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Before the Woodpigeons

By Gareth Culshaw

He gets up each morning before the wood

pigeons leave the trees. He brushes

the bucked teeth, sprays deodorant into

his armpits then throws hot water

over his stone edged face.

The sports car waits outside. He handles

the gear stick like his tool. Work

as many hours as he can, take

the chequebook home and write

signatures for things

that won’t fit in his coffin.

His friends are diluted by his words. He picks

up dumbells in a room full of mirrors.

Gone are the days of smoking weed,

debit card lines in a pub toilet.

He’s all mature now. Saves for holidays,

tells people he lives. Listens to your words

then swallows them so he can piss them out

in a urinal. He once swore allegiance

to the union jack by having a tattoo.


My first collection, ‘The Miner’ available now at:

Twitter –

YouTube Channel – Gareth Culshaw Poetry

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