the featureless prevail

Distressed Poet - William Hogarth

Them vs. Us

Why is it that the featureless

Academic poets

The middle to upper classes

Professors, teachers and other

Unmoving particles

Inside the swirling dust bowl

Profess to love the classics

Both writers and poets

When many of the admired

Though far from all

Came from nothing?

The bourgeoisie know nothing of the endless struggle

The artistic urge

Like blood flow

Pushed down

Below the need

For sustenance

And the methods to reach it

To pay their rent

Among other things

Creative luxuries less affordable

As they had no one else

To cover for them (Mummy Syndrome).

They merely wish to be well read

To tick the boxes

Van Gogh

To be cultivated

Like Van Gogh’s perfect sunflower

Years after the severed flesh

Lost its atoms

And vomit stains

Faded into fabric.

I never knew these artists

Yet know what it’s like to yearn

And to go without

While occasionally pondering

The value of my own contribution.

I guarantee one thing
That those artist's work

Was never for Them.

My Books

Bukowski

Sex, Mates, the Comet and the Banker's Daughter

A true story

Heavenly and Earthly bodies

We went to her house at night

She was the bank manager’s daughter

And therefore of a higher class

My best mate

Was fucking her

It was a victory for the working class

Though I could only cheer
From the grandstand.

I was 18

He 17

She 16

She had long flowing blonde hair

Pleasant, blemish free skin

But we both knew

She had the personality of river trout

Though she wasn’t a bad person

And that counts for something.

We stood on her back doorstep

To observe the stars

With her dad’s binoculars

For this once in a lifetime event

‘Can you see it?’

‘No.’

‘I can see it.’

‘Where?’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Look dickhead.’

‘Ah ok. There it is.’

‘You mean, that’s all?’

‘It’s not E.T.’

It was small but strong

White end proudly

Leaving  a faint trail

Across the bottom of the night sky

Halley’s Comet

It didn’t seem that impressive

As I’d seen

Many a shooting star

Growing up in the country

Halley's Comet - 1986

But we were told it was special

So there we were.

We watched it for awhile

I did appreciate that I wouldn’t see it again

(Though it’s feasible

I’ll be almost 100)

Yet I didn’t mind

Getting out of there

Returning my friend

To my car

And the night

And a little joint I was saving

Kicking back by the river

Listening to the ethereal

1984

Electronic voices

Within Jean Michel Jarre’s                                                            

Zoolook

Which seemed further out into space

Than some steady white blip.

That comet’s burning somewhere now

And will keep going around and around

But people do not

And though I could not know

That my best friend only had four years left to live
That night,

I enjoyed the company more.

https://www.anthonyjlangfordbooks.com/books

More Poetry 

The Penis conquers all

A player's market

Through time

And experience

She realised

That the way to his heart

Was not through his stomach.

She worked that knob

Like mud on a lathe

Like a plumber with a spanner

Like an architect with a T-Square.

She got this

Which led to that

In simple terms                                                                         

And quite simply

She achieved results.

She saw it as her strength

Rather than her weakness

Which, in time

Became her downfall

As placing faith in one notion

Leads to shortcomings

(So to speak).

She took the lesson

And rewarded the next

While the first was left

Wishing

He hadn’t been so scrupulous.

 More Poetry. More Satire

Afraid of no emotion

Meeting ends

Death is eternal

It waits for us

Composed

Sometimes impatiently

Yet will not be denied.

I am not afraid of death

The option is to never have existed

To have been without

Emotion of any kind.

I am afraid of dying languidly

Of obstinate pain

And much time to think.

I am afraid of being afraid

I am not strong

I don’t want to be scared.

I am afraid to leave my daughter behind

Before she has grown up

She needs a father

She needs me.

I can say goodbye to the world

But I cannot say goodbye to her.

Dance of Death - a woodcut by Hans Holbein, 1538