 Gareth lives in Wales. He has his first collection with futurecycle in 2018. THE CANAL OF LIFE The canal brought movement to the stillness a traveller born in the sky. Then hearsed itself between the sea’s, threatening to take away the leaves and light. But then we turned up. Petrol strimmers, goggles, karibina’s, strap clips, steel toe caps and spit. We broke silence like a dentist operating on sugar worn teeth. The strimmer shudder was like a leaf miner eating away at my skin. Burrowing away into the maturing fibre. We swept weeds and grass, brought summer to its knees. Spun thistle into threads let them bleed under sunlight. We created new space for the canal to widen itself, build a sky upon its face. HE STILL DELIVERSHe still rolls the newspapers and threads the stories through letterboxes. His wife helps, they walk together with a bag over each shoulder. The strap is belt tight due to weight. Until it becomes loose as the lightness takes hold. Around four pm everyday, carrying the days events. Sharing secrets. Seeing people come and go, doors painted, gardens lawned. He views the weather from the slates that glimmer rain, hold sun, frown winter nights. His sons all grown up. I saw his hair thin with every round when we passed. The print of his years falling away. Today he walks with a naked skull soaking up more about the place than anyone else in the area. A LOST SOUL I was told today an old name had died. Killed himself with a bunch of pills. I remember him whacking a boy with a tennis racket. Then walking away like a fox after visiting a chicken coop. He took drugs before we knew alcohol. The only verbs he used were started with a swear word. He had a thin jaw with unwashed hair. Saw alcohol as normal as a cup of tea. When his mother died he lost his organs. His skin keeping him from falling to pieces. I hadn’t seen him for many a year. He could dribble a football and smoke at the same time. We thought that was great. It wasn’t until we left school that we realised what a lost soul he was. We moved into work and such like, bought new clothes and went camping. We found a map. He stayed walking the same streets hoping the dead skin he dropped would come back, make him young again. SMOG YEARSWhen the chalk squeaked
against the tip, a gas flame blue dust fell to the floor. We held the cue with wrapped fingers, ninety degree elbow. A photo stance. And the balls stayed where we had left them. The tip was used for kissing, tapping, punching, smacking. Our hips and legs argued about which way to settle. There were squints, eyebrow raises, sniffs, smirks, false smiles, roll of eyes, shrugs and all the things that had yet to grow out of us and into everyday life. We were acted it out in the cloudy dull light of a smoke filled room. When we went again years later the light bulbs that were once smog could spread a light that made us see every angle on the table
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