LGP | Briefcase | Robert Lyn II

Robert Lyn used to live in London, then Luton, then Teesside, then Toronto. He's now working for a University and teaching English in Prague. He is a painter who wants to be an arborist.

Baby Blue Firebird.
When I lived alone, despair blankets comforted on filthy couches.
They reside near now, as the veils stalk and regroup.
I remove my cufflinks and wipe the sweat from my brow.
I place my cravat in the glove compartment of my Baby-blue Firebird
With a fist shaking at the sun I mutter, “we will never return; our absence will be their ultimate discomfort”
The twitch returns to my eye.
The monocle falls into my Gin and Tonic.
The sword rattles, impatient.

Apology in the Duke of Clarence.
To all the birds I have shagged,
I am sorry.
I must have been awfully heavy,
I must have been frightfully drunk.
Lager probably,
Perhaps cider,
That stuff’ll really get you going.
I must have been incoherent,
I am sorry.
Here let me get that.

Each Corners Spider Mausoleum Mirrors.
This damp room has been witness to many a musty tear.
Industrial carpets are designed for such emanations.
The spit shuffle romance has flown.
I say your name as I release,
I say mine, in disgust as I wash my hands.
I Should do a little more self loathing tonight, then by eleven -

If you see someone picking up buts, for heavens sake give them one of yours.
Tight defiant cigarettes of the past
Are now slow, sad, loose drags.
During my KFC fuelled wanking, I think of you in those positions.
The firm push of his hand on your bare shoulder.
Your breath quickens and you say his name.
A dog-eared Swank and a last pocket bent fag at five am,
washed down with ash-filled dregs.
I have to leave, I have a date with a thin Swedish mattress

and a tight fist.
I will meet them on an industrial carpet in Eastern Europe.
I have accomplished everything I had planned.

Town and Country (Poem for Bruce Springsteen).
At the South end of town
‘neath the highways and dust
Cars scrape the northern sky whilst the devil kisses the lakes.
It is the low dull drone,
it is the sound of cut skin.
People like us sometimes recall
The dropped glass,
the white heat of shame.
Tears at the housewarming,
recriminations at the christening.
But late June in the North, that light never abates,
that’s when I see the lords plan right behind my eyes…
…..and down the south end of town silence reigns

Sometimes to punish me, I pretend That I am you.
I have stood in rooms alone, lights on, with my cock shoved back between my legs.
In your voice I have said, “I’m happier alone, and “it’s not you, it’s me”
It is to mock you, and to drop a hard shoulder into time’s throat.
Make sure you both know I’m not pissing about.
Another time, I had a ten minute argument in a thunderstorm, with you as a grotesque me.
You lost that one.

Slag.

St Clarens Avenue.
Does the cold steel of your bower comfort?
Has independence turned to rankly scented lonely hours?
When the lake winds tousle your hair, do you recall my touch?
I will comfort again, in another garden, another summer.
Your muddy fingertips on cherry tomatoes, the look on your face with the first taste of

Ten men shouting.
All those pictures of Martin and Terry in sweat soaked flags.
All those three bar heated, hash cider sessions.
Every pint glass ring on sodden mats.
The smell of after shave, stale piss and car parks.
May these haunt your days.
We are coming.
Get more of everything.

The faint odour of fish fingers, reminds.
I am constantly rewarding myself for imagined heroism,
a glass raised to myself.
The past will never be passed.
The past remains like a cold rollercoaster,
it will punish and remain.
Footsteps echo, litter scatters and dogs shite.
Quarter truths muttered into yer seventh and yer off.
Sick punctiliously poured onto ravenous cold stones.
Your dress twitches like a suburban curtain and I am awfully embarrassed,
but tomorrow over eggs all will be forgotten.
Tournez leger.

What the River Brings.
Life is a dropped pint, a bent fag,
who is to blame
this past while
for an attitude such?
the lost self-belief

Life is an empty room, a mouldy wardrobe,
why is the future
filled with clouds?
weddings I won’t attend
misdirected anger and betrayal
Life is a seeping slug, a crushed snail,
what happened to me
over these years
that I could say
such a vile thing?

Yoga pram
With confettied ambivalence,
and the vanity of maternity,
you become your Labrador retriever.
With myopic self image,
and the chin lift of privilege
You fold into your Volvo.
“I don’t feel right”
“Shut up Helen, you’re drunk”

Poem (to be repeated for no reason).
This crime haunts forever.
You loved will grow silent.
You will continue talking to a bereft kitchen slowly filling with blood.
A vile pause in your vile program will rouse you.
The electric light will reveal.
And when you ask “why?”
We will answer “Because”
This crime haunts forever.
Then we will show it to you. Repeat.