Two Poems – Gwil James Thomas

Fuck It. 

It’s the crucifix on the hilltop –  
now silhouetted against the sunset. 

The dead pigeon on the road getting 
flattened again and again.

The room that’s now far too hot to sleep in, 
as the sun still lingers 
in these sultry Spanish streets. 

The giant of a man dressed in a clown suit
casually wandering up to the dumpster as he
looks inside it for god knows what,
before he takes a piss against it and glares at me –
as if the scene’s nothing out of the ordinary.

It’s the bar across the street that’s beckoning 
me in now, as I search my pockets 
and count five Euros. 

The saccharine smile of the barmaid 
that’s welcoming at first – 
but fades rapidly when she has 
to count out the shrapnel I hand her. 

The crisp untouched beer 
that right now speaks more sense than 
any self help guru. 

The slouching back in my seat taking 
whilst that first sip, 
thinking fuck it there’s always tomorrow – 
well almost.


Tofu Lunch Poem.

Back in the kitchen, 
thinking of the one 
that got away, 
trying to ignore 
the news on the 
television set – 
terrorist propaganda, 
corrupt politicians, 
Kanye West, 
I boil pak choi  
with the noodles, 
fry the diced garlic, 
and chilli in the pan, 
adding the tofu – 
like me, 
it’s so white,
and falls apart easily, 
but hardens 
some heat. 

I scan through 
the mail 
on the kitchen table – 
a final warning payment/
court summons 
and some junk mail about 
a new dirty and delicious 
looking burger – 
but the farmyard 
can rest peacefully
this afternoon 
at least, 
as I’m cooking a tofu
noodle soup.