Other Poems by:

Stephen J. Golds

Mutt

The monster 
on the outskirts,
the troll
under the bridge.

a bowl cut
and
glasses with lenses 
that were too thick.

The underdog 
chasing the traffic,
the underdog 
getting crushed and hit by the traffic.

Left by 
the side of the motorway,
bleeding,
listening,
thinking,
standing on the tips
of pyramids
and burning down the deserts.

The Flea Bitten Dog and Dusty Bone

I need to 
Learn
To stop answering
My goddamned telephone 
Every time it
Ring
Rings 
Because people
Always
Always
Call me when they want 
SOMETHING
Something other then to know how things are
They want a 
Favour
Or
Money
(They rang the wrong guy)
Or
Help of some kind.
Or 
Some other shit
 
This puts
STRESS
On my day
 
I need  to make a phone call so I'll cut this short


Last Words

I never wore my seat belt.
Never.
But this one time 
I did.
I don't know why I did.
Maybe
It was because the driver
Was 
Pissed on cider and Jack D.


I remember 
I was telling him
That he fucked his mother
When I saw
The car rolling towards us.


When I think about it though.
"You fuck your mother you inbred prick"
Would have been
Pretty good last words.

My Proudest Day

I was working in a 
Book
Shop
 
I use the word WORK loosely
 
Because mostly
I just walked around with a 
Concerned look on my face
Touching books on the shelves
Every
So often
 
Working
 
9 to 5
            Were my hours
 
One morning
I was still 
M
   E
      S
         S        
            E     
               D 
Up
From the night before
So
I
Rang up the shop
My boss
And said
"I cant come in today until 1 o'clock I've got stuff on and so forth"
and he said
"No you wont, your contracted to start at 9. be here at 9."
 
I turned up at one.
 
When I walked into work at
One
My boss saw me and 
Infront
Of all the zombie customers 
And
All the zombie workers 
He pulled me aside and said
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't fire you right now"
 
I smiled and said
"There isn't any. Fire me".
Poker face. 
 
He didn't say anything 
And just walked off.
 
My proudest moment.

Chester Train Station

We kissed
Tongue to tongue
Body to body
In a place of ruins
 
Graffiti love
Pigeon shit life
 
White splashes on rust
 
She left
Me there
In the station
 
The train wasn't coming 
But we
Knew it was 
Time
To go
Rip our newspaper hearts apart
Once more
 
She left
I sat
Smoking a cigarette and
Watching the pigeons shit 

Walking home from a few bars

I dead man walked past
Her
House 
It wasn't raining 
It wasn't sunny
It was only the night 
 
Her little piece of shit 
Aqua car 
With the fluffy toys in the
Windows
Was not in the drive
 
She
Was
Gone
!  
I stood under a gang of
Weeping 
Willows in the neither
Warm nor cold breeze only a night breeze
Wishing
For a past
That would
Never
Be the present again
 
I know this because
The moon the stars
The drowning hearts 
Told me so

Smokey

Smokey came to see me, 
We sat 
And talked 
And drank Beer. 
He showed 
Me a revolver 
A 38. 
Dull Like death but shiney still like life 
He told Me he was gonna 
Shoot out every 
Star in the sky. 
I knodded and we continued 
To drink the Beer. 
The next day I heard through a bloke I knew 
That smokey 
Had used the 
Gun On himself. 
 
I can sometimes understand why he did that


Neither Christian Nor Jew Nor Muslim

I asked God
A question today
 
I looked at the sky
I looked in the reflections of puddles
I looked in everything
And everywhere
And
No
Answer came
 
I waited a while
And asked again

Train Ride

Train ride life
Conversations 
That pass with clouds
Seas, rivers  - Gods 
Lives
Gods dream
Mans nightmare
 
Where are the heavens?
When people 
Eat talk
Shit 
Talk shit eating the souls of the diminished and
The dusty delicate bones
Of a long since dead life
Longer dead reasons
 
This life
The smallest of reflections
On a muddy puddles surface

Biography

Stephen J Golds "established 1983" was born and raised in London Colney, St. Albans,
 U.K and is now working as a labourer for a tool hire company. He has been published 
within a few magazines including Zygote In My Coffee, Laura Hirds Showcase, Remark,
 Poetic Verse, Lunatic Chameleon, Skive, Lit Chaos, 3am magazine and Dogma Press. 
He is currently working on a collec! tion of short stories and an anthology of poems 
that he hopes will get published someday. 

Jobs that he has been hired and fired from include; 
Machine operator in a cardboard box factory, sauce adder in a pasta factory, cleaner, 
construction site labourer and shelf stacker. His hobbies include being rejected and 
ejected by bouncers from bars and nightclubs and poking wasps nests with sticks. He 
has only been stung three times.
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