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Luke Wright
Luke Wright

Luke Wright is a poet and broadcaster. His poetry stage shows have toured the world and played sold-out runs in London and Edinburgh. He is a regular contributor to BBC Radio and his verse documentary on Channel 4 was nominated for a Grierson Award. Mondeo Man is his first full collection.

Photo: Steve Ullathorne

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Luke Wright Poetry

Excerpt from Mondeo Man by Luke Wright (Penned in the Margins - February 2013)


My Dad used to work for the CAA
in a round building just off High Holborn.

While there he worked on the planning permission
for the control tower at Stansted.

This was the most tangible of his achievements
and whenever Dads were mentioned I’d say:

My Dad was involved with ‘The Stansted Project.’
I’d say: My Dad was like the main boss.

And on occasion, to proud, freckle-faced boys:
Yeah, well, my Dad ... built Stansted Airport.

And yet, I never really knew what he did.
Not like I knew his mahogany trouser press,

the brass bowl for his change and errant golf tees,
the way his cheek felt cold when he came back from work,

his black Mac’ jewelled with rain, smelling of trains
and a faint whiff of the morning’s aftershave.

Or the skeleton clocks he spent his weekends making,

meticulous time-keeping under glass domes,

the way he’d rest his hands on his stomach after lunch,
or how his check shirt would show at the neck

of his blue, shabby workshop overalls,
the silver popper at the top undone.

But now, as then, I see him out on a flat field
that is slowly becoming a runway,

clipboard in hand, directing other men,
windsock blowing in the breeze.

Jeremy, Who Drew Penises on Everything

Meet Jeremy, a sporty youth,
whose pressing need to leave some proof
of his existence on this earth
would cause his friends much glee and mirth.
They’d shake and howl at Jez’s feats
and claim his presence quite a treat —
as sure as Welshmen like to sing,
young Jez drew cocks on everything.

On books, on blackboards, desks and chairs,
he carved them into Camembert,
he scribbled them on toilet doors,
left penile prints in chests of drawers;
he crayoned dongs on Bibles and
drew tiny ones upon his hand
until no stretch of schoolyard wall
was free from Jez’s cartoon balls.

All day he sketched crude diagrams,
drew shlongs upon his toast with jam,
arranged his sausage with his eggs
to emulate between the legs.
While later in some muggy class
he’d pounce upon the steamed-up glass
and then to whoops from all his mates
he’d make his work ejaculate.

Yes, all the boys were straight-up fans
of Jeremy’s artistic hand
and masters, far from scolding him,
would praise the young lad for his vim
and feisty creativity
(not one suggested therapy).
The teachers saw no real malice
in Jezzer when he sketched a phallus.

At home his parents did the same,
refused to dole out any blame,
although their walls were covered in
a thousand sketchy ding-a-lings
and Jez had scared off friends and lodgers
with likenesses of spurting todgers.
No, mum & dad just praised the boy
for drawing willies on his toys.

And Jezzer with the naughty pen
grew up and then became PM!
And now that boy who liked to draw
has led us into countless wars.
The moral of this ghastly tale:
beware of cocksure, thrusting males.
For blokes like Jez, if free and able,
will always put their dicks on tables.


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