Miles J. Bell is 36 and from England. His father was a boxer; his mother was a cocker spaniel. He likes tapirs best of all mammals, and he considers a day without toast a very poor day indeed. He is in love with a maths teacher, but not her subject. He has been writing for three years, and has had around 70 poems published, in such magazines as Remark, Words Dance, Underground Voices, and The Quirk. One of his poems was made into a broadside by the Guerrilla Poetics project. He has released three chapbooks into the wild, the latest of which, "Murder the darkness w/ laughter & stories", is available from here and a fourth, "Everyone knows this is nowhere" should be released late summer, if the fates are kind.

PASSERS-BY

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THE WEATHER

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POETS

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GROLSCH AND CASILLERO DEL DIABLO WINE

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"I WROTE THE BOOK COS WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE" - Jack Kerouac

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SELECTED POETRY

by
Miles J. Bell

NOW THAT WE LIVE APART

She comes round once a week
to bring my post –
it's not much;
letters from those who don't know I’ve moved out
and don't care, but offer me
myriad opportunities
to get into debt.

We sit outside the house I live in
in the still car while she talks
of the people who have tabled offers
for our home; who will give those walls
maybe better things to remember.

We are awkward; I don't mention
I miss her, though it is the only thing
I want to say, the simple fact of our split
hidden in plain view.
Even the small talk is cautious; we talk
of doing similar things
but separately, and agree that life is strange
and funny, but I'm not sure it is so funny
now that we live apart.

Today she is somewhere in the world
but no longer in mine, and I should be
laughing at the delicious irony
that the only person I can talk to about this
is the only person I can't,

but laughter and all that other stuff
seems long ago, sepia-tinted and trapped
behind glass; a wedding photograph
gathering dust.

© Miles J. Bell

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ROUTINES

I changed my bicycle route
to work
to avoid accidents.
The new way took me past a gate
which kept in a small
but undeniably fierce
scruffy black dog
greying around the muzzle.

At first he barked as I passed.
Every morning I called
hello, little dog
and gave a low whistle.
The weeks went on.
He began to tilt
his box-shaped head
to one side as I greeted him
and whistled.

The weeks continued
to pass.
Now he wagged his tail
at first uncertainly
then shortly
the wagging became
furious.
A greeting of his own.

I don't often realise how much
I am a creature of routines.
For over a month now
I haven't seen him.
There is an emptiness
behind the gate.

© Miles J. Bell

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7 MILLION NOISY TURDS IN A BLENDER

We were in London
for the 2nd time in
6 months

the still-then wife
and me
walking round the streets
and shows
trying to pretend
any of it was
worth much
both knowing
the problem but not
looking directly
at it
like a black
sun.

During the visit before
some comedian stamped
on a juice carton
as the tube carriages emptied
and everyone ducked 6 inches
like it would have made a difference
then everyone straightened
laughed it off
and pretended it was
a great joke
and not directed
at them.

Nothing so hilarious
this time
but the crowds were the same
and the braying voices
even the happy seemed to be
in a competition to see who
could tell as many people around them
what a great time they were having
in the greatest city
in the world.

It wasn't the
sheer idiot mass of people
I objected to:

I liked Rome fine
where no matter how busy
with tourists and pizza sellers
and businessmen
it was relaxed
and no-one got in
your way.

New York was polite
maybe because nobody knows
who might have a gun
and a hair-trigger
and maybe the only good thing
about the Second Amendment
is that you get
a little more room
on the subway platform.

But London
made me feel
trapped
and unwell -

except for Hyde Park
where I knew I was far enough
from all those loud egotists
to relax a little
although keeping one eye open
for loose dogs.

But all that sky
at last
hung with impossible
noiseless planes
and wind through the grass
sounding like the sea
pushed a beautiful loneliness
into my chest

it was colder than the
porcelain of our marriage:
I looked at my wife
and caught myself
for a moment
wishing I was
completely alone.

Pretty soon,
I
was.

© Miles J. Bell

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BETWEEN JOBS

is the phrase I use
when he asks me

it trips off the tongue easier
than
I got my no-longer-cost-effective-ass
laid off by a devil with
a chequebook where his heart should be
and balls the size of acorns
in the snow

and I haven't got that same worthless ass
round the agencies and into
another soul-fucking meat-grinder
just yet
forgive me

because I'm enjoying this
imposed leave
time has stretched out like
an old cat in the sun
I have plenty of space to be
comfortable

I am happy
now
today

I'm watching the stars
crawl around the clock
the collared doves flirting
on the aerials and chimneys
I'm watching movies and documentaries
watching breezes play with my yellow drapes and
stir the coat-hangers on my clothes rail

watching the girls and old men pass my house
at different speeds carrying
different weights

and my work ethic is in first gear
I'm not desperate
for anything to begin
because there's nothing
that can't wait until
tomorrow but
this poem.

© Miles J. Bell

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THESE MAY NOT BE THE LAST DAYS, BUT I’VE BEEN WRONG BEFORE

It could all boil down to
this, the child's bicycle
in the river, just
one wheel half-visible
that I passed every day
when I was still worth something
to my employer.

This may be what
we've amounted to.

I don't believe
the conspiracy theories
or theorists
they seem unable to accept
the world of men is just
mad chaos
and someone will always have
a bigger stick, fire, more
brightly coloured beads.
more
friends with sharpened
flints tied to sticks.

And it was never
any different.

I am not a monster
or particularly unsympathetic.

But am a capable
of removing myself enough
to laugh at the men behind large desks
who tell us global warming is a myth
and if it is not
we should be grateful
for longer summers
and we are winning the war
and we will win all the other wars

except maybe
the last
one.

© Miles J. Bell

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CIRCLING

on days like these
hard bright with
sun and sky the colour
of netted mackerel
days like
you remember when
impossibly you were
a child
on days like this
with the cranes and refineries
circling the small houses
nothing seems impossible
nothing seems
Possible

I nailed the interview
but I didn't get the job
as they felt I would be bored
but I wish they had told me
in that sticky office
because I would have told them
at least give me the chance
to find that out
for myself
and the guilt cash
from the last person to decide
how my career should pan out
is dwindling
and here comes summer
circling like a leopard
regardless

© Miles J. Bell