Dan Bond Poems

The 60s, the early years before Stoned, Kinked Beatles teetered towards the vertical face of stardom.

The hard edge of the portcullised Thruppenny Bit pressed to my leg through a thin pocket, in the freezing Scottish wind.
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"I'm in a strange place right now" she said, the tip of the scalpel sharp kitchen knife maps a lifetime of disappointment onto the contours of her pale thigh.

The exquisite agony pulls tight the sinews of her neck and applies eye popping pressure to her brain, is she insane? Or just in the wrong location?
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The bruised bark did not bleed, sap sticky to touch but smooth to the eye gathered in the corner of the crescent crease the car left behind.

Though the tear was formed, no tear was shed, the tree remained unmoved.
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Curse you Superman, for your perfect hair, beautiful blue biceps and cockerel red codpiece.

You are so fecking fantastic and not a bit like me.
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