Bobby Parker



He has been studying the lost girls again, says he’s puzzled by their music. Partial to the scars. Their high voices that drag until they break off. Now dawn grey guilt sighs through his buttons. People on their way to work scowl at his manic hairstyle, the way his hands swing either side of him like strung out floozies. He sees your little hand on the window, a vision that confiscates the possibility of anything else. ‘Daddy’s home!’ He looks tired, blows kisses from another planet, his eyes crawl over my chest like full stops weighed down with promises that sink to the bottom of us.

____________________________________________________________________FUCK THE MOON


Every other poem has the fucking moon
blaring from the centre, makes me sick!
My coughing blood wakes the neighbourhood.
My wife leaves the room when I see the moon
because she knows we’re about to lose
some more furniture. Leave the moon alone.
Give us your head; peeled, colourful, half-asleep.
We have been eating the moon since high school.
Our bodies are weak, they need meat,
gristle and hot fat. They can barely stand.
We have overdosed on the moon; caught exotic
diseases, genital warts, spent nights in jail
with your fucking moons up our arses.
Give us strange spices, a flash of bone
from your skeleton lockers. Leave it alone!
The next time you find yourself writing
about the moon, stop. Go for a walk in the dark.
Call your mother and tell her you are sorry.


BOBBY PARKER was born in 1982 in Kidderminster, England, where he still lives with his wife and daughter. His poetry has been widely published. He is currently putting together the final draft for a short selection of poems due out with Holdfire Press later this year. Bobby’s published books include Digging for Toys (Indigo Dreams), the critically acclaimed Ghost Town Music, and its equally successful sequel Comberton (the knives forks and spoons press)


Read more by Bobby Parker:

Four poems at Litter
Poem at Dead Ink