New Poem by Sam Buchan-Watts

Worship Services

If I draw out London like a cross

the Old Kent Road would stretch

the length of Christ’s sick body.

Catching the 453

like a potential virus,

I’m a slow shot up his spine.

But the bus stops

with deliberate ache of reason.

The perpetrator has called it

and drags my eyes to an ungodly paradox

-church shop and ASDA side by side-

where He stands (dispersed in glossy paperbacks)

author of all; beaten by showcards.

Through this valediction of faith

thanks be to yellowed window, I witness

the plastic gore of 4-way adaptors.

Next door: Grisham tops some trial,

life as I want to see it, loud and taut.

Warm green colour schemes

balance Mum with Dad,

my potential kids well fed,

not realising, that they themselves

are a kind of food.

I think of my mother, ten

years back. Weekend day mistook-

she got the wrong kind of mass-

Attending Tescos for my

weekly refill, of re-healing.

poem by Sam Buchan-Watts. He recently graduated from Goldsmiths College and co-runs Clinic Presents which publishes a biannual anthology of the best new contemporary poetry art and photography, and through which are put on gigs and exhibitions of the best new poets/bands/artists in anything from an abandoned strip-club in Mayfair to a private school in Berkshire.

Comments

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