Or Dumb by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1590565538Or Dumb

To walk the stupid streets,
to your stupid home.
Having just had a stupid
argument with your
stupid missus. What
else is there to do in
such a stupid world ?
But get in, drink some
stupid beer, smoke
some stupid cigarettes,
and watch some really
fuckin’ stupid TV, on
a stupid Saturday night ?

Buy Detritus Of The Drunken Night by Ian Lewis Copestick HERE.


Self-Preservation by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1590567085 Self-Preservation

It’s a Friday night, in mid July,
and the young lads are out in gangs
of ten or more. When they swagger
past, I just look at the ground. Or is it
safer to look them in the eyes, to show
that you’re not scared ? I don’t know.
I play it as it comes, as fifteen more
go by. I hear an “Oi!” I keep on walking
at a steady pace. I’m not going to run
until I really have to, and I don’t want
to draw attention to myself. It’s happened
before, and I know from experience I
can take out one or two, but when they
travel in such big mobs, there’s not much
that you can do. So, on I walk, keeping
my head down, or trying to stare them
out. When you are my age, and on
your own, your self preservation skills
take control.

A Community by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine
PhotoFunia-1590565538A Community

I really enjoy feeling like
I’m part of a community,
I know all the workers in the local shops,
and of course, they all know me.

It’s such a big, yet such a little thing,
it doesn’t cost you a penny.
When you’re depressed and lonely
it’s advantages are many.

Just someone to say  ” Hello”
and  “How are you doing, Ian ?”
Let’s you know you’re not alone
and you ARE a human being.

Of course, it’s really obvious,
people need to be connected
But modern life makes you nervous,
and you lose all your perspective.

Back when I was younger,
with an underdeveloped brain
I automatically thought others wouldn’t understand my existential pain.

I thank God that I’ve grown up,
and somehow matured.
I deserved to be hung up,
and covered in manure.

Thinking I was somehow better
than my fellow man.
Thank God I learned that lesson,
that I finally understand.

That we each have our own different gifts,

all individual, yet all alike.
Unique snowflakes, blown into a snowdrift.
Trying to cope with this thing called “life .”

Folk Music by Ian Lewis Copestick

Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1590565538Folk Music

I’ve been listening to a lot of old folk music
recently. The well known ones like the
Carter family, and Jimmie Rodgers.
Also the more obscure, Dock Boggs, Eck
Robertson, or the Carolina Tar Heels.
This music was made less than a
hundred years ago, but it seems so
strange. It feels more like it was made
in another universe than in the early
20th century. The songs are about
life, not too different from how we know
it now. Love, loss, death all still going on
today, but there’s an other worldly
vibe about them. The rural lives these
people lived are now forever gone. All that remains are these ghostly
songs, originally released on 78s,
now being heard in an online world.
I wonder if they ever thought that
someone would be listening to them
sing a hundred years, and thousands
of miles away, thinking it’s some of
the best music he’s ever heard.

If He Will by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine


If He Will

My father is in hospital,
recovering from a major
operation. They have
cut out what was left of
his cancer, and it seemed
that everything was going
well. This morning the
doctor discovered that he
had got an infection, I’m
worried, in fact I’m fucking
I’ve just done something
that I haven’t done for over
40 years, I prayed. I put a
call in to the celestial
switchboard. The thing is,
you don’t know if it got
through or not, do you ?
I’m what I’d call a sceptical
agnostic, but I’m more than
willing to hold up my end
of the deal, if He will His.
Who knows ?
Time will tell.

Working The Night Shift by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine
Working The Night Shift
You drink yourself to sleep by 7’O’Clock
The traffic wakes you by eight
At nine you’re woken by the postman’s knock
By ten you’re convulsed with hate
By then the shops are open
mad with drink and tiredness you sway
to get another bottle hoping
you’ll get some sleep sometime today
By midday you’re so drunk you have to sleep
but it’s more like passing out.
Awake again by six, you’ve got a schedule to keep.
Back to work, your mouth’s a drought.
So you drink shitloads of coffee
with a hangover from Hell.
You’ve got to work, to keep your job you see.
So you’d better do it well.
By midnight you’re back in the swing
like a well oiled machine.
By seven, you’re well oiled again,
trying to sleep, to dream.

Small Town Blues by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1590567085Small Town Blues

The wet pavements, and streets
underneath the grey skies.
Petrol rainbows in the gutters.
The breeze blows loud through the trees,
as I walk to the dull, dumb town centre.
The washed up rubbish of urban life,
gathers around the shops, drinking super
strength lager, and waiting for drugs,
trying to remember what it was they
forgot. The sadness clings to the scene,
but am I any better, something tells
me I’m not. Just another dreary, wet
Saturday afternoon. In another dreary
small town, just the same as any other.

The 2020 Red Hot Lockdown by Ian Lewis Copestick

Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine


The 2020 Red Hot Lockdown

Well, it’s now official,
this is the hottest spring there’s ever been.
Yes it’s been quite special,
a red hot lockdown, the first we’ve seen.

Also, hopefully the last,
although no one knows just yet.
I hope this virus will be part of the past,
something we’ll sooner or later forget.

Something we tell our grandkids about,
you won’t remember, but …
I hope it’s gone, without a doubt,
and we’ll forget the queues, the masks and such.

Like WW2 was to people like me,
I’m glad it’s something I missed
something the oldies talk of endlessly
whenever they get pissed.

The 2020, red hot lockdown.
Let’s hope it’s soon history,
we’ll think of it with a frown,
just a long gone memory.

All The Joys (Of A Summer Night) by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine



All The Joys

        (Of A Summer Night)
Pure, pale blue sky,
little, fluffy clouds,
grass  as green
as anything seen
on a movie screen.
Birds singing in the background, but I
don’t know the type
Singing for seed,
or singing to breed,
or just for the
beauty of the night.
Bright flowers to
tempt the bees,
scantily clad girls
to tempt me.
All the joys
of a summer night.
No, they don’t
happen too often,
but the buzz
you get off them
makes you feel
everything is alright.
A couple of months
every year
is only as near
as we get to this power.
But the memories remain
as winter pours
down the drains,
and we make it through
to spring’s showers.
Then, again
comes the sun,
to charm everyone.
For a short while
again it is ours