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Tony
Bush
Winner
of our Top 5 Poets of
January 2004 Online
Competition
I am 42 years of age and work as a qualified psychiatric nurse in South Wales. Married with two children, a cat, a dog and five chickens, I live on the side of a mountain overlooking the village of Crickhowell in
Powys. I have been a prolific writer of poetry for more years than I care to remember, publishing many pieces in journals and magazines both here and in the States. My first book was a collaboration with the artist/sculptor Nelson Nanson who provided illustrations to accompany my verse (or was it the other way around?) - 'A Collision Of Modern Art And Poetry' - entitled '26 Images Spoken', available from Amazon Bookstores:
View the book at
amazon.co.uk 
In addition I run my website, Junkyard Blues
http://tonybush.esmartweb.com/
which has been active since 1998 and provides poetry upon request for individuals who supply me with suitably inspiring material via email. It's more of an occasional dalliance these days, but is still up and running.
As influences I would cite Dylan Thomas, Philip Larkin, Alice Cooper, The Clash and Sam
Peckinpah. Most of my work is eclectic, direct, hopefully attention-grabbing and wide open to emotional and cognitive interpretation. Or maybe not. See what you think.
White Trash City Walls
A carnival in winter scraped along the ragged streets,
Pursued by ghosts in snowstorms howling down the avenues;
And in that bright atomic midnight where the blood and neon meet
A host of demon angels hung their heads and sang the blues.
Unseen, a semi-conscious temptress knelt upon the paving slabs,
Her drink was spiked with Rohypnol to force an easy lay,
As the blood ran from her kneecaps all the passing taxi cabs
Ignored her plight as best they could because she couldn't pay.
The artefacts of brutal rape spilled on the alley floor,
The sky had turned a sickly shade like bruising on a cheek;
With money paid the choices made can sometimes lead to more,
With HIV to accompany all the fun you had this week.
All the songs she heard in dying were the hymns of destiny
And a love that once was close proclaimed of how December falls,
In a finger gag of muffled screams the pretty girls sang harmony,
The graffiti stains of broken dreams hit the white trash city walls.
The Carousel
My ghost and I stood silently by
And watched enrapt the boy and man
As they walked hand in hand upon baked land,
A deserted airfield spread,
Forwards they went with no relent
To the lonely fairground carousel
As it swirled around and whirled with sound
Of fairground organs that billowed and bled.
The things we espy, my ghost and I
Are figments of dream and slivers of wish
That visually stutter, blur out and flutter
On memory's retinal denying,
In gold dust streams these wishes and dreams
Of a rider-less fairground carousel
That forever revolved and sort of evolved
To a past or a future dying . . .
In State
Barefoot on the paving slab chill, concrete
feet feel frostbite emanations in their callused souls;
rooftop mystique clamours silent slate triangles,
perched the stray cat observers, red-eyes smoking coals.
Down to the river's edge where swaying reeds
feed mongrel contemplations with moist whispered words;
rusty oil-slicked surfaces lick the muddy banks,
karma sutra assassins are the predatory birds.
Fixated upon a frozen traffic system, bolt-locked,
dumb-shocked by electric one way streets to dead ends;
barstool poets weep sleep-sozzled cabbage tears
for the closing-time tragedy of long-time absent friends.
Drunkards shamble on beer-stained coliseum floors, grumble,
mumble incomprehensible diatribes into thin air;
the memorial park benches flake skin and rot within,
white spirits rape the dreams that anyone should care.
Deserted boardwalks spool a crooked travel,
unravel with myopic glint and blink, cat's eyes dying, died,
and the desolated song from night's deflated lung
hums doggerel consolation with no meaning left inside.
Bastard offspring of fatherless daughters and sons,
buns in sceptic ovens, burnt baked black offerings;
sacrifices on toilet stall altars, to lie in state
no more than ether, aborted ghosts, empty superfluous things.
Saviours ride no pale horses, immaculate white stallions,
galleons never sail to where the sun pristinely sets,
for the purpose of this life resides in its conclusion,
deserve has nothing to do with it and nothing is all it begets.
My True And Only Love
Every waking hour with love and care is interlaced,
Inhales the very scent of you in every breath I've taken;
In every sleeping second, no dream of you forsaken,
Sealed with a loving kiss by the sweetest lips I taste.
Every falling star turns pale beside you with such haste,
You smile with calm serenity when Heaven and Earth are shaken,
And at the very core of me this fire that you awaken,
Burns bright with pure redemption, laying any doubts to waste.
Every day and night I spend in awe of your persuasion,
Your song it sings within my heart, in every pulse that beats,
Your guiding light illuminates my darkest, urban streets,
With you beside me, hand in glove, whatever the occasion;
In all I am, in all the world, in all I see and do,
My true and only love remains my endless love of you.
Whatever
Whatever you may choose to do,
let me be the love of you;
whatever you may have to say,
I will never walk away.
Whatever you desire to be,
let it be a part of me;
whatever thoughts you ever think,
I will be your constant link.
Whatever paths you need to take,
let me follow in your wake;
whatever darkness lies afar,
I will be your guiding star.
Whatever wings of fate descend,
let me hold you till the end;
whatever luck or chance decree
I will love you totally.
Whatever life you choose to live,
let it need the love I give;
whatever walks beneath the sky
can never care as much as I.
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