4 poems by Scott Cumming

Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Scott Cumming

Rebel Without a Clue

Box office weekend

Stock exchange closing

Star player’s new contract

Just so many more ones and zeroes

Down on the street

There’s place’s

Where the weight of currency

is still very real

scrabbling for the pennies

to get your next meal

Ignored by the banker

scurrying along with

an oversized broadsheet

Private jets soaring

past a billion private hells

Daily ringing of the bells

but seldom are they heard

on the cancer wards

Dying in debt

no loss of sleep

for profiteers of death

Pats on the back

for the patriots

Generations of risked necks

psyches wrecked

Purple hearts turned dark

The brave, the few

who aren’t left for dead

discarded

I’m no class warrior

Just one more

Rebel without a clue

admin middle manager

working

between the white and the blue

streaming tunes

at 0.00003p per play

doom scrolling through

the working day

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No Name #7

I think about pain

the most brutal

that comes to mind

is the old mobile chip shop

car careening

missing the corner

owner cooked in fat

battered and fried

as the unit hurtled

to the bottom

of the incline

he lived

but at what cost

empty corner

a reminder

until it was paved over

a passage to a new bridge

a passage of the time passed

Siren Song

The city’s siren song

plays on a loop

all night long

Always a beat behind

the poundings

the thefts

the addict OD’ed

out on the bench.

He lies awake

ruminates

on the sickness

eating away

killing

The song reminds him

of the tunes he once played

Another scared rookie

shooting an unarmed man

tale as old as time

Wisened partner

carrying

concealed, unmarked

to place

muddy the case

History’s cycle

sees him do the same

A shot to the thigh

left as a reminder

to never fuck up again

The cruel coldness

comes quicker

with the seasons

Each night

the same

pushers, prostitutes and problems

The peaceful scattering

gaining only minutes

before they return

as you rush

to the abused child

the battered wife

the drunk asshole

held up by a knife

The disillusionment

to discover

you weren’t a deterrent

The delusion

you could save

when you were

most easily blamed

Life now

just nurse visits

twice a day

you wonder hard

if you should have

gone the other way.

Desert Double Cross

Everything melts in the heat of the day

Nothing moves

Nothing sways

The desert shimmer

cut apart

The speeding getaway car

Feels like a mirage

Until the sound of bullets

Pinging from the body follow

Not the guns of cops

The clear and obvious

Double cross.