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amanda barlow Oct 2018
I thought about Norfolk and Norfolk folk,
And Norfolk bricks and the Norfolk coast,
I thought of winds in a hollow dune and waveless seas
Where the heat washed a breeze -
Into a summer fret!

Where hawking gulls who balance by
point towards straight roads at sunrise
Where the hillocks fall down to
The summer's edge

In the wash of the Gibraltar flats
Reflected fractions of a perfect sky
Form blue pools in the heated sand
The stuff of dreams
That Norfolk
Land
fearfulpoet Aug 2018
school starts soon
smoking joints on the weekday afternoon

in a sidelined shady
freight car, property of
Norfolk Southern

debating if this car will be
northbound or southbound
and master-bating our fantasy
where we want to be taken

knowing full well maybe one of us -
(and they all looking at me)

will get out of this car and live to
see foreign places without having to
return in a body bag

we argue lazy who should go get the beer,
collect the quarters and sweaty dollar bills
and **** if I am  not reappointed
leader of the beer fetching

besides it’s my
tan lab panting needing water so it’s my
responsibility and the nasty liquor store owner don’t hate me that much as the others so he’ll sell me beer without too much **** talk (some for sure)

asking where I’m laying low on a **** hot day like this one

tell him i’m getting on a train getting out of this two bit town which makes him reminisce and ask which direction

could be northbound could be southbound
**** could be west
but for sure won’t be
going eastbound

cause I seen the Atlantic and didn’t like it

too **** big and too **** cold,
too **** mean
6tn
me & my bae we met 6tn
wot i z woz wot r u werin
she txt bak crox n jeggins
inbetwn my toes thers webbin
wrds paint sugapix she woz etchasketchin
erotigger far from fetchin
but i h8 2 c a norfuk grl goin beggin

me & my bae we met 6tn
lyk rebeca l%s &  dvid bekham
xcept my readin age is ova 11
innerspishus st<3
but now we do sunset thang

me & my bae we met 6tn
so u hv my blessin
2 keep yr fones swtchd  on @ our weddin
wher arnt evlyn is 6tn the rite revren
who is 6tn mary magdalen
up 2 her ol trix agen
tho she art in heavn
netwk w/ major connex probs amen
Living moths festoon dark roominess,
whole wide Nitenidus outside black bathrooms,
cheeky creepy cockroaches cockbroach
meathook lapels of Night,
dapper carcass of the blackballed Day.
The Day is well ***,
w/ its blister of red butcherflies.
But yesterday & I
are not so different,
given the ***'s rush out of Existence,
the Country Club of Human Potential.

Give me Night's open plan, dark sky park
blueprint dapslashed in undertaker's bootpolish
over any day anyday.
Universal inkwell we wander into
like spiders in the Beano.
Starlight, millions of runt suns
levy obscure orients at inscrutable heights.
Unimaginable distance is relative,
all my imagination does is distance me.
But tonight I shall stitch my dead moth stichs
of dead moth schtick sewnonymously unto
the Norfolk Night.
My Rorschachwinged write-
up of crispers upon crispers of the critters
will wear you, Norfolk Night, breathlessly & blindly,
like you were a hooded overcoat
w/ no holes to facilitate
thumbtwiddling or gobsight.
By these dead moth odes, I become your host,
5'6 embodiment of a black sock
w/ all my mortal might.

Night, I wear your weary
spidery epaulettes, tramptuft
peek thru your sleepingbag shoulders
of middleaged soldiers' slow suicide
on civvy street (literally, concretely).
A couple of wraps of dead moths
in the breastpocket of Norwich Vice,
1 w/ the Omniscuzz,
heavybreathing slugs honking at slags.
& us angelheaded hipsters
gonna walk down Cattail Street
to Our Work on an alcourier
carrierbagtwizzle mission at 6am.
Lousy Prince Lice & his ex-insect entourage,
dead moth cortege & court of overcocky
carkroaches. What have I got riding
on a bonafide dead moth **** sock
of a mythopoeic deposit?

I am erring on inauthenticity,
as if Turin Cloth
a whimsical medieval weaver
imprinted w/ his soninlaw's
peasant chic, protoWoodstock likeness
to hock as roly helic.
I longago gotout of the bath.

But it's more complicated than that:
poets are undergrowth spirits
who find garments on the ground
that have never been worn.
Do not confuse this w/ chrysalises,
chrysalice's bulb of wings
is ball of collapsible coffinlids.

To inanely ingrain
a Top Of The Pops Of Dead Moths
upon the Night Whoise - how close
is my imagination to conquering infinity?
All the insects that will die tonight
in Norwich to be approximate, best I can get.
Insects, living, are never innocent
or heartening as fishful goblets at night,
dead moth olived bathwater I neck to nail
this noctuary pretensionproof.
What a dead moth & a Dark Poet
have in common is that they are not aloft.
I'm a knickerlicker, I mean, my tongue's in a twist
when it's Miss Tiffany Apple I do address.
She smokes furiously, drives 100mph,
& Tiffapple's poison is Angel Sours
- tho' later I met her ex's ex, who labrished
Tiff had sunk more bottlesofvino than tide
at Waxham beach post-examresults.
But I had inkling quidnunc was green-eyed,
eclipsed
by what a wuxom bench Tiff does present
in her favorite
snugfitting
sparklestriped
jumper dress.  

So she whooped me at pool, I wasn't flush
w/ success at fuze-
ball either, Tiff wasn't impressed.
She's one of the lads & I am just a wuss.
Prollysplains why her blackcardied arm
in rebuffing imitation
of Bela Lugosi's dunt stouble
neckerchiefed her lips
when I went into smooch
that beautiful hard face.  

Silver ivy ink
on her alabaster wrists
(ivy as in '& the holly', not intravenous).
Bent over the table, she's snookilicious.
It's a tricky shot, but Tiff's a beast on the baize.
& a butcher at badminton, or so she says:
we never played.
Betja never heard
of Betjeman or Joan Hunter Dunn,
Tiff, furnished but unburnished by
Attleborough sun.  At school,
she was goth gal adorned w/
Jack Skellingtons,
& she still has a goth gal's snowwhite complexion.
Intimations of eleckissity
like that 1st frenchie at school,
but there's no fool like a 35yr old fool.

She's just a kid who thinks it's cool to be a *****,
but, baby, it's so not, not really.
Don't add to life's ***** tapestry.
She's still just a kid, just with a killer ***
- aren't they all when they're barely 20?
Well, can't say mine was,
but you catch my drift.
Still a kid who's gutted Busted split,
tho' I guess I'm still gutted Kurt had a gun
- he swore he dint!
But any kid would have a beautiful hard face
if Daddy was in denial
Mummy's mission
was drinking her remission
into submission, ******* cells back
into malignant fission.

O I am just a jessie,
but she's one of the boys
- in one sitting Tiff destroyed 7 saveloys!
& I am not Matt Willis, alas, what malice
is this? Just the usual:
she's giving me a miss.

But when the last in a lifetime
of crestfallen sighs jilts my body,
& classic rock stations of the future  
give Busted a miss
forevermore,
when Tiff is crabby & wrinkly
-  visage uglier, softer -
she will still be the hardfaced
Venus of Attleborough
in this immortal doggerel.
Form of emotional graymail,
my longrunning answer to imaginary RSVP
that another Dear John over the dog & the bone
sends to that ghoul for my selfdisgust,
who is my real muse:
sorry, Tiffany - it's me.

Tho' were Miss Tiffapple to reperuse
my rejectionprocessing paean
to her flet beauty in an aeon
- when she's crabby & wrinkly, uglier, softer,
it'd be more poignant
if Kindlescreens went crinkly
& chronologised coffeerings like jotters.
For Squadling, 2013
I went on a date with Abigail from Wales,
now real housewife of Harleston this Belle of Bridgend,
who vacated the valleys for marriage that failed.
Via loveless POF we met in Diss, Betjeman's
'dimmest place of all'.  From her suitor's clammitt
mushroomed blooming cliche from Norwich Market,
which had strived in stuffy, sunny carriage for survival,
but doughty purple gerberas shed not a petal.

Darkeyed Abs was selfproclaimed ditzy witterer
(as schorl as pupils were her carbonado irises).
Selfeffacing, totes Taffy, wellfit witty ditherer;
modest, mumsy, Celtic sexkitten. From Diss,
she drove us in circles to areas even remoter,
cutely got us lost. Upon backseat of her Toyota
gerberas juddered, lost the odd purple petal,
but all my attention was on this anhygoel gal.

Fave date since my old love crashed 'n' burned,
Cupid's evangelism made a lame heart leap!
Attraction and rapport in equal measure earned
a second, no less romantic for being cheap!
We held hands like oldies down the aisle (at Aldi's),
tender tonsil hockey over bigspender coffees
on bench by the mere. Love's pink spark as blatant
as gerberas' purpleness we purred in liplockt agreement.

X-tailed texts from dawn to dusk to discover
something we'd both waited for between Abs & I.
Floodgate touch of third date felt fate to be lovers,
tremulous tryst gushed torrid for the rusty and shy.
With selfconsciousness she'd sometimes squeak in bed
like the springs, and got undressed beneath the duvet,
but as if purple petals coming-storm-shorn, her Red
Dragon-tatted, lemniscate chassis blew me away.

Horizontal hourglass a galactoid goad to caress
- looker like Liz, but with the boyo brio of Burton,
tho' retro 90s vernacular winning quirk less
'Under Milk Wood' and more the orange-Zorro'd turtle,
Michelangelo. Dropboxed me her ******* keys,
elegant lilac-varnished luppers smashed 'Fur Elise'.
Cruciverbalist teachingassistant was my Welsh ****,
but no cryptic clue when gerberas started to wilt.

Abs baked her boy a birthday choco hedgehog,
'Puddington Boar' pun we laboured in flantery email.
But gooey privetpig not main course of our dialogue,
no, I learned she was a Dadi's girl who went off the rails
when his cancer came back for good. Last 'nos da cariad'
haunted her like hiraeth; Abs swore she'd bags a stepdad
for lil' leekeaters, spare them same sense of loss. Green shoots
stalks in vase resembled, save for ditched petals, no roots.

She didn't see offthepeg patriarch to patch a family
in me, dressinggowned putz Diazepampering broken
calon now. No Ant to her Cleo, Gavin to her Stacey
- wherefore the chirpsing 'bout cwtching, softlyspoken
soul-selfies swapped in aprication of darkling embrace?
Abigail just blanks my calls; messages soliloquise in cyberspace.
To so much heart-mulch I bet binned bouquet now rots.
Purple gerbera wheel of fortune landed on she-loves-me-not.
Kett's Heights is Alp for
Knackered Norfolk Nietzsche: Thus
Traipsed Zaratrosher
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norfolk_dialect

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