Four Poems|Ian Mullins
Behind The Bar
Paddling in piss, the gents
unblocked, I steer a course
back behind the bar.
Lisa pulls her last half-pint
while I count the tips
and lock the doors.
We wait for our lifts in the
drooling rain. A police car
slows down to examine
our faces, turning off its siren
as it splashes us by.
I ask her if she’s still
painting: she says yes,
when she can find the time.
She wants to know if I still write.
I tell her that’s like
asking a twelve year-old
if he enjoys playing with himself.
Rainy earrings drip gutters
from her lobes. Her nails
are longer these days, no longer
cracked or crusted
with paint. When she leans
close to steal my umbrella
I can’t smell white spirits
on her neck anymore. They say
a man facing the firing squad
knows one rifle is loaded with blanks,
but here every glass is charged;
the end is served in half-pints
and doubles sipped at the bar. We drink
slowly, to taste it going down.
Lisa’s car sluices the gutter’s rain.
She runs sideways through
the drops, broken glass glistening
in her hair. I close my umbrella
and look up at the rain
filling my pockets with change.
The Play’s The Thing
Look at them, smiling on the red carpet
unrolled exclusively for them.
The little lambs of Hollywood are happy
tonight; their sand-box is well-guarded,
and there are gold stars for everyone:
the tiny threads of their imaginary lives
are stitched beneath their feet,
completion guaranteed.
Those of us in humbler professions
dream our lives too; but ours
are constantly re-edited, bristling
with frayed edges and threads
that peter out, while theirs are credited
and complete. They can rewind
like dead hindus stopping off
between lives to look back at the roles
they’ve flopped in before, wondering
if they might try comedy next.
It’s no wonder they all believe in God.
They lead their lives with the innocence
of the other Clarice Starling, the one
who peeped into the slaughterhouse
then ran back to bed, only trusting
to her dreams to keep the lambs
from screaming. Refusing to believe
until she hears ‘cut!’ that it really is
a wrap.
Awake
I ask the same questions
small children ask;
why is the sky, why is the rain?
Why is the work? Why can’t
I spend my days the way
I want to spend my days,
burning up banknotes
then walking into banks
with a gun made of soap,
telling everyone to get down
and get clean; spring break forever…
But questions betray
the dreamers who ask them;
the cries we shout
before we leap from the bridge,
swallow the last pill. Finding no answers
in this world, and despairing
of solutions in the next,
we opt out of all asking, all life.
Just go back to bed
till the nightmare is done.
In a world built on dreams,
why would anyone choose to awake?
Room Temperature
Miles Davis/Miles Smiles
Hear how the music plays
the room. Miles’ trumpet
slides down the grooves
in the radiator, picking off
shreds of paint the way
a sniper takes out a rifle.
Shorter lobs hand grenades,
though not every one is primed
to explode. Some are quiet
decoys, clearing a path
for Hancock to dart through,
bullets ricocheting from
the ceiling, cartridges dead
on the carpet. Carter reloads
while Williams slap the drapes
in time to an old tune
new minted here, falling from
fat speakers and winging it
across the dance floor.
Now Miles is a squiggly kid
running round the room. Soon
the whole house is swinging;
neighbours and street
all whistling the same tune.
Passers-by bend into the beat
as though a storm-wind is blowing,
vibes rattling the breath
they breathe, the bones they break;
touch and tone passing a pulse
to every stranger they meet
as Miles packs his bags,
getting ready to move.
Bio:
Ian Mullins ships out from Liverpool, England.
The music-themed poetry collection Laughter In The Shape Of A Guitar (UB) struck few chords in 2015. The chapbook Almost Human (Original Plus), concerning his ongoing battle with Asperger Syndrome, was released into the care of the community in 2017. The novel Number 1 Red, a tale of pro-wrestling and property wars, was self-published the same year. The superhero-themed collection Masks and Shadows (Wordcatcher) took to the skies in 2019 and refuses to come down to earth. Take A Deep Breath (Dempsey & Windle) took its first gasp in November 2020.
