Three Poems by Christopher Barnes.

 

Gobshite

Flirting hap-hazards to mist
In innocent sunlight; don’t
Specify brewing clouds.

Here they pin you.
Drivel me the shooting match,
I’ll ignore it.  A hope chest
Is no laughing matter
To account for these footings.

You’re a bubble-ish posturemaster.
Time to backbone your sanity.
Soon years will burst – inexplicable.

 

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Banker
(Sand Shift Foundations)

Leading the dance of the whole High Street
Heart-sinkingly
He clanged before boutiques,
A breather at tradeless windows.

We’ve nattered about framing debts,
Looking back
On silted Manager’s lips,
Vow – we’re no great shakes as a financial institution,
Emphatic while speaking to pin-money designs.

Trust – an afterthought
In the blear of a lying mirror.

 

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Crisis

Their trump card is to cashier
Inseverable worthlessness.
We’ll weed swag-debt…
Lend yourself to lion’s share stashes
They disclaim.

The population nip is red.
Flunked straw bosses, disregard all trust.
At vanishing point the axe nose-dives.