[Mark McDonnell]

So, over on GT the poet Matthew Zapruder's ideas about 'conceptual rhyme' are being discussed with some earnestness. Nobody seemed to actually know his poetry, though, so I looked some up and posted a couple. He has about half a dozen on Poetry Foundation. It seemed a certain 'type' of poetry to me. Entertaining, but so free-associative as to seem easy to do. I had a go. I went full stream of consciousness. My point is, what started in a spirit of mockery (never one of the best spirits) began to feel wonderful! Thanks Matthew!

Poem for Matthew

It's something when even saints
are bored. When the two o'clock last helmers
bus their way out, spend the evening
discussing Russian literature
with ghosts on the internet in exchange
for selfies of dead scientists.
I drink my coffee, think of my neighbour Annie
who didn't mind my hair gel on her couch.
For shame she said, her own hair flying
and spreading across the sky like butter,
I only wear this dress to spill
my gin on, don't think I'm as juniper
ready as that my dear, my chuck.
Oh wear a high collar a turtleneck
and cross your legs in the corner
like twine, right over left and
foot behind the ankle. Stare
at the book, yes, but earwig for your name
it will come it will come it will.
Here they all keep candlewax in purses,
now soft now brittle but glowing always
with dream translucency that melts
and makes us moths.
England doesn't deserve you
it coughs into its newspaper, belches,
hands the last scrap of Blake's illuminations
to any passing online poker sting.
See how your mother still brings in washing,
pins in her mouth, singing the wrong words
to a song she should have been dancing to.
See the chalked stones you remember,
the blue bike you gave to the boy with flesh tape
on his glasses, his soft cry of refusal.
The watering can. See the whole sky
in quick reverse, the child you were
before the penny dropped.