in parentheses

J. D. Lancaster is a Graphic Designer from North-East England and now lives in Ireland.

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Of Last Night’s Late Fire

I scraped a shovel
With a black handle
From a silver bowl.

A fanged grill was prised
From out a surprised;
Wide and gormless mouth.

I laboured and mined
The ashes and fines
Of last night’s late fire;

The dust scattered lands
And rust coloured sands
Of old smokeless coal.

I propped a block of hardwood
As furthest back as I could;
Into the hollowed out wall.

I lit up a cut of peat
Which blazed as fiery as sleet
Which in turn; burned all the rest.

They formed warm, shivering flames;
Tangerines with cheap blue frames,
That held a sweet, resin stench.

A rib cage made from thins of kindling
Where licked and blackened and cradled in;
The flickering hand of the devil

Which dared to crawl towards the mantle,
After it spat, crackled and rattled;
As much alive as an ocean wave.

I feel greatly less alone
On winters nights, on my own,
Sat with it, roaring away.

It nurses and entertains
With its vivid, changing ways,
Thirsty for more wood and coal.

At night, I roll back the rug,
Leave the room; quiet and snug,
As it’s sleeps, tucked in its cage.

One night I came down
When I heard a sound,
I looked in to see

It’s silent embers
Cast shadow tremors
Across barren walls.

Born out of coldness,
Ebbed in aloneness—
Each morning brings death.

All the while, we worked
And never bothered—
To have any kids.

Clementines

Not everyone’s first pick.
Bit of labour in it.
With them sweet clementines.

I sink my thumb straight in
To peel its plastic skin
In thought out surroundings.

It spits its scent at me
Exposing its gristly;
Fresh white and furry veins.

The pedicels now ripped
Unplugged from the skins ridge
Placed by a pile of rinds.

Now naked in my palm,
Quashed into being calm,
I part it like a brain.

The sweetness that’s released
From each seducing piece
Leaves a perfume presence.

Time takes a little breath;
Sipping delicate flesh.
Keep your composite box.

Beneath the taps patter
I wash my hands after
With citrus scented soap.

Graffiti

Amongst the steel and rust
And where the blossom petals lay,
Are words sprayed on a wall;
‘Fatigue can kill, so take sick days.’

I’d see these leaning words
Through eyes that stung with morning sun,
Atop the circuit bus
And when the purple day was done.

This trickled in my thought
As I passed leaves of curling flame;
‘In all my working life
I had not taken one sick day.’

A laboured thing to read
Through eyes that ache for brighter days,
And yet it made me smile
Except those times I slept both ways.

Our Most Irregular Regular

I’m sat at the bar alone
Near a plaque for a man I don’t know,
Beneath his name is inscribed;
Our Most Irregular Regular.

For a while, it made me smile,
Until it began to make me think;
Of times I have drank alone—
Relishing in; which is unbeknown.

I’m playing a part in ways,
I’ll knock it on the head in good time,
Youth is for wasting your days,
It’s not as if I’ve spent all of mine.

Who could blame him in a way,
For chasing that richness aged within,
Us regulars have reasons—
The drink has us all dancing from string.

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