I,

surviving the decades
of dictatorship,
never phased or erased
through revolutionary days

or the more familiar
waves of emigration,
throughout all, she sailed on
in one solid piece,

was cold without spirits,
empty and alone
till I found her and
adopted her as my own,

gave her a place
on the shelf in my home
by the living room chairs
her presence was known,

once a friend of men
cheering on Benfica
in front of black and white
television screens,

or among their family dinners
listening in to conversations
through the ever-changing
generations,

that’s why it broke my little heart
to break her little handle
and bring her lengthy life
to a broken little end,

alas, the simple tragedy,
that sight of shattered crockery
leaves me forever guilty
of manslaughter, probably.

– Lennie Bezwik

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