See what I mean.....

Circadian Schism

So there we are down by the old canal
Me, Jonesy, Rodent Matt, lost in banal
Contemplation, the kind that always comes
From smoking too much white. Not so much dumb
As deadened, quite detached, though erudite
Enough to stall the ever-present shite
Spilling from the gutters as stars vomit
Their message on the sky – I need a hit.

Rodent Matt is looking awfully ill
Today. I think I blame the dodgy pills
We nicked from that old pikey in the park,
Spesh in hand and piss down his trousers. Dark
Pits for eyes and a dribble for a smile.
He won’t miss them, he’s only got a while
Left I think. It’s cirrhosis of the soul,
The creeping rot that turns a heart to coal.

Back to the point, in case you’re wondering
How Rodent got his name, now here’s the thing:
He’s terrified of rats, petrified stiff
Of their furry bodies. Just one small sniff
Is enough to make him roll up and cry.
Maybe in a past life he was mugged by
A gang of them. Nothing surprises you
In London. I swear it’s usually true.

I have only reproduced a portion of this long poem by Ben Powers, which can be found on Middlebrowmagazine, an online literary mag. Although composed in unfashionable couplets it displays an originality of metre and of subject matter that can stand beside many more revered pieces. The conversational style, of someone talking to reader or an acquaintance-with the reader evesdropping-is excellent. Look carefully at the lines-It's cirrhosis of the soul/The creeping rot that turns a heart to coal- combining wit with everyday references.