No One Escapes by Ian Lewis Copestick

No One Escapes

I’m walking past the local
Minimart, about six feet in
front of me is a car with
loud, but cheesy hip hop
blaring out. Dope smoke is
pouring out of the windows.
In the driver’s seat, I see a
real, fucking dickhead. He
only looks like a teenager,
but he gives me a filthy look.
He’s trying to stare me out.
I see a very young, dyed
blonde girl in the shotgun
seat, and two teenage
lads in the back.
I think, ” There’s three of
them, only one of me. “
So I avert my stare from
his.
Three, or four steps on, I
begin to feel shame, or guilt.
Whatever it is, so I turn, stare
him straight in the eye until
he looks away.
But, we both know that he
won. I was the first one to
look away.
Not only did I look away
first, but I’m nearly 50
I bet he isn’t even 20.
So I’ve lost in every way
that I possibly can.
Oh well, it’ll happen to
him too.
No one escapes

The Big Job by Ian Lewis Copestick

The Big Job

Well, I’ve got my gang
I’ve got my sawn off
I’ve got my plans
They’re all drawn up
I know the day
I know the time
When the benefits are paid
When the money arrives
We’ve got a van we stole
About a month ago
Hidden in a lock up
That nobody knows
The chassis number has
Been ground away
Now it cones around
It’s our pay day
We’ve got a Merc, a B.M.W.
A Golf G.T.I.
If it comes on top
We’ve got to fly
You gotta keep every
Piece screwed down
You wouldn’t believe the
Grasses in this town
Every guy who supplies
You with a motor
You can’t let them know
What it’s gonna be used for
Or else he’s giving it the big
man in all the pubs
And you might as well
Just give up.
All the stress builds and builds
Too much and it can make you ill
I can’t let my plans screw up
Spent too long planning this job
I can’t take another stretch inside
I’d top myself first, just from pride
My wife would disown me too
By the time I got out
The kids would be leaving school
I can’t let this job go wrong
I’m the big man, I gotta be strong

Well, today’s the day
My bowels are loose
I’ve got the shooters
And the boiler suits
The ski masks and latex gloves
Are in the B.M.’s boot
I don’t want to, but if
I have to I’ll shoot.

Now it’s 12 hours later
And I’m on the run
Dumped the boiler suits, ski
Masks and most of the guns
The Golf G.T.I., well
It just broke down
There’s two security guards
In the hospital down town
I don’t dare think about
My missus and kids
I don’t want to think about
What we just did
When shotgun pellets
Hit human skin
The blood and flesh flies
Your Head it spins
I know the pigs are
Hot on my trail
I can’t face another
10 years in jail
I put the sawn off
Shotgun to my lips
I hear a police loud hailer
And my finger slips

Nitrous Oxide by Ian Lewis Copestick

Nitrous Oxide

Everywhere I go I
see tiny, empty gas
canisters lying in
the gutter. They look
like the ones that my
uncle used to put the
fizz into his home-brewed
lager, except they were
green, where these
ones are bright silver.
Someone told me
that they are laughing
gas canisters.
Apparently, nitrous
oxide is the latest cool
drug for hipsters to
take. Where they buy
it from, or how they
use it, I do not know.
But, for all of these
two, or three inch
long silver tin things
that I keep seeing
everywhere, I never
seem to see anyone
laughing.

Just A Dream? by Ian Lewis Copestick

PhotoFunia-1590567085Just A Dream ?

I know I’m getting older,
what once was fury, is
now just sadness.
Where my blood would
boil, and I’d grind my
teeth, now I just shake
my head in disbelief.
I suppose you just get
used to people letting
you down. At one time
I’d shout, now I just
frown. Nearly all of my
idealism has been
beaten out of me, both
metaphorically, and
physically. It’s the last
thing I want to be, a
cynical, old shit, but
it’s where life has led
me, I can’t deny it.

I really wish someone
would prove me wrong.
Instead of selling out, be
pure and strong. Show
that socialism isn’t just
a nice dream, but a
workable, practical
scheme. Show that
money isn’t the only
deity, that we can have
a fair, equal society.
One race, the human
race, one people, one
blood. If one hurts, we,
all hurt. Universal love.

Yes, I’m a dreamer, but
I’m not the only one. Yes,
this is the world that we
could live upon.

Self-Preservation by Ian Lewis Copestick

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

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

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

PhotoFunia-1590565538

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
terrified.
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

PhotoFunia-1590565538
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.