Simon Robson – 2 poems

‘TWO BRAINS’
If I could miraculously develop a
second brain at the back of my neck,
not too heavy, all my weekend bets off,
I’d win the lottery –
gravity still allowing me
to drag my left leg over
the cracks in paving, steep, rising kerbs,
never falling over, ice and snow.

I’d go around every cine-plex showing,
me and my two brains together,
tiny sardine shoals of fish,
worth millions, vibrating, silver –
more than Argentina, Buenos Aries,
galloping polo players, armadillos,
I’d be worth spacious New York apartments,
a fortune in timber, match sticks, my ankles…

I wouldn’t be standing here now,
trying to piss straight, golden Lucozade –
I’d be careful with my movements,
strange, adding a second brain,
more wisdom, intellect,
bottles of embryonic fluid I’d happily sink…

I’d rather be a fish,
thanks to my mother’s womb –
I’d still be swimming around with two brains,
all that truth, nervous, untidy, my ankles –
still fumbling in my front door,
I’d like to see things differently,
less knowledge, dignity, respect –
one day, two brains.

MY M3 SMART MOTORWAY UPGRADE

Expect further delays,
that’s what I’d say,
you may as well be
in your pram sucking on your mother’s
nipple – I wish I was in charge.

There wouldn’t be a completion date
for motorway safety improvements and
maintenance, four lanes –
your mental health in tatters.

I’d have 500 useless workers at any one time,
shuffling dumper trucks, cabins, diggers,
Smart phones, taking dirty photos of trenches,
dilapidated, flapping fences, concrete paving,
useless, their endeavours, empty, limp diggers.

I’d have everyone slowing down to one lane,
miles of one-way upright traffic cones,
a few minor diversions just to confuse you further –
decapitated immigrant’s heads bouncing off
BMW and Landrover windscreens like expensive
Chelsea footballs, cocks, yachts from
Southampton docks.

A lorry driver who can’t change gears, lanes,
a DJ with his turntables and equipment,
a painter and decorator from Bagshot,
one bridge demolished, leaving residents cut off –
me and Anees, my driver,
on our way to work, Hounslow heath,
hampered by the roadworks and delays.

It’s been years, I wish I was in charge –
I’d commission an enormous machine to
produce more industrial thick fog, sleet and icy rain,
whirring helicopter propeller blades,
ambulances, medics, traffic cones,
more diversions to Essex, Epping forest.

It’s a government project, scam, I know,
worth £174 million, an idiotic investment, endeavour,
just above your average Chelsea football player –
all improvements to safety, none.
It’s been years,
I wish I was in charge –
I’d have fifty miles an hour
speed cameras to boost revenue further,
information signs that lead to Brookwood, Woking,
the Polish cemetery there,
some trained through the Skills Academy,
Farnborough Sixth Form students, NVQs, Job Centre Plus –
four lanes, improved safety, yellow information signs.

Simon Robson