Scrawl On The Night ~ Bob Kesh


Pass, silent shadows sitting,
in liquid meditation,
Amongst more,
Liquid Monks,
Poets pass poets,
Cross legged in the street,
Now poetic muse,
And orphaned again,


Empty and call
to the last line of resistance,
– never take me home.
Not the only lost soul in the night,
– if a soul’s lost is there a soul?
waiting for busses, we almost miss,
and then fall asleep on when it comes.
. . . these flowers are laughable to write on!
but write I must . . . Into the night
Reasons why?
Death? life? Is all.

Let that cigarette puff from yhour hand.
Pinstripes need no smoke.
They blow
in their own wind.

This thing,
it’s just a bus stop.
This pen,
line of love.
The day
is a strange place,
too many planes,
and mathematical cities,
Otherwise we’ve to run,
With one eye open,
no more is needed.


“Le sang des poets!”
“Le sang des poets”
We shall bleed much more,
more than you know,
“Le sang des poets!”
Scattered here, only where you pass.

Scrawl on the night.
Slowly cover our bones,
Best bury yourself deeep
Not to know.
Hide your nose where
It cannot smell.

Words that express no want
or warning,
Poets writing on the steps of heaven’s doors,
On the stairs of the church:

“If this is not a place to roll then, where is???”

my pen still perfect.

Tho’ you think of better words after you’ve departed,
stepping over the dry shells of snails passed-

“Buy my car!”
maybe even his.
My friend broke his arm.
“Buy my car” you say,
It come with a reality of it’s own,
parked on a corner,
It’s busy when no one has nuthin’ t’ say.


The last lingering lust of a lost soul unknown,
Bitten by the Fox
Left in shadows of unknowing,
And now we prowl,
looking for prey as they creep
Ever so swift up the vast empty roads,
Moan – and – groan
Feels good hey?
The sound of foxes fighting in the frisks of the night, As my shadow walks
– down below

“And Here!
There is Life!!!”
The night cries!
until he’s hit
by jarring headlights,
between all the wind-chime bones of his eyes.
Moan you silent children, groan.
– as many of us
shall not know.


My darkened doorstep,
light gone out.
My door is open no more.
Not to strangers now,
Darkened by this woman’s new presence
More now than before.
Now more,
Much heartedly more.

I’m Here.
Believe that!
Accented by the new scent of lambs.
If I didn’t have to sleep somewhere,
I’d sleep right here
– i will slumber up slowly,
To my sleeping chamber.


A writer and musician from London currently studying at the Faber Academy. Generally nocturnal, he can be found indulging in all the pleasures and pains of the night.

Contact him at bobkesh @ hotmail . co .uk (with no spaces)

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