Richard Wink is a poet based in Norwich, England. Widely published, Wink has previously released six chapbooks of poetry including: ‘All along the Wensum’ (Kendra Steiner Editions), ‘The Magnificent Guffaw’ (erbacce Press), ‘Apple Road’ (Trainwreck Press) and ‘Delirium is a Disease of the Night’ (Shadow Archer Press). Debut full length collection ‘Dead End Road’ is out now through BeWrite Books. He is also the editor-in-chief of cult litzine Gloom Cupboard http://gloomcupboard.com. Dead End Road is available from BeWrite Books and various online retailers including Amazon.
The Marqueses Hotel
It is not unusual for a man to wish disease upon
himself
when consumed with inclinations for divinity.
A man fond of stealing ideas from sinful
practitioners
never thinking how neglected art relies
on a bold beginning and a tame end
or that his very audience should protrude
a vague appreciation of sentimentality.
He yearns for a beautiful soul
instead he reads meaningless smiles
on cinder block faces.
they ask
Have you forgotten the importance of posture?
Knowing perfect form is all you can offer
in a time of firm tits and tight abs
treasure tends to be prized away with rhythmic
ease.
a long sleep is needed
to steady the nerves before
two bodies lose all sense of direction
disdainful eruptions
lingering look of daggers
delightful fiery response in comfortable eyes
affectionate low
Student House Party
Late to the gathering
seven fifty five
our friends are now sculptures
our bottles are brides
Lecture theatre leaches
cult smut gobblers.
Jokes with added laughter
drenched in tap water atmosphere
created by green eyes
that ride the curtain rail
carried away by the ceiling fan helicopter.
Casualties were taken
carted back by impatient taxi drivers
where tension simmered
in cubes of sugar,
the smell of brewing coffee was nefarious
aroma coming
ambience going
paranoia rising -
the last four shoes in the hallway
belonged to us
Forgetfulness
Boredom in check
a back spasm, a crook neck
An old man loses all his best days
one by one he forgets his birth date
his wedding anniversary
his sons name
Empty headed
he keeps walking
stopping women, men
and even the dog resting his paws on the front wall.
He asks
"How do I get to..."
I don't know where I'm going
The path snakes into a humid
hostile area
he doesn't recognize the overgrown shrubbery
or the supermarket trolleys
dead in the ditch
Somewhere in another land
Handprints marked the land,
grubby fingers, toothy grins,
Confused landmines
delivered a blunt exclamation mark.
There was smoke
foggy headed dull disorientation
a sensory overload
then the shock of your own vital red
cries, from a woman you did not know
for you were the enemy,
a piece of you forever
remained in another land.
And now you sit back
in your specially constructed reclining chair
Mum brings you trays of tea and toast
like one big happy family
you are together again.
What time are you starting?
Blink and I'll miss
the Golden Gate Bridge
daggers, and scarlet wings
darling trees and blue recycling bins
postcards on the windowsill
pictures in frames
I love Jesus stickers on dirty windscreens
Crimean tinge
sculpted terracotta mornings
dew soaked ropes
startled frigid feathers
pear drop hopes
butterfly patterns
miniature pyramids
broken bottles of real ale
nobody's business
Jehovah Witnesses
postmen, milkmen, gardeners, builders
everything flashes past
before I can cherish the mundane memories
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