EMAIL INDIGO DREAMS
DIGGING FOR TOYS
Digging for Toys is set in a rundown town full of odd characters and the setting of Parker’s trials and fantasies whilst writing the pieces in this book.
The poems and prose/stories explore the fragility of relationships and the wonders of eccentricity as a means to overcome the mundane. There are working class people passing time, marriages hurtling toward destruction, weird dreams explored to the brink of madness; there is loneliness, insecurity, in-laws, traumatic memories and haunting regret, but also lots of quirky humour.
As a whole this book is one man’s attempt to come to terms with a life that is going nowhere and everywhere at great speed, into the big empty nothing in the distance, leaving this book behind among the ants and
flowers.
Bobby Parker has been published in magazines such as Agenda, The Argotist, Antique Children, Iota, Obsessed With Pipework, Orbis (as Featured Writer), Peony Moon and many more both in print and on-line.
He describes himself as ARTIST/POET/HUSBAND/FATHER/FREAK and his more experimental books, such as the underground favourite ‘Ghost Town Music’ can be found at: www.knivesforksandspoonspress.co.uk
His favourite things are dreaming, staring at something in the distance, eavesdropping, wondering what could be lurking in the dark when the street-lights fail, trying to figure out what that noise is that's coming from next-door, clapping along with crazy people who rant about spies in the town centre, looking at clouds, walking through abandoned factories, peeping through the dark windows of haunted houses, riding on trains past housing estates that have seen better days, talking to strangers on telephones that hiss, checking that loved ones are still breathing, falling over on the beach, bizarre stories told by people with mental health problems, demolitions, ghost stories, cheese before bed, cats, UFOs, reading about cults, night time love, day time love, scary love, silly love, silliness and creepy pictures.
Please feel free to contact him at bobzparker@hotmail.co.uk
Weirdoes
An imaginary gorilla
follows me into town
attacks
the people who stop me
for small talk.
The frightened grocer
gives me imaginary bananas.
The world is full of us.
Other Partners
I dance for you when
no one is around to
make me feel bad - people
who think dancing
is for music, good news
or exercise and not because
we both know you like it
when my balls swing
against my jeans – dancing
because my body needs
to shake off the shadows,
shadows that have followed
me since I learned to lie, or at
least learned to hide the truth
by changing the subject.
Which reminds me, your
cooking is better these days,
a full stomach anchors me, keeps
me from straying beyond the lawn.
Shut Your Mouth and Save Your Life
Behind your smile there’s
the kind of broken furniture
you don’t want strangers to fix.
People want your secrets
to trade for more secrets until
the soul is a broken satellite dish.
Pretend your lips
have been glued shut
by a woman with red hair.
Keep the mischievous
flames of their tongues from
peeking into your petrol tank.
Communicate via nods and grunts.
If truth shines out your eyes
wear dark sunglasses.
Cut out your mouth and throw
it off a bridge because it hates you,
it wants to pull you inside out.
When people ask your name
look away, shrug; consider it for
a moment – hold that thought.
Do You Feel Like an Idiot When You Dance at Parties?
Something inside me doesn’t want to
go outside, I stare out of windows
considering the cold light. Best to stay
indoors with my unease, even though I’m
sick of sniffing my own socks and bored
of pulling faces in the mirror - my teeth
are happy in here, the fine hairs on my belly
are happy, my balls are happy, my wife
makes the best Bolognese and she flashes
her breasts at me when I’m writing poems.
In the morning we can hear our neighbours
going to work or walking to the shop for beer,
newspapers and scratch cards, their names
are a mystery to me, the tall bald one with
big wet lips thinks we are friends; I feel
guilty chatting to him in the hallway
when really I wish he would just disappear.
It’s cold in here but we have the option to flick
the heating on – we contemplate this power
as our feet thaw under two thick blankets.
Tomorrow we’ll go to my parents’ house
and look at photographs on the wall: I don’t
like myself very much. After chicken,
vegetables and belches I might ask my dad
about his life, maybe sit on a broken chair in
the garden and keep my sadness away by teasing
the angry dog next door and squeezing
a shiny penny into the palm of my left hand.
Dogfish
Pale beach crisp-cold
morning alone
hangover muzzy in the wind
finding a washed-up dogfish
eyes calm mouth smiling
a friend for my voice, I told him
my secrets and when
the breakfast plate sun
came up in his left eye I thought
about writing my name in the sand
for the birds and planes to ignore
and walking along the coast
forever with my new friend
feet slapping the wet sand
dead cigarette
bouncing away like the last star.
H.G. Wells
Pretending to be invisible, I picked up
ashtrays and cups in slow motion to
frighten her mother – she gasped,
‘This flat is too cold for me!’ and as
her mother got up to leave I grabbed
her shoes, holding them just out of reach;
every time she tried to snatch them
was a minor victory. She looked at
my fiancée for justification; then my girl
looked at me, or the space where her
boyfriend should be smirking. Furious!
The vicar came round to talk about
the wedding. I ruffled his hair, twisted
his nipples and filled the room with phantom
laughter. Happy as a ghost I opened his bag,
found a soggy sandwich and slapped
his cheek with a piece of salami.
‘Are you sure?’ He asked. She took a deep
breath and nodded. He sighed.
The game went on until she couldn’t stand it
any longer, ‘I can see you! We can all see you!
Does this mean you don’t love me?! Is this
your way of trying to get out of the wedding?’
So, with a click of my fingers I became visible.
We talked about mothers and vicars. We talked
about what’s acceptable. Everything is O.K. now.
And she has given me one week to replace
the smoothie maker and kettle I used
to make my time machine.
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