Edible Ghosts
Bobby Parker

Yesterday was the hottest day
in the history of the world,
everybody died
and came back to life
and then died again
and now we're waiting
for the pizza delivery man
to call to say he cannot find us.

When I carry the tall fan
from the living room to the bedroom
I like to pretend I'm Jesus.

Katy says my ass looks good
in these yellow pants
and it's my turn
to take the rubbish out.

The kitchen is full of broken glass,
this wouldn't be a problem
if I could stop thinking about blood -
some nights I can't keep an erection
for the image of her
silent-screaming
in a salmon-coloured armchair.

There have been three burglaries
in the last couple of weeks,
when they hit the restaurant
across the street
they took everything
even the vegetables.

I watch the family downstairs
water plants around the building.
They are waiting for the police.
The man is slowly winding
a garden hose around his arm,
his grey ponytail upsets me.
The woman is sitting
on a wall, chain-smoking,
I drink her patient smile.
Their little girl shrieks with joy,
soaked to the skin on a purple scooter.
I wish her happiness
didn't bug me so much.

There must be 1000 photos
of my daughter on my phone.
I look at them every day and feel
pain like the discovery
of a new planet.
She is approximately 131.9 miles away.

Text message from mother asks
if I sold any paintings yet
sold any books yet
and you know
you can't come home.

Katy begs me to destroy the drugs
I've been holding for old times' sake.
I’ve been stalling for 22 minutes.
When I give her the pills
she crushes the silver
packet in her fist, runs to the bathroom
and flushes them.
After, we cry.
I’m not even supposed to be alive.

I want to tell you
that London anxiety
is Pac-Man Biblical
but I don't even know
what that means.

The hipsters are partying
in the opposite building,
they
laugh
laugh
laugh.
An old black woman stops
to lean on their gate, her exhausted
eyes approximately
99% more human,
shopping bags
like storm clouds on the kerb.   

A film is playing on Netflix,
the subtitles read:
''I also know
how important
it is in life
not necessarily to be strong
but to feel strong.''

If it thunders
hard tonight
with union lightning
strikes over the bulging city
and her sad little car
I'm certain all of this
will mean something.

Meanwhile, the newsagent
is open until 3 a.m.
I’m getting beer fat again
and we have developed
a loving bond
with the otherness
of lamps.

Bobby Parker was born in 1982 and lives in Kidderminster. Publications include the critically acclaimed experimental books Ghost Town Music and Comberton, both published by The Knives Forks & Spoons Press. His poetry, artwork and photography have appeared in various reputable magazines in print and on-line. He writes a poetry column for The Quietus. His collection Blue Movie is published by Nine Arches Press.

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