MODERNPOSTMANISM

MODERNPOSTMANISMPOEM1

Hunched and needy

Like a baby gull

I stalk the street

For sustenance

Stepping gingerly

Over

The once

Used

Herbal

Tea bags

And broken needles

That spill from brightening bins

In the dwindling dawns of August

Once I dreamt

Of better days within this

Earthen purgatory

When I was brown and pretty

It was no job

To breathe more freely

But now I stalk the streets

Beneath the laughing mooning ball above

In between the raining drops 

By the graffi too shuttered shops

Into the maw

The muscled chops

Of

The Royal Mail 

62-63 North Road

Brighton

BN1 1AA

The lifers inside

So lifeless with pride

Good Morningly grunt their acknowledge

Let out to their wives at eventide

They are always back here stirring their porridge

Will be two hours yet as a coffee-god’s pet

Before I can summon a smile

I keep my weather-beaten head down

In the back of a Transit

On old copies of goals extra or extra goals

Or made up goals with moving posts

As the red valkyries descend

From the upstairs garage

Into the yard yawning with boredom

Like the back doors cold open wide

Waiting is time

And labour intensive

And work is last on the mind

A beardy they branded Jumanji walks by

And there’s Wazzer sungover again

And Grizzly Badams with his drizzly voice

And desiccated Ruth with a fag at her chin

And are they as desperate or do they prepare

And are they aware and of course do they care

About this all pervasive attitude

The constant twatting platitudes

For that’s all I hear

Somedays

Shaven headed voices

Spitting casual brutalities

From their fascicle

There in an element that never forgives

Closed ranks of a herd

But this pack is bird like

Right wing they are

For a working union

A bundle of sour nazis

Who defend their misguide

With persiflage turning

To vicious whispers

And insult camouflaged by

Supposed camaraderie

Banter they call it

The fuckers

Seriously

Otherdays not

For people can be giving

And love their children

Not unusually

Provision gives dimension

Even Postman Pat had three

Although that is hard to define

On a flatscreen tv

THE ART of STRIKING: A Human, Moving Installation

To get the greatest effect from this piece I was told to come early. It was situated on North Road, Brighton, for one day only - with possible extensions. I arrived at six a.m. the rain pelting me from the dark sky and soggy leaves soaking my feet. There was a small huddle of people outside number 63 with a placard declaring Official CWU Picket Line, so I headed for them. They were all men. Some were uniformed. One man held a banner and the big word UNITE was underscored. Another man handed me a newsprint brochure, which I read…

“Beneath hand-painted banners The Jarrow Crusade arrived at Westminster. It had been one month and three hundred miles from their starting point. The 200 marchers received no help from the TUC or support from The Labour Party, and were basically ignored by the Tory government. The Jarrow shipyard had been considered outdated and was closed down, leaving many in the town jobless. To raise awareness of their plight the men marched. They gained public sympathy but little else.

It has been said that in the current climate postal workers should stop moaning and be happy to have a job. But they are happy to have jobs and they are desperate to keep them.  Many postal workers feel that the Royal Mail will soon be no more. They see the current modernisation procedures as preparation for this inevitable event. It seems the Labour government no longer needs Royal Mail and therefore the country can do without this service. With only one real option to make their voices heard, 76% of voting workers opted to strike.”

… The rain eases for a moment and the men spread out a little and start to improvise. The conversation is of who has ‘gone in’. One name crops up but they are not surprised at this and the talk splinters into different topics. They ruminate on last night’s entertainment or the horses or football and they smoke cigarettes. The scene is multi-layered and interwoven yet somehow exclusive. I feel like an interloper but there is an air of expectancy so I stay to watch the drama unfold.

A car rolls up to the entrance where the men stand and it indicates to go past them. They are intrigued to see who is inside and are disappointed that it is only a manager. A box of take-out coffees arrives with another of their number and they gather for news. A rumour spreads that Portslade have all ‘gone in’. The men are visibly disgusted, but there is something else, sadness.

I am handed a bitter coffee and then participate in a boredom-relieving word game. A couple of the older characters ogle women on their way to work. They make half-hearted comments that are lost because of early carelessness. The cast is fluid as some leave to be replaced by others who appear from the approaching dawn. There is persiflage directed at each newcomer but it sounds well worn. They move around each other as conversation runs dry.  

One silence is punctuated by the arrival of a brand new Porsche. It parks next to our group. They are incredulous as they watch two stripe-shirted men unfold themselves and don orange, hi-vis, Royal Mail waistcoats. Managers from other offices brought in to do a postman’s job! In that car! Talk turns to manager’s bonuses and Crozier’s three million on the backs of the closures of post offices nationwide. On the backs of the 40,000 job cuts and still no profit! The men spit and curse their various gods and shuffle their feet.

A union man comes to give an update that means nothing; it disappears in the wind as the men return to the more pressing issue of breakfast. Then, from around the corner there comes a shout. Here they are! The Argus! And at last there is activity as the men assemble themselves like a rehearsed troop for a mug shot of proof.

I amble away at this point; my thoughts concerned with the men’s morale, which is low, and their direction, which is unsure. It is an arresting piece. They are together but their banter is hollow. These brothers have banded but it looks like they will not march together. They will simply drift away as the Royal Mail becomes history.

ON GOING

A few years back

We were pretending to work

In the P.O. yard

When Dan went silent…

He drank his coffee

Like it was relief

Like there was wisdom

At the bottom of the mug

He burned his tongue

Bit his lip

And his eyes met mine

And they started to slide

So I asked him what was up.

He said he thought she was gone

And it was all done and over

His breath full of grief

At the thought of the death of it all

And he just wanted to hold on

He said

It was what was real

And it was what was all

Not this yard or these vans

They disappeared

He just had to hold on

To her hand

LAST DAYS OF THE P.O.

1.

February

I drive my van slowly

It is seven a.m.

I am bleary eyed

I can’t quite see

Sixes become eights when written by idiots

And everyone is an idiot

At seven forty five

I take a package

Flowers by post

To a door in the dark and ring the bell

A fat man huffs to the door

He is nearly naked

“For me?” he questions

Bewildered and also bleary

Yes, I say, Happy Valentine’s Day

And he asks me inside

At which point I realize my mistake