2 poems by Tom Blake

Personal

Age:

unimportant

at this stage.

Blue eyes greying like everything else.

I go through periods where I’ll listen

to nothing but holy minimalism for a week

and then I’ll go on a gospel jag.

That’s about as close as I get to organised religion.

I always say I think David Cronenberg is overrated

then move on to the next subject.

If there is a seat on the tube that’s a different colour

from all the other seats I’ll take it.

I remember the day Ayrton Senna died

like it was my own personal trauma.

I heard the news in my bed.

My bed was an acropolis

and there was a ticking or a gnawing in the walls.

My toxic trait is listening in binary and thinking in cursive;

my head is always wrapped in cold white ribbons

like a burns victim. It’s easy to imagine

a conversation with a dying man:

there’s only so much you can say.

Every time I see a yellow crash helmet

I think of a crystal ball being shattered by a hammer.

I remember the car like a crumpled cigarette packet,

like a lost rhythm. Did I imagine the patches of flame,

like plague sores? My heart quickens when I consider

the immutability of certain architectures. Age

has categorised this quickening as a fear

of the outside of buildings and the inside of cars,

which is a quaint way of saying

no time-wasters.

Poem Not Called Western Caffeine

An old friend suddenly appeared in my thoughts

I was in the kitchen

drinking coffee from The Mug:

the one with the picture

from the Carcass album

I was trying to write a poem

called Western Caffeine

and all I had was the title:

Western Caffeine

and then a space

and then a flashing vertical line on the screen

that said

what could be easier than writing a poem

called Western Caffeine?

and the idea of my friend

who is called Dave

came into my head

he works on a sheep farm now

in Otago

his job is holding down the sheep

while someone more skilled than him

deprives them of their fleece

in that satisfying way

that makes it look like

they’re peeling fondant icing

off a wedding cake

my fingers curled round the mug

like a trematode round the organs of a snail

Dave is a Christian now

I doubt he’s a better person for it

he’s never been a great advert

for rehabilitative justice

I bet he likes it

holding down those sheep

he was married to someone out there

for about twenty minutes

which was long enough for her

to have three of his kids

he prefers the sheep though

I don’t think he’s technically allowed

in New Zealand

he’s done some things

but there he is

haunting the mountains

like the memory of an addiction

the last I heard from Dave

was a message that said

I saw the poem you wrote about me

my fingers wrapped around the mug

with the pictures of human remains on it

I have never written a poem about Dave

he’s not the kind of person you write poems about

____________

Tom Blake (he/him) is a poet and music journalist from the UK. He has published two chapbooks with The Red Ceilings Press: Ƨ (2023) and Peach Epoch (2025). His work has featured in Streetcake, And Other Poems, and Perverse. He is a regular contributor of reviews and features to KLOF magazine.