no cans sampler
DESCRIPTION
Sample pages of No Cans or Cartons No Hot or Smelly Food by Andrew ClimanceTRANSCRIPT
No
Ca
ns
or
Ca
rt
on
s,
No
Ho
t o
r S
me
lly
Fo
od
by A
ndre
w C
liman
ce
No
Ca
ns
or
Ca
rt
on
s, N
o H
ot
or
Sm
elly
Fo
od
by Andrew Clim
ance
Andrew Climance has been a journalist for over 20 years.
In addition to this new collection, he is also responsible for collected writings spanning over twenty years, is a prolific blogger and has published a collection of ramblings, The Diary of Ford Focus, co-written with his close friend and online collaborator, Ben Brewerton.
Andrew is also the founder of Squid Inc, an independent publisher that provides an online showcase for unsigned and self-published poets and authors.
He lives in Manchester with his wife, three children and numerous animals.
‘No Cans or Cartons, No Hot or Smelly Food’ is a collection of contemporary urban poems from poet Andrew Climance.
Largely auto-biographical and starkly honest, they span his life from the rock ‘n roll excesses of the 1980s to more mature, though no less cutting observations of life in Manchester in the 21st century.
Squid Inc UK
£15
.99
0462167814719
ISBN 978-1-4710-4621-690000
Published by Squid Inc
First published in Great Britain 2012 by Squid Inc
ISBN: 978-1-4710-4621-6
All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced
into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise)
without the prior written permission of
the publisher. Any person who does any
unauthorized act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and
civil claims for damages.
Copyright © 2012 Andrew Climance
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Squid Inc
www.squidpublishing.co.uk
Cover photography © David Apps Photography
www.artificialdesigns.co.uk
Model: Georgia Roseanna
No cans or cartonsno hot or smelly food
Ain’t got time to make no apology
Iggy Pop
The road to Narbonne was littered
with youthful exuberance
Cool days, man.
Like the time we spent in Narbonne,
armed to the teeth
and high on speed,
and the girls there didn’t know
where to begin to please.
And we drove all night,
remember?
To some shithouse bar,
with piss-weak strawberry beer
and painted whores,
and the Revival circulating endlessly
on a beaten-down jukebox.
That was where we met the Australian,
Bill.
We shared our smokes and bourbon and stories,
and he stroked his beard
and smiled.
Later, we followed him
through the Mediterranean night
to some rundown apartment
where he bade us welcome,
offering that strange concoction.
Man, we drank it down deep,
closed our eyes and lost a week.
I woke up hot and dehydrated
and you were homesick
and eventually we packed up
your pale blue Ford Escort
and drove deep through the night,
getting lost and missing Paris completely,
but not stopping until we hit Calais,
12
and the ferry.
I don’t recall the crossing,
other than the beers and the rising
and swelling of my stomach,
but I remember waking up
on the road home
and you were asleep at the wheel.
That was a good holiday.
13
You got nothing
I want
she said
as she
walked away.
19
I was running
a temperature
of 105
and thought
maybe
I was going to
die.
But through
the fear
and those awful
shits
I had some
amazing
dreams.
20
When nature calls, be ready
We had been living
together
at the band house
for a couple of weeks,
existing on a diet of
expensive weed and
cheap bourbon,
when I was slapped
in the face
by reason.
It had been a good day,
we had outshone the rest
and proved our worth
as a battling
rock ‘n roll band.
I woke on the floor,
as so often I had,
with the urge
to piss.
In the toilet
I unzipped my jeans
and out fluttered
a solitary
fruit fly.
Tiny and determined
this smallest of beasts
escaped the prison
of my crotch
and thrust itself
22
upon freedom.
That was the moment
right there,
the sobering moment
and I knew,
without any shadow
of doubt
that it was time
to go home
to my mother.
23