Sunday Stew Poems – Gwil James Thomas

November 19, 2023

Lately.

I’ve smothered
everything
in Buffalo Sauce,
to the point
of punishment,
I’ve almost
beaten my record
at five finger fillet,
before my blood’s hit
the chopping board
and I’ve reminded
myself why I’d quit,
I’ve blasted out
Herb Alpert’s song
Spanish Flea
repeatedly –
for no real reason
other than insanity,
I have found myself
jealous of strangers
until I’ve got
to know them,
I’ve reconstructed
reality,
sat back and
watched seasons
change
at light speeds,
laughed all
the way to hell
and kept a tiny
flame of hope alive
in my hands –
feeling its
soft warmth against
the palms of my hands,
in a way that tells me
that it never truly left.

 

In School.

Where,
I became
desensitised
to violence –
where,
racism,
sexism
and homophobia
flourished –
where,
I was taught
that
I should never
have ideas
above
my station –
where,
I fled from
countless times,
before
eventually
leaving
with
little qualifications,
or hope
and where
the path
was
perfectly paved
for
the many
jobs ahead.

 

Romcom Roses.

I’d gone out of the front door
of the abode that I was housesitting,
and saw a beautiful woman chasing
her shaggy dog across the lawn.

Smiling, she’d brushed her
bleached blonde hair back in slow motion
and said hi as we’d started talking
and it’d felt like something had
just clicked between us
and life was about to deliver
one of those promised
Hollywood, romcom moments
and this was how
we’d later recount our first meeting.

Suddenly, she grew quiet,
seemingly distracted by the rose bush
over my shoulder, as her dog ran back
to her and she said goodbye abruptly
and swaggered out of my life,
as unexpectedly, as she’d arrived.

That was that and I sighed
and wandered over to the rosebush,
and that was when I spotted it –
a huge, steaming dog turd
beneath the deep red roses and I began
laughing.

They were right –
Hollywood was bullshit