This document contains several short poems on various topics: 1. "Drive-By Poetry" describes an incident of people shouting poetry from a passing car to terrorize others. 2. "Glass Coffin Coffee Table Wife" is a surreal poem about a man who had his deceased wife preserved and displayed as a coffee table. 3. "The Bicycle" tells the story of a teenager who repairs an abandoned bicycle, finding purpose and independence in doing so.

3. ASH DICKINSON
Slinky Espadrilles
Burning Eye

4. DRIVE-BY POETRY
I was a victim of drive-by poetry
assaulted with Rudyard Kipling
by two rude boys in a souped-up coupe
flashing past me up Broadway
speeding puddles
on to drainpipe trousers
later they shock an elderly couple
with shouted snatches of T.S. Eliot
haring around a blind spot
then up George
blaring Blake from blacked-out windows
a police spokesman yesterday
played down the incidents
as nothing new
people have been terrified of poetry for years
he said
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5. GLASS COFFIN COFFEE TABLE WIFE
stiff under magazines in the afterlife
Glass Coffin Coffee Table Wife
she’d been married to a charmer
an enthusiastic embalmer
so when death claimed her/ he framed her
laid her down, took off her glasses
preserved her with gases
till death us do part
she’s now a work of art
with a hot / mug / mark
inseparable in life, inseparable in death
invited round to meet the old ball and chain
lift up your chips, sonny
she’s there- smiling squarely through the pane
in life, she’d cooked all his meals
now, she’s been fitted with wheels
he pushes her to the supermarket
once more down the aisle
she doubles up as a shopping cart
loaded down with pies, pasties, pastries
toasties, tasties and tarts
she’s surprisingly little trouble to park
this work of art
with a hot / mug / mark
February, a burglary
he awakes to find his DVD/ CD/ TV/ gone
and so is she
his taxidermy bride/ alive on the outside
her absence highlights how the sun has dyed the carpet
he doesn’t report it to the police-
too inconsolable with grief
broken-hearted for his clear-departed
months later/ he/ too/ dies
at the same time in the capital
a dead woman, in a glass coffin
scoops the Turner Prize
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6. taken in the dark, displayed as objet d’art
forever more, a work of art
with a hot/ mug/ mark
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7. THE BICYCLE
the work goes/ the shops close/ the boredom grows/ the
grown-ups he knows dream so small/ they seem not to dream
at all
seventeen/ not a bean to his name/ the facile papers he rest his
paints upon/ ooze parties and fame/ speak another language-
ridiculous in this setting/ the tagging is his expression/ to this
town set adrift/ to the blood-letting
another kick-heel night/ he comes across the carcass of a
mountain bike/ it’s still tethered as it was last night/ only
they’ve stripped it clean/ entrails of brake levers/ its gloopy
blood/ inks the scrub/ a sickly green
eight days he walks past/ notes weeds wriggle and slither
through squat grass/ poke through spokes and make the only
claim/ and finally he takes the chain in his hands and cuts it free
drags that sad machinery past white-washed shops/ and
beleaguered cops/ the wind-whipped faces of mid-morning
sops
the boarded-up post office/ the rapacious moss/ the dusty
sympathy of the elderly/ the knife-edge conviviality of the
neighbourhood
the frame is strong/ before long he masters the buckle/ retrieves
a front tyre from the canal/ a short paddle to a saddle- it’s
useable
forgotten hunger/ missed meals/ scouring ripples of rust from
the rim with a rounded knife/ the fork/ the chain-wheel
old and woolly biscuits tins/ within his grandfather’s shed/
bequeath nuts and thread/ his stained-prints pan gold/ hold
allen keys/ twist and turn with expertise/ at ease/ he doesn’t
think those things
give someone purpose/ fill their chest with pride/ and when all
the parts are in place/ you can ride/ you can ride it away
or you can stay
stay/ and turn a bit of the world/ your way
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8. THE BOY WHO ATE ONLY BUTTER
as a boy, I ate only butter
thick golden slices straight from the fridge
or spooned
on unending summer evenings
as it pooled, left out
into winner’s medals
some nights it was impossible to tell
where sun ended and butter began
despairing
my parents lashed it on everything
but I steered a path around
wolfed it down/ before it melted in
I was a stubborn child
butter was all I craved
I was twelve when Mum
brought home something new-
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter
just try it she said, sliding the tub towards me
we have to tighten our belts
with your Dad’s job uncertain
and TV insists it’s the same
sceptically, I lifted the lid
inside was what looked like mince
a scoop of mash, some terrified peas
a small portion of sherry trifle
and two sticky and loose After Eight mints
and people mistook this for butter!
I couldn’t believe it!
my parents hovered like fireflies-
hot-eyed and scarcely breathing
transfixed as I tentatively dipped
into that patchwork spread-
it was the oddest butter I’d ever tried!
and yet the strangest thing was this-
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9. every time we ran out a new tub would arrive
looking utterly different to the one that came before it!
at times it resembled ham
or bananas, hazelnuts, cream cheese
spaghetti, green beans
and just once, dizzyingly, profiteroles
I told Mum I thought
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter was magic
I’m not sure she understood
for whilst doing other things
she lightly ruffled my fringe
and said/ she thought I would
placing a new tub in front of me
her smile serene/ and buttery
she said it’s likely/ this one
has undertones
of fish cakes
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