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Neil J Blackburn

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Member Since: Mar, 2008

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Featured Book
Journeys With Soul:
by John Herlihy

Adventures to strange and exotic places and traditional cures that came true...  
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Job Centre Weather
by Neil J Blackburn
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Neil J Blackburn
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Its about a day being unemployed in Charnock.

Its Job Centre weather,another mid-afternoon first thing.
From beds edge to bathroom I wash my jawbone and piss,
Then back to my window for a fag.
A familiar sight holds contempt through an unmoving frame,
The back gardens,fence panels and bush before the tracks.
This fag now alight tastes as bad as the same,blown into the scene.
Working the ember to a point on the sill,a bird in a tree with screws for eyes,
Crys,licking its beak between,looking for meat in my mind and seeing only vegetables there,
Drops from its perch onto some crumb and forgets me.
I sigh the last drag on the flick and squart spit over bottom lip,
Like a frogs fart to silence the violins.

Down Sharrats Path,the bus stop for the bus to town.
Old women gabble about fuck all and some bag head dead eyes me to my seat.
Bettering shops at traffic light stops with nothing inside I need,
Pelicans grazing pavements increasing bags bulging joy.
I am here for nothing,in this centre,whispering hand outs and blown jobs,
Ants for industrial parks wanted and young enthusiasts for things unimaginable,experience essential.
Its the fidgety parade of touch screen pilots and the woman who smells of frying that decides I'll walk,
A path I know away from the road and out of the minds of them.

Lurking monsters near eaten grandma bits,
Waiting for this arrogant beauty to pass,
Watching as he grows along the guinell behind the garden backs,
They wriggle in their skins,stretching hungry fingers into the murk,
Set thick as death,these red intentions could flicker and swell madmens eyes to burst...and monsters look on.
He cuts the path at the bend through the hole of a bush,
Where the bog ground sucks sloppy at his feet,
Here is a wasteland of childhood worlds,dens built in a day,summer getaways papered in porno,places of secret smoking and imagination.
He rests at the base of a shot tree,reaching carefully to his pocket,
And soon spliff smoke washing his face,whispering soft insanities.
Later he will make it back and not remember doing so,the details of some life fantasy still being perfected through the door.


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