Further down the carriage, a man
talks about agoraphobia and rubs
his choux pastry eyes red.
A handbagged sad sack mother
arranges her chins into a sulk.
The train makes touchdown on
a blunt breast of land, its roll
around the earth like a torrent
falling whitely into a space.
Frost still pools in the ditches,
the face of the handbag lady
numbly jumps up, the grey hair
of a hundred brokers lapsing
into coma falls down through
the air in battered clumps.
Morning rain on the damp paper
makes a sad grey cauliflower
with an inky, stood-on face.
The fens look rusted blue,
and I think of Granchie
in a ward in South Wales,
his head red and heavy
staring brick wall into white.
Thursday 31 December 2009
The bus judders slowly past
the butchers, the green, lights
of the ice rink, ranked cabs.
From the handbagged girls
at the back, the magazine tweak
of perfumed nostril, and two
lily-palmed Cambridge wides
with topman hoods and hi-tec,
whiff of lynx and marijuana.
In town, all change, bloke
in a flat cap, man-scarfed
with a daddy's girl in rainbows.
Jesus College type rednosed
and hilariously rasta-hatted,
fingers simpering hold a rolled
copy of the New Statesman.
Bobby pins in her auburn topper,
an Arbury mother coddles
her suit and booted child
whose tiny arms scatter
a hoard of chocolate money.
Through the window you see
evening walkers flutter inside
shops, like startled moths.
the butchers, the green, lights
of the ice rink, ranked cabs.
From the handbagged girls
at the back, the magazine tweak
of perfumed nostril, and two
lily-palmed Cambridge wides
with topman hoods and hi-tec,
whiff of lynx and marijuana.
In town, all change, bloke
in a flat cap, man-scarfed
with a daddy's girl in rainbows.
Jesus College type rednosed
and hilariously rasta-hatted,
fingers simpering hold a rolled
copy of the New Statesman.
Bobby pins in her auburn topper,
an Arbury mother coddles
her suit and booted child
whose tiny arms scatter
a hoard of chocolate money.
Through the window you see
evening walkers flutter inside
shops, like startled moths.
Monday 28 December 2009
Satyr
Each morning I stand like a god
and straighten the sheets.
My antlers, crashing, interlock
with a choir of beasts,
the white roof coats my belly
and the walls curl
going inside me, their patterns
laughing from my eyes.
My thumb, like a black axe,
niggles at the cataract
where the gasping love
falls into the cup of red,
and the dam comes down,
the gaptoothed king of morning.
I find a fingertip grip
on the original seam
and with a screaming rip
fling my dazzling pelt
away from bones, to the sea's end.
and straighten the sheets.
My antlers, crashing, interlock
with a choir of beasts,
the white roof coats my belly
and the walls curl
going inside me, their patterns
laughing from my eyes.
My thumb, like a black axe,
niggles at the cataract
where the gasping love
falls into the cup of red,
and the dam comes down,
the gaptoothed king of morning.
I find a fingertip grip
on the original seam
and with a screaming rip
fling my dazzling pelt
away from bones, to the sea's end.
Sunday 27 December 2009
Peacock Day
Open your eyes
and day's baubles are flying
from room to room, webs
bullied out of the rafters
to fall like ghosts of nets.
The house spins, farmyard
animals cut out of paper
cross and recross the center
where my head is crowned
with holly, my pupils berries,
mistletoe in my teeth.
Open your mouth,
run a wet finger around
your lip's rim and hear
a wineglass singing outside,
where the peacock cries.
You pluck a princely feather
out of my behind, turn it
in the light and buff
it to an emerald shine.
This mobile of a house,
turning like a dervish,
hung in the nursery
of the fullblooded world,
can be yours, as it is mine.
and day's baubles are flying
from room to room, webs
bullied out of the rafters
to fall like ghosts of nets.
The house spins, farmyard
animals cut out of paper
cross and recross the center
where my head is crowned
with holly, my pupils berries,
mistletoe in my teeth.
Open your mouth,
run a wet finger around
your lip's rim and hear
a wineglass singing outside,
where the peacock cries.
You pluck a princely feather
out of my behind, turn it
in the light and buff
it to an emerald shine.
This mobile of a house,
turning like a dervish,
hung in the nursery
of the fullblooded world,
can be yours, as it is mine.
Sunday 20 December 2009
O Come Emmanuel
Winter Solstice tomorrow,
when the snow will look
like Slush Puppy dregs.
Tonight, St. Martin's Church,
a friendly cabaret
of dew-nosed worshipers
all scarf and duffel coated.
Mr Basso Profundo, sat
a foot behind my head,
booms the Lord's Prayer
like the voice of death
via Brian Sewell, then
with blinding versatilty
sings like Mr Bean.
The plums in his mouth
probably ripened on
the tree of knowledge
six thousand years ago.
An old dear steps up
to read The Lamb by Blake
in a shakey paper
geriatric whisper,
then a small child
saying something about love
with a frightened face.
The crisis comes midway
through O Come Emmanuel,
that old fave, likely written
by some frustrated nun,
when the organist lifts
his cack-hands proudly
after the big finale,
but three verses early.
"Oh!" from the first row,
chat from the back,
some look to the rafters —
is the spell broken?
is this our freedom?
was that the holy spirit
stealing into the vestry
with mulled wine
and the collection plate?
I'm just thinking
when will I be released?
when the snow will look
like Slush Puppy dregs.
Tonight, St. Martin's Church,
a friendly cabaret
of dew-nosed worshipers
all scarf and duffel coated.
Mr Basso Profundo, sat
a foot behind my head,
booms the Lord's Prayer
like the voice of death
via Brian Sewell, then
with blinding versatilty
sings like Mr Bean.
The plums in his mouth
probably ripened on
the tree of knowledge
six thousand years ago.
An old dear steps up
to read The Lamb by Blake
in a shakey paper
geriatric whisper,
then a small child
saying something about love
with a frightened face.
The crisis comes midway
through O Come Emmanuel,
that old fave, likely written
by some frustrated nun,
when the organist lifts
his cack-hands proudly
after the big finale,
but three verses early.
"Oh!" from the first row,
chat from the back,
some look to the rafters —
is the spell broken?
is this our freedom?
was that the holy spirit
stealing into the vestry
with mulled wine
and the collection plate?
I'm just thinking
when will I be released?
Friday 18 December 2009
Transit
My parents' third Volvo this decade
is rolling on to Birmingham, quiffs
of snow tumbling from the hood,
windows bleary like they just woke.
A white sunset quilting the fields,
the roadside drifts go amber
as headlights spill their beams.
Giant iron lamps are haloed
through my half closed eyes.
Brakelights bunch into a nebula
of strawberries, then stretch silent
down the A14's black factory chute.
The earth falls back behind the wheels,
it spins into a night of snow,
service stations, fallen power lines.
As I lean my head into the chassis
the metal thrum remembers me
and takes me in its arms.
is rolling on to Birmingham, quiffs
of snow tumbling from the hood,
windows bleary like they just woke.
A white sunset quilting the fields,
the roadside drifts go amber
as headlights spill their beams.
Giant iron lamps are haloed
through my half closed eyes.
Brakelights bunch into a nebula
of strawberries, then stretch silent
down the A14's black factory chute.
The earth falls back behind the wheels,
it spins into a night of snow,
service stations, fallen power lines.
As I lean my head into the chassis
the metal thrum remembers me
and takes me in its arms.
Wednesday 16 December 2009
Oh Silvio
I trust Silvio Berlusconi.
He's got that skeezy grin,
the puffy eyes those guys
with scarred up faces use
to feel like Joe Pesci
as they squint and suck in
the flab above their dicks.
Whenever he tweaks the hem
of some snub nosed trick's
skirt in parliament I laugh
at all the fuss thrown up,
wondering when it'll hit them
Silly's willy don't perform.
He's served boneless pork
for decades, and with half
a brain its plain to see
no-one with half a horn
would leer so unconvincingly
at every woman in the room,
crack those jokes, split a grin
sweating such desparation.
Here's a neat equation.
Take a flailing ego, subtract libido
and there you have: a wacko.
He's just an egomaniacal dork
skewered on the power fork,
and all the "outrage" he creates
only further separates
the loud mouthed global player
from the middle-aged bedwetter.
I'm for Silvio Berlusconi
because he's a loser, like me.
He's got that skeezy grin,
the puffy eyes those guys
with scarred up faces use
to feel like Joe Pesci
as they squint and suck in
the flab above their dicks.
Whenever he tweaks the hem
of some snub nosed trick's
skirt in parliament I laugh
at all the fuss thrown up,
wondering when it'll hit them
Silly's willy don't perform.
He's served boneless pork
for decades, and with half
a brain its plain to see
no-one with half a horn
would leer so unconvincingly
at every woman in the room,
crack those jokes, split a grin
sweating such desparation.
Here's a neat equation.
Take a flailing ego, subtract libido
and there you have: a wacko.
He's just an egomaniacal dork
skewered on the power fork,
and all the "outrage" he creates
only further separates
the loud mouthed global player
from the middle-aged bedwetter.
I'm for Silvio Berlusconi
because he's a loser, like me.
Sunday 13 December 2009
Comeer
Oh baby I miss you
like this recycled cup
misses its polystyrene days
when all was soft.
Now its just a flimsy hole
on a table in a coffee shop
with stupid white lips
marked "Careful it's hot."
I don't even like coffee!
I miss you like Simon
Cowell misses the point:
a whole fucking lot.
I miss you more
than an old oak door
left ajar and forgot
longs to be clunked
into a darling frame,
permanently shut.
like this recycled cup
misses its polystyrene days
when all was soft.
Now its just a flimsy hole
on a table in a coffee shop
with stupid white lips
marked "Careful it's hot."
I don't even like coffee!
I miss you like Simon
Cowell misses the point:
a whole fucking lot.
I miss you more
than an old oak door
left ajar and forgot
longs to be clunked
into a darling frame,
permanently shut.
The Orange Room
As I sit at night
in the worn dint
of my favourite seat,
with the lamp tipped
into my black lap,
the window there
is made a trick mirror
by the inside light.
All I see
in the black pane
is a patch scissored out
of the opaque;
the orange room
on the first floor
of an opposite house
where they leave
the drapes pulled back
late into the night.
A standing lamp
and its silhouette,
the painted wall,
then outwards only
the dark hill
of an unknown home
like far-off Grendel.
With strained eyes
you can touch beyond,
to the starless glow
of London's fire —
a million circuits,
filaments and wires
irritating the sky
to dullblonde twilight.
in the worn dint
of my favourite seat,
with the lamp tipped
into my black lap,
the window there
is made a trick mirror
by the inside light.
All I see
in the black pane
is a patch scissored out
of the opaque;
the orange room
on the first floor
of an opposite house
where they leave
the drapes pulled back
late into the night.
A standing lamp
and its silhouette,
the painted wall,
then outwards only
the dark hill
of an unknown home
like far-off Grendel.
With strained eyes
you can touch beyond,
to the starless glow
of London's fire —
a million circuits,
filaments and wires
irritating the sky
to dullblonde twilight.
Saturday 12 December 2009
Christmas Tree
O christmas tree O christmas tree
your solid pot with plastic gyros
is sprouting furs of nettle green,
your bottom belly's a shock of quills,
the feathered ends of clay pidgeons
that left their tails to alley cats.
Your spindle arms' synthetic nibs
are clothed in factory rushes,
the skeleton beneath your coat
is the dull cell of a tinsel soul.
Your lights like droopy bluebells
lie laughing around your neck,
a wreath of blue, a twisted wire
creeping to your cardboard skull,
shining from the punctured eyes.
A sombrero skewiff on your head
in rainbow colours of adobe walls
casts you as the christmas witch.
The angel of empty ashtrays,
leaning, a gin-drunk crone,
dribbling curses in the corner.
But you slump your head
in the direction of Bethlehem.
your solid pot with plastic gyros
is sprouting furs of nettle green,
your bottom belly's a shock of quills,
the feathered ends of clay pidgeons
that left their tails to alley cats.
Your spindle arms' synthetic nibs
are clothed in factory rushes,
the skeleton beneath your coat
is the dull cell of a tinsel soul.
Your lights like droopy bluebells
lie laughing around your neck,
a wreath of blue, a twisted wire
creeping to your cardboard skull,
shining from the punctured eyes.
A sombrero skewiff on your head
in rainbow colours of adobe walls
casts you as the christmas witch.
The angel of empty ashtrays,
leaning, a gin-drunk crone,
dribbling curses in the corner.
But you slump your head
in the direction of Bethlehem.
Noon
Noon, crash down white
over spouting trees.
Rope them in glow
as they sputter
with beards of twig.
As their scab knuckles
rake the sky
with a beggar's sleight
of hand — you burn them!
Let's see them go
as golden biers,
surging downstream
past the marble houses
to crash into town
and overturn a car,
impale the bank
and drink the money
up in the fire.
Swallow the bag lady
in an instant of black,
crush cindering up
to the rivers brink
and topple in.
Noon still falls
in silver shafts.
One hits Canary Wharf,
and its metal organs
shine like babies
in the gasping air,
then dropping, smelt.
over spouting trees.
Rope them in glow
as they sputter
with beards of twig.
As their scab knuckles
rake the sky
with a beggar's sleight
of hand — you burn them!
Let's see them go
as golden biers,
surging downstream
past the marble houses
to crash into town
and overturn a car,
impale the bank
and drink the money
up in the fire.
Swallow the bag lady
in an instant of black,
crush cindering up
to the rivers brink
and topple in.
Noon still falls
in silver shafts.
One hits Canary Wharf,
and its metal organs
shine like babies
in the gasping air,
then dropping, smelt.
Friday 4 December 2009
Cold Stone
Facades of houses chipped
in 1910, their white frames
pasted and haloed with ice,
igloo windows, sorbet porch,
steaming to the touch.
Sky folds down, listerine blue,
till the whitewash fronts ache
like a child's cream teeth.
Tree trunks bulge like melons,
faceless, wheezing chalkily
about frozen sap and finches
popping their spots. Chimneys,
painted vanilla, stand up straight
like flasks blowing smoke rings,
cotton pourings pale as slosh
you scoop out of the bottom
of the freezer at four am.
The sky drinks them, folding
again, the final crunch and gasp
of heaven's hydraulic mouth.
in 1910, their white frames
pasted and haloed with ice,
igloo windows, sorbet porch,
steaming to the touch.
Sky folds down, listerine blue,
till the whitewash fronts ache
like a child's cream teeth.
Tree trunks bulge like melons,
faceless, wheezing chalkily
about frozen sap and finches
popping their spots. Chimneys,
painted vanilla, stand up straight
like flasks blowing smoke rings,
cotton pourings pale as slosh
you scoop out of the bottom
of the freezer at four am.
The sky drinks them, folding
again, the final crunch and gasp
of heaven's hydraulic mouth.
Thursday 3 December 2009
Baptism
Planes roar in the distance
with a whorling noise
like a pan being scoured,
steam rising off the metal
to dew the cold tap,
clouds pushing cool
at the window latch.
Street grey with rain,
spotted moss, drizzle from
the childhood playground
caught in bunches
on the bare twigs,
jewels of sky spit.
The sweet reek
of grapes and chocolate
crushed into a sandwich
in a plastic lunchbox.
Soggy bread and syrup
circle the storm drain.
The last leaf flags,
tearing off, lands
in a puddle. At six,
falling in the nature pond,
wrapping in weeds,
toads stuck to the stones,
gasping dead fishlike,
clambering out felt
like a baptism. Tacky
juice residue clings
to fingers, prangs
in the nostrils.
Open the window
making a blank hole,
take a breath
and skip the ledge.
with a whorling noise
like a pan being scoured,
steam rising off the metal
to dew the cold tap,
clouds pushing cool
at the window latch.
Street grey with rain,
spotted moss, drizzle from
the childhood playground
caught in bunches
on the bare twigs,
jewels of sky spit.
The sweet reek
of grapes and chocolate
crushed into a sandwich
in a plastic lunchbox.
Soggy bread and syrup
circle the storm drain.
The last leaf flags,
tearing off, lands
in a puddle. At six,
falling in the nature pond,
wrapping in weeds,
toads stuck to the stones,
gasping dead fishlike,
clambering out felt
like a baptism. Tacky
juice residue clings
to fingers, prangs
in the nostrils.
Open the window
making a blank hole,
take a breath
and skip the ledge.
Tuesday 24 November 2009
Five O'Clock
The road is blue.
Collonaded trees, leaves
black flags, drooping off
upheld fists of galls.
A few houses lit amber,
cider light from bedrooms
makes shadow puppets
of cups and lampshades.
Wind comes now and specks
the panes with drizzle.
Inside the yellow cradle
we sit and pick at toes or
teeth, watching dark tint
the blind's gapped slats.
We curl like cats, voices
keen and low, like a cello
heard through a wall.
The sky purples, cars slosh
into the gutter's reservoir
blocked up with leaves.
Their headlights bob
over speed bumps,
flashing up the hill.
Its five o'clock
and the house
is full of light
and laughter.
Collonaded trees, leaves
black flags, drooping off
upheld fists of galls.
A few houses lit amber,
cider light from bedrooms
makes shadow puppets
of cups and lampshades.
Wind comes now and specks
the panes with drizzle.
Inside the yellow cradle
we sit and pick at toes or
teeth, watching dark tint
the blind's gapped slats.
We curl like cats, voices
keen and low, like a cello
heard through a wall.
The sky purples, cars slosh
into the gutter's reservoir
blocked up with leaves.
Their headlights bob
over speed bumps,
flashing up the hill.
Its five o'clock
and the house
is full of light
and laughter.
Monday 23 November 2009
Arc
On a dawn clothed
in fog and cotton
skeletons of paper birds
fall into children's hands,
their perfect faces fold
into the arc of light.
Cloud breaks, bandstand
softly fades, the trees
open their mouths
and teeth come out.
Somewhere in a drain
a blinding orange leaf
is giving birth.
in fog and cotton
skeletons of paper birds
fall into children's hands,
their perfect faces fold
into the arc of light.
Cloud breaks, bandstand
softly fades, the trees
open their mouths
and teeth come out.
Somewhere in a drain
a blinding orange leaf
is giving birth.
Saturday 21 November 2009
The Fields (edit)
Out of clouds flur owls.
White tinder, tumbling
through the gulf, black
earth their touch paper.
Lambs sing and suckle.
Irises shrink, tossing
and turning in their beds.
Night is gnawed by stags.
The blue moon, circus girl
with silver studs
and cherry lips,
bares a breast.
The chandelier hemisphere
pricks with stars, litters glass
over the fields. One owl tears
out of its dive, silently arcs
in suicide skyward.
White tinder, tumbling
through the gulf, black
earth their touch paper.
Lambs sing and suckle.
Irises shrink, tossing
and turning in their beds.
Night is gnawed by stags.
The blue moon, circus girl
with silver studs
and cherry lips,
bares a breast.
The chandelier hemisphere
pricks with stars, litters glass
over the fields. One owl tears
out of its dive, silently arcs
in suicide skyward.
Unicorn (edit)
In the cellar I found a unicorn,
a jumbled pile in the dark.
Its skin was seared and it stank
of burnt hair. The eyes were gone.
Two red craters. The ears torn,
the tongue ripped out by the roots.
Mess of limbs folded under it,
blackened twigs. A pyre.
I smeared a drop of blood
into the hide with my fingertip
and whispered a prayer.
It thrashed, the horn struck
the radiator, throwing sparks
across the tiles. The rug burnt,
smoke rose thick in my nostrils.
I vomited, but it was milk.
A lightbulb hung from the joist,
a golden noose.
The unicorn levitated, screaming,
bit down on the naked bulb
and was thrown back to the floor.
Spit dripped from its slack jaw.
My heart beat. All I wanted
was to gather its broken limbs
up in my arms. It shuddered,
nostrils flaring, one last retch,
and its being poured
out of its mouth.
As I collapsed,
I felt something bear me up,
and everything was white.
a jumbled pile in the dark.
Its skin was seared and it stank
of burnt hair. The eyes were gone.
Two red craters. The ears torn,
the tongue ripped out by the roots.
Mess of limbs folded under it,
blackened twigs. A pyre.
I smeared a drop of blood
into the hide with my fingertip
and whispered a prayer.
It thrashed, the horn struck
the radiator, throwing sparks
across the tiles. The rug burnt,
smoke rose thick in my nostrils.
I vomited, but it was milk.
A lightbulb hung from the joist,
a golden noose.
The unicorn levitated, screaming,
bit down on the naked bulb
and was thrown back to the floor.
Spit dripped from its slack jaw.
My heart beat. All I wanted
was to gather its broken limbs
up in my arms. It shuddered,
nostrils flaring, one last retch,
and its being poured
out of its mouth.
As I collapsed,
I felt something bear me up,
and everything was white.
Thursday 19 November 2009
The Fields
Out of clouds
flur owls.
White tinder,
tumbling
through the gulf,
black earth
their touch paper.
Lambs sing
and suckle.
Irises shrink,
toss and turn
in their beds.
Night is gnawed
by stags.
The blue moon,
circus girl
with silver studs
and cherry lips,
bares a breast.
The chandelier
hemisphere
pricks with stars,
litters glass
over the fields.
One owl tears
out of its dive,
silently arcs
in suicide
skyward.
flur owls.
White tinder,
tumbling
through the gulf,
black earth
their touch paper.
Lambs sing
and suckle.
Irises shrink,
toss and turn
in their beds.
Night is gnawed
by stags.
The blue moon,
circus girl
with silver studs
and cherry lips,
bares a breast.
The chandelier
hemisphere
pricks with stars,
litters glass
over the fields.
One owl tears
out of its dive,
silently arcs
in suicide
skyward.
Monday 16 November 2009
Seminar
Plaid shirt Elvis twiddling
pedantic pubic sideburns
Prince Edward roman-nosed
in college shirt and collar
Side parting moomin, chin
rested on tiny chubby hand
Sheepish split end Sally eyes
like an Egyptian mural
Pedant redhead hook nosed
jabbing biro and whining
Bowlcut giraffe woolen
scarf wrapped round neck
Penchewing blonde orally
fixated on the middle distance
Mascara blinker fiddling
with her black buckled sleeves
Booted porridge brains knaws
on a straggling brown lock
Queen Victoria shakes jewels
wobbles and is not amused
Ski jacket in flats looks angry
at her page of scribbled notes
Thirtysomething SE mother
wears her seniority well
Tutor gestures like prom queen
making tiara gushing speech
I rankle in my corner
vent spleen, feel better
pedantic pubic sideburns
Prince Edward roman-nosed
in college shirt and collar
Side parting moomin, chin
rested on tiny chubby hand
Sheepish split end Sally eyes
like an Egyptian mural
Pedant redhead hook nosed
jabbing biro and whining
Bowlcut giraffe woolen
scarf wrapped round neck
Penchewing blonde orally
fixated on the middle distance
Mascara blinker fiddling
with her black buckled sleeves
Booted porridge brains knaws
on a straggling brown lock
Queen Victoria shakes jewels
wobbles and is not amused
Ski jacket in flats looks angry
at her page of scribbled notes
Thirtysomething SE mother
wears her seniority well
Tutor gestures like prom queen
making tiara gushing speech
I rankle in my corner
vent spleen, feel better
Saturday 14 November 2009
Blood Orange
Alone I gulp my orange juice
and stare at my desk where
a wasp that buzzed the light
for hours broke and fell.
Bled there, died, dried,
light as a ripped off fingernail,
a brittle little Icarus.
I root inside my cheek
for tats of citrus flesh
and shudder as some
slips out from my molars.
Snagged between white pages,
manifesto for a murder.
Not pulp, but a fuzzy wing.
It's bitter fruit,
and my back teeth won't hide
the glaring proof, livid as
a stained glass window;
the orange, smeared glass.
It is dead and drained,
and I have drunk its blood.
and stare at my desk where
a wasp that buzzed the light
for hours broke and fell.
Bled there, died, dried,
light as a ripped off fingernail,
a brittle little Icarus.
I root inside my cheek
for tats of citrus flesh
and shudder as some
slips out from my molars.
Snagged between white pages,
manifesto for a murder.
Not pulp, but a fuzzy wing.
It's bitter fruit,
and my back teeth won't hide
the glaring proof, livid as
a stained glass window;
the orange, smeared glass.
It is dead and drained,
and I have drunk its blood.
Throne
Growling incubus, I sit
at the top of the stairs
in a blood red armchair,
staring at the lilac door
of the boiler, runnelled
with whitewash like come.
It could tip over forwards
with the slightest breeze.
Like a jesters top, inside
a supernatural well, spin
the sounds of my house
around my ears, snatches
of song blooming, pipes
gush. In the toilet bowl
a braindead fish smacks.
The staircase bows
like a willow branch
underneath our feet.
Still among all this,
the stink of the mouse
that got crushed dead
between the white wall
and the blue bed.
at the top of the stairs
in a blood red armchair,
staring at the lilac door
of the boiler, runnelled
with whitewash like come.
It could tip over forwards
with the slightest breeze.
Like a jesters top, inside
a supernatural well, spin
the sounds of my house
around my ears, snatches
of song blooming, pipes
gush. In the toilet bowl
a braindead fish smacks.
The staircase bows
like a willow branch
underneath our feet.
Still among all this,
the stink of the mouse
that got crushed dead
between the white wall
and the blue bed.
Tuesday 10 November 2009
Lewisham 436
At every stop the doors
of the bus swing back,
chill quickly gulps inside,
seeps around passengers
who pull their clothes to,
jackets tightened, collars
up, hands in armpits.
Little black boy stumbles
on the step, his mother
heaves his puff jacket
sleeve and he climbs up.
Their breath condenses
on the window as they
squeeze into a corner.
The rings on her hand
glow like cold butter.
At Peckham the bus
unloads by a half,
grizzled pensioners trudge
onto the pavement, thumbs
fixing at their buttons.
Beefy men with hats
snug around their crops,
monotone Santa's helpers,
grimly cup their chops
in black sausage fingers.
I'm the only white one,
until a red nosed girl
in a polyester coat
steps on with a stench
of hairspray, her snowy,
bloodless knuckles grip
bags of clothes, bottles
from the drug store,
two pink magazines
tucked under her arm.
She takes a seat with
a slight flounce as if
her chariot were late.
Outside, a soup sky.
Concrete thumbs point up:
residential tower blocks.
Busses the same as this
criss cross and stall
to halt by blue rows
of stamping passengers.
Among the leaves crows,
jet black, squabble
and flex their talons.
of the bus swing back,
chill quickly gulps inside,
seeps around passengers
who pull their clothes to,
jackets tightened, collars
up, hands in armpits.
Little black boy stumbles
on the step, his mother
heaves his puff jacket
sleeve and he climbs up.
Their breath condenses
on the window as they
squeeze into a corner.
The rings on her hand
glow like cold butter.
At Peckham the bus
unloads by a half,
grizzled pensioners trudge
onto the pavement, thumbs
fixing at their buttons.
Beefy men with hats
snug around their crops,
monotone Santa's helpers,
grimly cup their chops
in black sausage fingers.
I'm the only white one,
until a red nosed girl
in a polyester coat
steps on with a stench
of hairspray, her snowy,
bloodless knuckles grip
bags of clothes, bottles
from the drug store,
two pink magazines
tucked under her arm.
She takes a seat with
a slight flounce as if
her chariot were late.
Outside, a soup sky.
Concrete thumbs point up:
residential tower blocks.
Busses the same as this
criss cross and stall
to halt by blue rows
of stamping passengers.
Among the leaves crows,
jet black, squabble
and flex their talons.
Friday 6 November 2009
Parents watching tv.
Two cushions each,
plump behind spines
tired from work.
All that pointing.
Their arms crossed,
their feet crossed,
identically, winered
poufée props brown
brogues, and her
small grey slippers.
She's in badly coloured
jumper and jeans,
ponytail, earrings.
He, turquoise fleece
and dirtgrey Rohans,
round rimmed glasses,
grey half hair head.
At her left elbow
dregs of Chateau.
She takes the stem
thumb and finger,
sticks her schnozz
inside the glass
and sips the last.
Two cushions each,
plump behind spines
tired from work.
All that pointing.
Their arms crossed,
their feet crossed,
identically, winered
poufée props brown
brogues, and her
small grey slippers.
She's in badly coloured
jumper and jeans,
ponytail, earrings.
He, turquoise fleece
and dirtgrey Rohans,
round rimmed glasses,
grey half hair head.
At her left elbow
dregs of Chateau.
She takes the stem
thumb and finger,
sticks her schnozz
inside the glass
and sips the last.
Parable of modern poetry
Enter the Empress' sons
Chiron and Demetrius
with Lavinia
her hands cut off
her tongue cut out
and ravished
ho ho
Chiron and Demetrius
with Lavinia
her hands cut off
her tongue cut out
and ravished
ho ho
Lavinia!
I feel hypothermic.
All the mothers I know
had wombs ripped out.
I'll learn I promise the
words again I promise
don't know who
I'm speaking to
but I'll bash my skull
on the asphalt for it,
go spread my face,
mush it in grit.
I open my arms
like Jesus Christ,
choke on my own spit.
Squinted eyes, see
a mourning ring
hoop of gold around
the electric light,
a skipping beaten band
thrumming our mass,
a whittle of physic,
a bleat.
All the mothers I know
had wombs ripped out.
I'll learn I promise the
words again I promise
don't know who
I'm speaking to
but I'll bash my skull
on the asphalt for it,
go spread my face,
mush it in grit.
I open my arms
like Jesus Christ,
choke on my own spit.
Squinted eyes, see
a mourning ring
hoop of gold around
the electric light,
a skipping beaten band
thrumming our mass,
a whittle of physic,
a bleat.
Tuesday 3 November 2009
Mum lunges around the table,
ballpoint like a rapier skewers
bits of paper, folders, post-its
pink and yellow she peels off
and covers neatly, tapping
out curled black characters.
Dad treads in, rubber soles
cautious on the cherry wood
softly clump. He slow-motion
places his white coffee mug.
Her sweatered arms skit
above the big brown table,
brusque efficient gestures,
files in stacks shoved away,
laptop type-touched, digits
on her veiny hands working.
Pale white computer glow
shows shadows on her brow,
her lips purse, she shuts
the screen with a snap.
Tut. Dad looks slowly up.
She starts her monologue,
biro pinning down problems,
wispy hair swaying slightly,
her voice becoming strained
over the bits that really rile,
rising sarcastically then
lowing in regretful troughs.
Among sheep and pedants
at a parochial little school,
it sometimes gets her goat
that she's made a martyr
for the good sense issuing
from her good witch throat.
ballpoint like a rapier skewers
bits of paper, folders, post-its
pink and yellow she peels off
and covers neatly, tapping
out curled black characters.
Dad treads in, rubber soles
cautious on the cherry wood
softly clump. He slow-motion
places his white coffee mug.
Her sweatered arms skit
above the big brown table,
brusque efficient gestures,
files in stacks shoved away,
laptop type-touched, digits
on her veiny hands working.
Pale white computer glow
shows shadows on her brow,
her lips purse, she shuts
the screen with a snap.
Tut. Dad looks slowly up.
She starts her monologue,
biro pinning down problems,
wispy hair swaying slightly,
her voice becoming strained
over the bits that really rile,
rising sarcastically then
lowing in regretful troughs.
Among sheep and pedants
at a parochial little school,
it sometimes gets her goat
that she's made a martyr
for the good sense issuing
from her good witch throat.
Monday 2 November 2009
Joshua, sat strumming his guitar
in an office chair, by the computer.
Strums, squints at the screen, sings,
his voice cracks, he fumbles, tries
to hit the high note, the karaoke
comes down with an adolescent whine.
I wish I had a harmonica, he wists,
fiddling with the capo and the strings.
He's got the street corner troubadour
look down: black skinnys, fringe wisps
peeping from his lime green hood,
over rectangle specs. He sticks out
his thick bottom lip as he croons,
brows meet in the middle, arch up high
in joy, his blocky features dance,
confessional singer or Mr Potato Head.
Leonard Cohen without the tunes.
He stops to rattle off some words
to his online friends, click clack,
pulls the hoodie back, out of it springs
a hairdo from the Lord of the Rings.
Happy little tuneless hobbit he.
in an office chair, by the computer.
Strums, squints at the screen, sings,
his voice cracks, he fumbles, tries
to hit the high note, the karaoke
comes down with an adolescent whine.
I wish I had a harmonica, he wists,
fiddling with the capo and the strings.
He's got the street corner troubadour
look down: black skinnys, fringe wisps
peeping from his lime green hood,
over rectangle specs. He sticks out
his thick bottom lip as he croons,
brows meet in the middle, arch up high
in joy, his blocky features dance,
confessional singer or Mr Potato Head.
Leonard Cohen without the tunes.
He stops to rattle off some words
to his online friends, click clack,
pulls the hoodie back, out of it springs
a hairdo from the Lord of the Rings.
Happy little tuneless hobbit he.
Kitchen, a varnished arena.
The wooden counter, letters
from school in a little pile,
bowl with four ripe tomatoes,
plump William Carlos peaches.
By the sink, colander of rinds
dried out under halogen bulbs,
and a monster tesco pasta bake
thawing softer for our mouths.
The toaster, blender, scales
all in a row, a holy trinity
of domesticity, or three old men
sat out in the sun, before
the Greek fresco of the tiled wall.
Herbs grow in pots by the sill,
the blind is pulled, they sleep.
In a far corner, towels dry.
The cork pinboard with badges
of Gran Canaria and school fetes,
skirt of teatowels, crown made
or paper daffodils and yellow lists.
The old clock, slender numerals
and a wooden frame, high up
on the wall, ticks below hearing,
bringing in the autumn night.
The wooden counter, letters
from school in a little pile,
bowl with four ripe tomatoes,
plump William Carlos peaches.
By the sink, colander of rinds
dried out under halogen bulbs,
and a monster tesco pasta bake
thawing softer for our mouths.
The toaster, blender, scales
all in a row, a holy trinity
of domesticity, or three old men
sat out in the sun, before
the Greek fresco of the tiled wall.
Herbs grow in pots by the sill,
the blind is pulled, they sleep.
In a far corner, towels dry.
The cork pinboard with badges
of Gran Canaria and school fetes,
skirt of teatowels, crown made
or paper daffodils and yellow lists.
The old clock, slender numerals
and a wooden frame, high up
on the wall, ticks below hearing,
bringing in the autumn night.
Wednesday 28 October 2009
The orchestra swell
flirts, then fizzles.
Violins down bows
and crane to hear,
the baton jerks
invisible strings,
their faces pucker,
they put pedal
to metal, horse hair
to thrumming wire.
Excuse me please,
with halting palm
spread held high,
too much trombone.
Tutti! A-one two—
and they belch
before the mark—
No! I know that
this is tedious,
but again, tutti.
First clarinet rolls
her batting eyes
and tutts. New
blood, no good.
At last they gain
momentum, get
a clue and accel,
decell and cello
wilts a little slow
but on! Conductor
pouring sweat will
make this bunch
regret the day
they overweened
and missed the cue,
We're done! Go
home you sad
excuse for any
kind of — But
at his words
they drown him
out with scraping
chairs on pine.
In three weeks
time, he thinks,
at least it
isn't my work
they'll be raping.
flirts, then fizzles.
Violins down bows
and crane to hear,
the baton jerks
invisible strings,
their faces pucker,
they put pedal
to metal, horse hair
to thrumming wire.
Excuse me please,
with halting palm
spread held high,
too much trombone.
Tutti! A-one two—
and they belch
before the mark—
No! I know that
this is tedious,
but again, tutti.
First clarinet rolls
her batting eyes
and tutts. New
blood, no good.
At last they gain
momentum, get
a clue and accel,
decell and cello
wilts a little slow
but on! Conductor
pouring sweat will
make this bunch
regret the day
they overweened
and missed the cue,
We're done! Go
home you sad
excuse for any
kind of — But
at his words
they drown him
out with scraping
chairs on pine.
In three weeks
time, he thinks,
at least it
isn't my work
they'll be raping.
Club Foot
Club foot my tutor. Poor lady.
Stricken with a gimlet eye,
a birthmark like a jam smear
on the chin, and a nervous tic.
She's big, maybe gained the weight
in school, where I really doubt
she was a raging socialite.
Her big blue bulbous eyes
flick around the room, soft
voice clipping out consonants,
hunched forward, hammy arms
propped on knees, to hide
her huge awkward breasts.
A copy of Austen stuffed with
coloured slips rests on her cords.
She's a fierce intelligence, PhD,
many of her papers published,
but she never learnt smiling,
hedged her bets, chose austerity,
hid behind vocabulary,
went out and bought
some wide, plain shoes.
Stricken with a gimlet eye,
a birthmark like a jam smear
on the chin, and a nervous tic.
She's big, maybe gained the weight
in school, where I really doubt
she was a raging socialite.
Her big blue bulbous eyes
flick around the room, soft
voice clipping out consonants,
hunched forward, hammy arms
propped on knees, to hide
her huge awkward breasts.
A copy of Austen stuffed with
coloured slips rests on her cords.
She's a fierce intelligence, PhD,
many of her papers published,
but she never learnt smiling,
hedged her bets, chose austerity,
hid behind vocabulary,
went out and bought
some wide, plain shoes.
Monday 26 October 2009
Unicorn
In the cellar
I found a unicorn.
A jumbled pile
in the dark.
Its skin was seared,
and it stank
of burnt hair.
The eyes were gone.
Two red craters.
The ears torn,
the tongue ripped
out by the roots.
Fractured limbs
folded under it,
blackened twigs.
A bonfire. A pyre.
I smeared a drop
of blood into
its hide with
my fingertip,
and whispered
a prayer to it.
It thrashed,
the horn struck
the radiator
throwing sparks
across the tiles.
The rug burnt,
smoke rose
thick in my nostrils.
I vomited,
but it was milk.
A lightbulb hung
from the joist,
a golden noose.
The unicorn screamed,
levitated, bit down
on the naked bulb
and was thrown
back to the floor.
Its spit dripped
from a slack jaw,
its mouth bled.
My heart beat.
All I wanted
was to gather
its broken limbs
up in my arms.
It shuddered,
nostrils flaring,
gave one last
awful retch,
and its being
poured out
of its mouth.
As I collapsed,
I felt something
bear me up,
and everything
was white.
I found a unicorn.
A jumbled pile
in the dark.
Its skin was seared,
and it stank
of burnt hair.
The eyes were gone.
Two red craters.
The ears torn,
the tongue ripped
out by the roots.
Fractured limbs
folded under it,
blackened twigs.
A bonfire. A pyre.
I smeared a drop
of blood into
its hide with
my fingertip,
and whispered
a prayer to it.
It thrashed,
the horn struck
the radiator
throwing sparks
across the tiles.
The rug burnt,
smoke rose
thick in my nostrils.
I vomited,
but it was milk.
A lightbulb hung
from the joist,
a golden noose.
The unicorn screamed,
levitated, bit down
on the naked bulb
and was thrown
back to the floor.
Its spit dripped
from a slack jaw,
its mouth bled.
My heart beat.
All I wanted
was to gather
its broken limbs
up in my arms.
It shuddered,
nostrils flaring,
gave one last
awful retch,
and its being
poured out
of its mouth.
As I collapsed,
I felt something
bear me up,
and everything
was white.
Tuesday 20 October 2009
The tutor scuffs his heels,
dawdling like a child
around the room,
languidly puts forth
a string of platitudes,
hands clasped, lips pursed.
Without a break in step
he lunges across the floor
like a fencing marionette,
stutters out a question
like an evil movie villain,
one quivering finger held
in some poor sop's face;
"How did you like the play?"
The written one or the one
he's just put on?
Behind his armpit beard
and black rimmed glasses
his silent chortle shows
he loves his audience,
the humble drama
of provoking students,
who'll always answer
his vague interrogations
whether or not they
make any sense.
"What do we say
when we say
this is a play?"
Academia's a sickness.
After prolonged exposure,
the brain begins to digest
itself. Impossible to live
and be so self-reflexive.
dawdling like a child
around the room,
languidly puts forth
a string of platitudes,
hands clasped, lips pursed.
Without a break in step
he lunges across the floor
like a fencing marionette,
stutters out a question
like an evil movie villain,
one quivering finger held
in some poor sop's face;
"How did you like the play?"
The written one or the one
he's just put on?
Behind his armpit beard
and black rimmed glasses
his silent chortle shows
he loves his audience,
the humble drama
of provoking students,
who'll always answer
his vague interrogations
whether or not they
make any sense.
"What do we say
when we say
this is a play?"
Academia's a sickness.
After prolonged exposure,
the brain begins to digest
itself. Impossible to live
and be so self-reflexive.
I used to cry, she says,
most of the time, turning
with a candid twist and nod
to see who's listening,
until maybe fifteen.
The bubbling chat throughout
the lecture hall rises
above our heads,
then swills, drops.
Don Juan steps up
to the podium, puffs out,
risks popping his silky shirt
and whipping out his rug.
Weeping girl is kinda quiet.
His ponytail and sideburns
twitch with every sneer,
this guy's a phenomenon,
thinks he's a muskateer.
In the first row
a mature student crosses
her legs, and my tutor,
a gay Oxford researcher,
fidgets in his seat and all but
giggles as the aging stud
leans forward over his notes,
deriding Shakespeare like
it was small talk on a date,
eyes rolled, conspiritorially
twinkling, an uncle's leer.
Five years ago you could
see him inflating in a club,
sock stuffed down his briefs,
twirling his mustachios,
seducing a Masters student
in his Don Juan duds.
most of the time, turning
with a candid twist and nod
to see who's listening,
until maybe fifteen.
The bubbling chat throughout
the lecture hall rises
above our heads,
then swills, drops.
Don Juan steps up
to the podium, puffs out,
risks popping his silky shirt
and whipping out his rug.
Weeping girl is kinda quiet.
His ponytail and sideburns
twitch with every sneer,
this guy's a phenomenon,
thinks he's a muskateer.
In the first row
a mature student crosses
her legs, and my tutor,
a gay Oxford researcher,
fidgets in his seat and all but
giggles as the aging stud
leans forward over his notes,
deriding Shakespeare like
it was small talk on a date,
eyes rolled, conspiritorially
twinkling, an uncle's leer.
Five years ago you could
see him inflating in a club,
sock stuffed down his briefs,
twirling his mustachios,
seducing a Masters student
in his Don Juan duds.
Monday 12 October 2009
Silence, Night
Silence, Night.
I've had enough
of your bawling,
you floozy, you
red and green
plasticine whore.
Contort and gurn
till you go blue,
yowl and spit
until you fit,
filibuster, sue,
you crazy bitch
I'll gag your craw
to get some rest —
look at what
your carelessness
has pushed me to.
Even in dreams
your nitwit babble
filters through
to scrape and bend
my blackboard mind.
Your sirens and screams
belch from machines
inside my dynamo.
I jerk in circles as
from the window
you cackle and lash
my reveries with reams
of ululating din.
I've had enough
of your bawling,
you floozy, you
red and green
plasticine whore.
Contort and gurn
till you go blue,
yowl and spit
until you fit,
filibuster, sue,
you crazy bitch
I'll gag your craw
to get some rest —
look at what
your carelessness
has pushed me to.
Even in dreams
your nitwit babble
filters through
to scrape and bend
my blackboard mind.
Your sirens and screams
belch from machines
inside my dynamo.
I jerk in circles as
from the window
you cackle and lash
my reveries with reams
of ululating din.
Monday 5 October 2009
The Joke
Black and violet flush
over the chimneys.
Butter slops in pools
from streetlight torches.
The clowned moon,
gipsy queen
of a pagan rodeo,
rides the wheeling stars.
The joke pants
in the gutter,
with a potty mouth,
an empty belly,
an acid tongue;
swollen evictee
of the never never,
candidate prince
of the undone.
His mealy blabber
echoes the walls
of the lady's chamber,
shivering the paper
with gripe and low
mildewed laughter.
Her correspondence
curls and blackens,
the letters promenade,
spirals & hieroglyphs
burlesque and wink
across the flaming leaf,
signs born of signs
high kick and split,
dazzle and break her eyes.
In the street,
midnight's wise guys
cock their hats
swivel on their toes
play charades and sing
selections from the latest shows.
Collapsed hysteric
writhing in a puddle
the joke at last cracks,
head spilled of sweets,
martyred pinata,
gurgling his secrets
to potted shrubs,
begging papal audience
of a blind old dog.
Stars and paper hearts
whisper and drop
from his damp fingers,
as dawn races
to crown his wisps,
to smother and stamp
his charred remains,
evacuate the spot,
and turn the sticky tide
of midnight's overflowing glot.
over the chimneys.
Butter slops in pools
from streetlight torches.
The clowned moon,
gipsy queen
of a pagan rodeo,
rides the wheeling stars.
The joke pants
in the gutter,
with a potty mouth,
an empty belly,
an acid tongue;
swollen evictee
of the never never,
candidate prince
of the undone.
His mealy blabber
echoes the walls
of the lady's chamber,
shivering the paper
with gripe and low
mildewed laughter.
Her correspondence
curls and blackens,
the letters promenade,
spirals & hieroglyphs
burlesque and wink
across the flaming leaf,
signs born of signs
high kick and split,
dazzle and break her eyes.
In the street,
midnight's wise guys
cock their hats
swivel on their toes
play charades and sing
selections from the latest shows.
Collapsed hysteric
writhing in a puddle
the joke at last cracks,
head spilled of sweets,
martyred pinata,
gurgling his secrets
to potted shrubs,
begging papal audience
of a blind old dog.
Stars and paper hearts
whisper and drop
from his damp fingers,
as dawn races
to crown his wisps,
to smother and stamp
his charred remains,
evacuate the spot,
and turn the sticky tide
of midnight's overflowing glot.
Monday 28 September 2009
Orphans
Smash! Peals of lamplight
daze the orphans
crouching in doorways,
riffle their mothy eyes
and fall diagonal
in loping amber bars.
They don't see,
don't scurry or steal away,
just nod on the stoop,
swivelling in the beam
of the dread archangel,
hollow knocking marrow,
writhing pinned down,
chins spotted with dribble.
Darkness whales in,
fever spikes visions
in the tunnel, eyes
rolled like marbles
skitter through dream,
flap and mumble
in rags. Children,
keening in night,
overhung by ghosts,
eyes strained shut,
burst inwards
gushing colour,
filmy ectoplasm, oil
quick with saline odour,
neural discharge, nightmare
juices; left the dry ache
of a dog kicked in the ribs.
Spin into the corner,
lost boys. The wick
flares and drowns,
the pornographic universe
blinks out, ashamed,
teeters in the lurid hush
for a second then spills
across the tiles, bells
and buttons, clowns
and bears and sheiks
jingle beggarly, inflate
then subside like
bouncy castles moaning,
as ambulances clatter
through every county;
the spastic world
a music box that spilt
it rusted guts.
Our children open
their slick black eyes
and make fire among
the bruised, monochrome
husks of empty houses,
and sing.
daze the orphans
crouching in doorways,
riffle their mothy eyes
and fall diagonal
in loping amber bars.
They don't see,
don't scurry or steal away,
just nod on the stoop,
swivelling in the beam
of the dread archangel,
hollow knocking marrow,
writhing pinned down,
chins spotted with dribble.
Darkness whales in,
fever spikes visions
in the tunnel, eyes
rolled like marbles
skitter through dream,
flap and mumble
in rags. Children,
keening in night,
overhung by ghosts,
eyes strained shut,
burst inwards
gushing colour,
filmy ectoplasm, oil
quick with saline odour,
neural discharge, nightmare
juices; left the dry ache
of a dog kicked in the ribs.
Spin into the corner,
lost boys. The wick
flares and drowns,
the pornographic universe
blinks out, ashamed,
teeters in the lurid hush
for a second then spills
across the tiles, bells
and buttons, clowns
and bears and sheiks
jingle beggarly, inflate
then subside like
bouncy castles moaning,
as ambulances clatter
through every county;
the spastic world
a music box that spilt
it rusted guts.
Our children open
their slick black eyes
and make fire among
the bruised, monochrome
husks of empty houses,
and sing.
Thursday 17 September 2009
White Elephant
The clock is slow, it goes
five seconds every hour,
the second hand, red taper,
flickers like an insect wing,
strains over each division
like a 20th hour labour.
Fairy lights strung, lazy
mustache, up behind
the face, glow blue through
the numerals, the time:
ten minutes past midnight.
The wall it hangs on
juts out, Victorian flue
sealed up, leaning monolithic
over the room, like the moon;
lamp lit one side, the other
dark and dusty. The shelf
is a balcony of memorabilia;
a plastic T-rex menacing
a plush toy frog, its stubby tail
whipped up cretaceously
to bullseye the statuesque
OK sign of a metallic hand;
an adjustable mannequin
with sky-embracing arms
looks up in wooden suplication;
a birthday card by a shisha
with beauty and the beast
reclining in a parlour on
the glossy printed cover;
a crumpled tissue; a bottle
of painkillers; a stacked deck.
An 80s baseball card is stuck
to the dappled white wall above.
The floor is strewn with
bedding and coated wires,
spilt tobacco, stuck gum.
The sofas wear it well,
lounging softly, dilapidated,
torn but kind, sometime beds.
A broken guitar, left
knocking in the tangled gutter
behind the television, twangs
sometimes, sings with five strings,
but now lies sleepy and dumb.
Above the TV set the shelf
seats plates, photos, phones,
aerial, camera, box, bauble,
and a beer crate with cut
out eyes, green Grolsch troll,
wears a look of soggy dismay.
Suspended from the yellow vault
of the ceiling, a blown light fitting,
cradled in a stringy ribcage
and blazoned with two
soft chivalric hearts.
Brown wire, burnt bulb,
and a wicker case that beats
its silent pendulum blues
as the second hand jerks,
groaning static loss.
five seconds every hour,
the second hand, red taper,
flickers like an insect wing,
strains over each division
like a 20th hour labour.
Fairy lights strung, lazy
mustache, up behind
the face, glow blue through
the numerals, the time:
ten minutes past midnight.
The wall it hangs on
juts out, Victorian flue
sealed up, leaning monolithic
over the room, like the moon;
lamp lit one side, the other
dark and dusty. The shelf
is a balcony of memorabilia;
a plastic T-rex menacing
a plush toy frog, its stubby tail
whipped up cretaceously
to bullseye the statuesque
OK sign of a metallic hand;
an adjustable mannequin
with sky-embracing arms
looks up in wooden suplication;
a birthday card by a shisha
with beauty and the beast
reclining in a parlour on
the glossy printed cover;
a crumpled tissue; a bottle
of painkillers; a stacked deck.
An 80s baseball card is stuck
to the dappled white wall above.
The floor is strewn with
bedding and coated wires,
spilt tobacco, stuck gum.
The sofas wear it well,
lounging softly, dilapidated,
torn but kind, sometime beds.
A broken guitar, left
knocking in the tangled gutter
behind the television, twangs
sometimes, sings with five strings,
but now lies sleepy and dumb.
Above the TV set the shelf
seats plates, photos, phones,
aerial, camera, box, bauble,
and a beer crate with cut
out eyes, green Grolsch troll,
wears a look of soggy dismay.
Suspended from the yellow vault
of the ceiling, a blown light fitting,
cradled in a stringy ribcage
and blazoned with two
soft chivalric hearts.
Brown wire, burnt bulb,
and a wicker case that beats
its silent pendulum blues
as the second hand jerks,
groaning static loss.
Monday 14 September 2009
Sirius
Spinning down a jenny vein
of germinated stars
the dog makes the shore
fallen from lullaby dusk
to battle the tree tips, paw
the green scraps, fly
and claw the trunk
and ricochet broken
through the open
mouth of my dark door.
The sun is bawling
a gaudy finale, pink,
like a spoiled child
holding its breath,
sparkling ribbons drop
from distracted arms
and crown the clouds.
The dogstar in my corner
dreams it's on the chase,
shreds my walls, slavers
sugar drippings on my sheets,
shits gold bricks, yelps
riddles when the blacklight
jerks its needling eye
to stare his nova out—
candle snuffer
drooping scythe
holocaust geometry
slopes in the abyss
and the pup bites,
its teeth clot the heart,
knot and fester the dark,
annihilate the night.
of germinated stars
the dog makes the shore
fallen from lullaby dusk
to battle the tree tips, paw
the green scraps, fly
and claw the trunk
and ricochet broken
through the open
mouth of my dark door.
The sun is bawling
a gaudy finale, pink,
like a spoiled child
holding its breath,
sparkling ribbons drop
from distracted arms
and crown the clouds.
The dogstar in my corner
dreams it's on the chase,
shreds my walls, slavers
sugar drippings on my sheets,
shits gold bricks, yelps
riddles when the blacklight
jerks its needling eye
to stare his nova out—
candle snuffer
drooping scythe
holocaust geometry
slopes in the abyss
and the pup bites,
its teeth clot the heart,
knot and fester the dark,
annihilate the night.
Sleep walk
Sunshine on our taxidermy
books left open in half
propped up on sofas
black stains in the carpet
on our clothes
somnambulent caravan
forging through days
voyage through grey cloud
ash tray eyes
crumpled and misty
forage and stir from sleep.
Blunt pisscock spinning
from a weather vane spine,
stark fabric wombed
a crumby nest
a popinjay's blistering hoard,
and the vanguard cloud broke
back into the world
to radiate again
to make our guts jump
feel hunger under hothouse skin
sulphur skull of the last drop
lashed from a dark sky
along a pristine wing
to winnow and gale in the roof
and ripple the filthy sheets
into a seance grin.
books left open in half
propped up on sofas
black stains in the carpet
on our clothes
somnambulent caravan
forging through days
voyage through grey cloud
ash tray eyes
crumpled and misty
forage and stir from sleep.
Blunt pisscock spinning
from a weather vane spine,
stark fabric wombed
a crumby nest
a popinjay's blistering hoard,
and the vanguard cloud broke
back into the world
to radiate again
to make our guts jump
feel hunger under hothouse skin
sulphur skull of the last drop
lashed from a dark sky
along a pristine wing
to winnow and gale in the roof
and ripple the filthy sheets
into a seance grin.
Monday 7 September 2009
Doors of the corridor house glow
yellow with the sun's last shout
burst through the pane, pregnant
the ripe white paper walls.
Chalk and litter cross and flicker
the carpet with the open window
blowing dog-whistle breeze inside.
Ashy the stairway's sidling frame,
pickets beneath the banisters brown
boa, spiralling Archimedes pyre,
mahogany scrawling spine. Black
the vacuum's malignant corner,
the graveyard behind the door.
Trees peer in, unconscious gum
eyes chanting down the chimney,
waking children, tickling cracked
music out of pots and pans.
wind chime glasses skittering out
the door into the swaying garden.
The pipes moan and slither,
dust the ducts shook by storm
with grit and cabbage water.
Dappled sunlight scurries off
into the corner to slightly slip
into the deep blue shadow.
yellow with the sun's last shout
burst through the pane, pregnant
the ripe white paper walls.
Chalk and litter cross and flicker
the carpet with the open window
blowing dog-whistle breeze inside.
Ashy the stairway's sidling frame,
pickets beneath the banisters brown
boa, spiralling Archimedes pyre,
mahogany scrawling spine. Black
the vacuum's malignant corner,
the graveyard behind the door.
Trees peer in, unconscious gum
eyes chanting down the chimney,
waking children, tickling cracked
music out of pots and pans.
wind chime glasses skittering out
the door into the swaying garden.
The pipes moan and slither,
dust the ducts shook by storm
with grit and cabbage water.
Dappled sunlight scurries off
into the corner to slightly slip
into the deep blue shadow.
Sunday 30 August 2009
TV
Lolly-gagged babes in the wood
mnuh mnuh muffled syllableus
on blue lundis when the news is
foul not fair not failed on four
thousand different channels all
at once disseminating the self
sacrifice of papal gophers or self
serving stock marketeers' wives'
mentor programmes' progess on
the nation's childrens' issues ack!
Let them suffocate themselves
with gin and tear soaked tissues.
The anchors on the bulletins all
stare into the camera lens, bunnies
with dilated egos flapping dollars
on the ten oclock tide, ears pricked
for promotion, boxes ticked for
believable facial poses of emotion,
intoning international tragedy in
genuine swine sincere tones live
lies lapped lovingly by the coven
gathered round every family box.
The kids sip sunny D and freak,
think they're power rangers cos
the hopped up toons gesticulate
so wild, flicker and shake the tube
each way round, the moral being
the coyote never caught his prey.
Nations full of wives watch each
tiny move the catalogue makes,
maybe the latest blending micro
wave descaler slash air freshener
will make that bald waxen lump
in the living room love me again?
The ultimate prop of every home;
a talking dead machine pedestal
gnarling in the corner about goods
insurance pills toys cars girls diets
claims hardware software bonds
plans savings cartoons therapy
love healing faith grace death love
real fake on off buy sell go stop
believe disbelieve hide reveal
give take push pull
yes no yes no no
mnuh mnuh muffled syllableus
on blue lundis when the news is
foul not fair not failed on four
thousand different channels all
at once disseminating the self
sacrifice of papal gophers or self
serving stock marketeers' wives'
mentor programmes' progess on
the nation's childrens' issues ack!
Let them suffocate themselves
with gin and tear soaked tissues.
The anchors on the bulletins all
stare into the camera lens, bunnies
with dilated egos flapping dollars
on the ten oclock tide, ears pricked
for promotion, boxes ticked for
believable facial poses of emotion,
intoning international tragedy in
genuine swine sincere tones live
lies lapped lovingly by the coven
gathered round every family box.
The kids sip sunny D and freak,
think they're power rangers cos
the hopped up toons gesticulate
so wild, flicker and shake the tube
each way round, the moral being
the coyote never caught his prey.
Nations full of wives watch each
tiny move the catalogue makes,
maybe the latest blending micro
wave descaler slash air freshener
will make that bald waxen lump
in the living room love me again?
The ultimate prop of every home;
a talking dead machine pedestal
gnarling in the corner about goods
insurance pills toys cars girls diets
claims hardware software bonds
plans savings cartoons therapy
love healing faith grace death love
real fake on off buy sell go stop
believe disbelieve hide reveal
give take push pull
yes no yes no no
Saturday 29 August 2009
Whores
Anon anon yeah? Hey nonny nonny.
Pissy infant, take your stupid money.
Quails egg crack between gold molars.
Four roof caveins in Sao Paulo slums.
Child bones broken under broken tin.
Forget the pen they penned you in.
Hold out honey for the holy rollers.
Smear your face on faked hum drums.
Lump lumpen crumby slump hopes.
All in the puddle go your silver shoes.
Ask the whore madonna how she copes.
Queen with the counting-house blues.
Pissy infant, take your stupid money.
Quails egg crack between gold molars.
Four roof caveins in Sao Paulo slums.
Child bones broken under broken tin.
Forget the pen they penned you in.
Hold out honey for the holy rollers.
Smear your face on faked hum drums.
Lump lumpen crumby slump hopes.
All in the puddle go your silver shoes.
Ask the whore madonna how she copes.
Queen with the counting-house blues.
Friday 21 August 2009
Flap
Could slouch in skinny jeans
for hours endless skinny hours
skimming the boho curds off
of government money, plug in
my maxed out synapse party
boy o boy headache silver platter
to tedi tiny fine inter webwires
getting my kicks this decade
then slouch off to Bethlehem
and pay penance pay back
the dough the do the don't
the diorama of a dozy boy
kicking around out of pocket
lickin stick sticking plastercast
limbs on the wall off record
and bubbling my soulbrew on
the midnight train to Georgia
porgia pudding and punch drunk
confession lovey dovey stolen
moment life shmife aha oh
well we all try don't we eh?
And she's three thousand miles away.
Sit here like Prospero with my books
or something I dunno just flung out
into the watery outer spaces, Buddha
on a bender, Shakespeare shaking or
shaking hands or shirts off taking
dives cheap lager strumming hip court
jacket out the window with sticky
toffee mardi grah doowop veins,
I can't live up to prophets poets,
people passing quiet down dark lanes,
it's all too much to take down town,
rocked round and round, no way
to know or think or write enough,
can I just mope til I'm at the end
of my twisted wrung rope? Nope,
time to lick my pistol, put pedal to cool
metal and speed into the new sunrise.
Love, you'll be a holy eagle flied
by my side until death us do fart
parp parp the car waits, ticking over,
no wasted time no more no oh no.
Hop in our chariot and spatter now
fired up turned on and witched out
through blind morning to the great divide.
for hours endless skinny hours
skimming the boho curds off
of government money, plug in
my maxed out synapse party
boy o boy headache silver platter
to tedi tiny fine inter webwires
getting my kicks this decade
then slouch off to Bethlehem
and pay penance pay back
the dough the do the don't
the diorama of a dozy boy
kicking around out of pocket
lickin stick sticking plastercast
limbs on the wall off record
and bubbling my soulbrew on
the midnight train to Georgia
porgia pudding and punch drunk
confession lovey dovey stolen
moment life shmife aha oh
well we all try don't we eh?
And she's three thousand miles away.
Sit here like Prospero with my books
or something I dunno just flung out
into the watery outer spaces, Buddha
on a bender, Shakespeare shaking or
shaking hands or shirts off taking
dives cheap lager strumming hip court
jacket out the window with sticky
toffee mardi grah doowop veins,
I can't live up to prophets poets,
people passing quiet down dark lanes,
it's all too much to take down town,
rocked round and round, no way
to know or think or write enough,
can I just mope til I'm at the end
of my twisted wrung rope? Nope,
time to lick my pistol, put pedal to cool
metal and speed into the new sunrise.
Love, you'll be a holy eagle flied
by my side until death us do fart
parp parp the car waits, ticking over,
no wasted time no more no oh no.
Hop in our chariot and spatter now
fired up turned on and witched out
through blind morning to the great divide.
Racket
Outside the flake white window
sound like leviathan ribcage maraca
craaark craaark scraping comes out
of a white council truck jacking up
a car inch by inch heaving metal
wheeze, broken bottle and card
board crushed up in the bottom
of a plastic green recycling tray,
skip noises, car engine rises, leaf
mumbles, pneumatic rattles, cement
churnings, plane engines bowling
their steel load cross the sky howling
like wind through an empty home.
The ice cream van clatters by again,
spangly off key chimes churn out
the same old cheery tune that means
crackrock powder grass etc, midnight
you'll know when they pull up beside
that a magnum isn't on the menu.
Inside our room's white walls
we laze the afternoon propped sleepy
on sofa or sleepy Josh feet out the
window reading A Room with a View.
Ours is just of plane trees, cars,
and other opposite white windows.
Tommy taps his thumb on the armrest
and turns the page, spaghetti sauce
down him, tired sigh. Josh talks
in his phone call corner for a sec.
The lava lamp's cold, the coffee cups
empty, ash tray tidy, scissors close their
points at light speed into afternoon infinity.
sound like leviathan ribcage maraca
craaark craaark scraping comes out
of a white council truck jacking up
a car inch by inch heaving metal
wheeze, broken bottle and card
board crushed up in the bottom
of a plastic green recycling tray,
skip noises, car engine rises, leaf
mumbles, pneumatic rattles, cement
churnings, plane engines bowling
their steel load cross the sky howling
like wind through an empty home.
The ice cream van clatters by again,
spangly off key chimes churn out
the same old cheery tune that means
crackrock powder grass etc, midnight
you'll know when they pull up beside
that a magnum isn't on the menu.
Inside our room's white walls
we laze the afternoon propped sleepy
on sofa or sleepy Josh feet out the
window reading A Room with a View.
Ours is just of plane trees, cars,
and other opposite white windows.
Tommy taps his thumb on the armrest
and turns the page, spaghetti sauce
down him, tired sigh. Josh talks
in his phone call corner for a sec.
The lava lamp's cold, the coffee cups
empty, ash tray tidy, scissors close their
points at light speed into afternoon infinity.
Wednesday 12 August 2009
Birdbrain
Mr Smith you may fist and fidget
with that wire running up your spine,
may shuffle stacks of virgin A4 off out
the window 40 floors to the paving slabs,
white right justified copy flown from tray
in out pending wait something help me
to the storm of paper feathers falling
like the snatchings of a fat cat homicide,
and you one plump old plucked pidgeon.
You may cradle that balding egg you
would like to call a human being's head,
run your fingers over every little line
and hope your potato sack skin don't slip
to show the ham fisted you hid under it.
You could stick paper clips through the septum
rectum colon guts acid tube talker teeth
or swallow coins ball bearings tabs files
and digest the substance of your adult life,
leave the remainder steaming in a public lav
as a memento of the grinding grab grab grab
babble babel babe brothel brother ba-backstab.
Every memo to you is Qu'ran Torah Sutra
and you keep them all filed tight together.
You'll never shake ghot, never lay egg
on the doghter of gohd on golden sand,
or break with the whore's whore, the big man.
Those wire taps you tried to pluck out
were veins, the steel plate in your skull
was dehydration, and your mother never
stole from you. There's no poison seeping
to your conscience, no system of taxation
has the answer, Barney was just a dinosaur,
the scalpel in your hand will go in there
but busting up organs won't bring her back.
Mr Smith you've got me really frightened,
I've got to know is this the only road
for the enlightened man? We can split
the atom, the difference, hairs, our skulls,
but oh god if oh it god comes to this,
Mr Smith's short cut to everlasting bliss,
a rusted blade blunt and brown shoved in
to rupture Smith inside off to the rapture
while outside Smith is twitching, foaming
spit and blood and messing up the desk,
then why continue with a tired charade?
Smith you'll bail you shit you coward
I know how cold and old and tired
you have to be to take that leap you
Smith no Smith shit stop Smith ah no!
Flaked, didn't you, nancy boy, scared child.
The world needs your rheumy eyes more
than you know, your pasty brain's a grace
to the grey world, grey grace, grey love.
Your pidgeon chest is virgin white for now.
with that wire running up your spine,
may shuffle stacks of virgin A4 off out
the window 40 floors to the paving slabs,
white right justified copy flown from tray
in out pending wait something help me
to the storm of paper feathers falling
like the snatchings of a fat cat homicide,
and you one plump old plucked pidgeon.
You may cradle that balding egg you
would like to call a human being's head,
run your fingers over every little line
and hope your potato sack skin don't slip
to show the ham fisted you hid under it.
You could stick paper clips through the septum
rectum colon guts acid tube talker teeth
or swallow coins ball bearings tabs files
and digest the substance of your adult life,
leave the remainder steaming in a public lav
as a memento of the grinding grab grab grab
babble babel babe brothel brother ba-backstab.
Every memo to you is Qu'ran Torah Sutra
and you keep them all filed tight together.
You'll never shake ghot, never lay egg
on the doghter of gohd on golden sand,
or break with the whore's whore, the big man.
Those wire taps you tried to pluck out
were veins, the steel plate in your skull
was dehydration, and your mother never
stole from you. There's no poison seeping
to your conscience, no system of taxation
has the answer, Barney was just a dinosaur,
the scalpel in your hand will go in there
but busting up organs won't bring her back.
Mr Smith you've got me really frightened,
I've got to know is this the only road
for the enlightened man? We can split
the atom, the difference, hairs, our skulls,
but oh god if oh it god comes to this,
Mr Smith's short cut to everlasting bliss,
a rusted blade blunt and brown shoved in
to rupture Smith inside off to the rapture
while outside Smith is twitching, foaming
spit and blood and messing up the desk,
then why continue with a tired charade?
Smith you'll bail you shit you coward
I know how cold and old and tired
you have to be to take that leap you
Smith no Smith shit stop Smith ah no!
Flaked, didn't you, nancy boy, scared child.
The world needs your rheumy eyes more
than you know, your pasty brain's a grace
to the grey world, grey grace, grey love.
Your pidgeon chest is virgin white for now.
This is a Stick-Up
Rabid strictures of puppet crisis cuckold
filthy dew-brow Mr Smith, drawnout
ragged scriptures, depth charge, holy ghost
palpitations and meanders, swan-wrongs,
wrong-songs, forked prong stuck on
lecturn dick chain rounded thong thrum
blam blam hokum gestapo Aleppo bother-
hood who'd lynch species out and out
keep knocking on doors til they get a hit.
Bully boy butt head knock outs gnash
tablet twisted teeth and crouch reloading,
who's shit? Twit twoo! Gas the bleeders,
kickem too, shovel em shaftwise down
the hole to fester in the steaming brown,
gasp and grasp the plug and fail and drown
in children's toys, in hyper boles toilet bowls
stern father's frowns of misty whiskey eyes
four ayes a hundred nays neighing silt
and crusty acrimone alone hanging phone
line hokum hooker hooka holla ho ho!
Certain stinkers Mr Smith won't swalla,
whetha his gullet misters him or not
he's a standard rippling in the breeze,
and jees, Jesus and disciple cronies didn't
have tax rebate repossession lawsuit filing
jack! Baseball bat phonies breathing flicknives
down his neck the whole merry while.
While wiley David's seed was divvying
bread and fish Mr Smith was getting fucked
Royal Imperial Intergalactic anywhichway;
tactical, taxical, personal, shmersonal, blip.
These pen pushing bean counters aint got dick.
It's all real if I say, in my head,
please, I insist, listen! he cried, left
cradling his grey head in an empty office.
filthy dew-brow Mr Smith, drawnout
ragged scriptures, depth charge, holy ghost
palpitations and meanders, swan-wrongs,
wrong-songs, forked prong stuck on
lecturn dick chain rounded thong thrum
blam blam hokum gestapo Aleppo bother-
hood who'd lynch species out and out
keep knocking on doors til they get a hit.
Bully boy butt head knock outs gnash
tablet twisted teeth and crouch reloading,
who's shit? Twit twoo! Gas the bleeders,
kickem too, shovel em shaftwise down
the hole to fester in the steaming brown,
gasp and grasp the plug and fail and drown
in children's toys, in hyper boles toilet bowls
stern father's frowns of misty whiskey eyes
four ayes a hundred nays neighing silt
and crusty acrimone alone hanging phone
line hokum hooker hooka holla ho ho!
Certain stinkers Mr Smith won't swalla,
whetha his gullet misters him or not
he's a standard rippling in the breeze,
and jees, Jesus and disciple cronies didn't
have tax rebate repossession lawsuit filing
jack! Baseball bat phonies breathing flicknives
down his neck the whole merry while.
While wiley David's seed was divvying
bread and fish Mr Smith was getting fucked
Royal Imperial Intergalactic anywhichway;
tactical, taxical, personal, shmersonal, blip.
These pen pushing bean counters aint got dick.
It's all real if I say, in my head,
please, I insist, listen! he cried, left
cradling his grey head in an empty office.
Saturday 8 August 2009
Shout in the Street
Do re mi fa so blah la blah ti
so far i've quenched my bleeds
bloody bla bla black sheep bleating blah
stumbbling on bloody black stumpts
blam to the slaughter, tall grey blue
drink o water drinking dead air,
tub thump. Thumb throb. Flob a dob
flapping felt jaws of the world,
news of the rag, maws of sparrow
kids, crumby kid gloves, heavy metal
satan snow white doves on tape,
full throttle frontal blah brain rape
blah blah bah ah ha ha aiaiaiai!
Hai ya! Karate carrot top ten yr olds
falling faceflat, bruises, pride, where
have I remembered this crap from?
Churches out of bedroom widows,
well to do lovebirds tripping fol de dol
down Cambridge roads, round round-
abouts, carousing on the carousel
then vamoosing in a vamoosel sec
at the beck of chemical bursts,
loving and busting out, intestinal lust
seeping, bodies are not just blood brain
and vitamin; pus, plasma, spunk, a ton
of funky shit to squeeze through veins
like toothpaste tube ordinance, it helps
to lurch your waxy skin bag out
the door to booze and find love, sacrifice
your fluid amalgamate on the steaming font
of raw fucking life life aiaiaiaiaiaiaiiiii
alalaalarahstahflahaeeeee fuck
blah fuck yes love blah life oh blah.
Catapult me lord from the vinegar
and beery piss, I've better brains
to batter, bigger mugs to hug, shrugs
and lugs to slug in the gut with what
I'll scream from slung lungs, the
holy word of our immortal savior
ha ha! I slap the lord in the face
with my dick, he turns a cheek,
the meek old felch! I've bigger
fish to fricassée, ask for me today
and you'll find me a graver slave
slavering s'liva aliver than you'd hope,
never yet broke but token, joking, done.
I'm not a dead soul or a lost hope,
why I know, I love and worship
not a crackpot hippie christ, but a girl.
Over and out, I summer sault off
into the catseye nebula spangling shout
scatosphere per iph er aieeeeeeeeeeee!
so far i've quenched my bleeds
bloody bla bla black sheep bleating blah
stumbbling on bloody black stumpts
blam to the slaughter, tall grey blue
drink o water drinking dead air,
tub thump. Thumb throb. Flob a dob
flapping felt jaws of the world,
news of the rag, maws of sparrow
kids, crumby kid gloves, heavy metal
satan snow white doves on tape,
full throttle frontal blah brain rape
blah blah bah ah ha ha aiaiaiai!
Hai ya! Karate carrot top ten yr olds
falling faceflat, bruises, pride, where
have I remembered this crap from?
Churches out of bedroom widows,
well to do lovebirds tripping fol de dol
down Cambridge roads, round round-
abouts, carousing on the carousel
then vamoosing in a vamoosel sec
at the beck of chemical bursts,
loving and busting out, intestinal lust
seeping, bodies are not just blood brain
and vitamin; pus, plasma, spunk, a ton
of funky shit to squeeze through veins
like toothpaste tube ordinance, it helps
to lurch your waxy skin bag out
the door to booze and find love, sacrifice
your fluid amalgamate on the steaming font
of raw fucking life life aiaiaiaiaiaiaiiiii
alalaalarahstahflahaeeeee fuck
blah fuck yes love blah life oh blah.
Catapult me lord from the vinegar
and beery piss, I've better brains
to batter, bigger mugs to hug, shrugs
and lugs to slug in the gut with what
I'll scream from slung lungs, the
holy word of our immortal savior
ha ha! I slap the lord in the face
with my dick, he turns a cheek,
the meek old felch! I've bigger
fish to fricassée, ask for me today
and you'll find me a graver slave
slavering s'liva aliver than you'd hope,
never yet broke but token, joking, done.
I'm not a dead soul or a lost hope,
why I know, I love and worship
not a crackpot hippie christ, but a girl.
Over and out, I summer sault off
into the catseye nebula spangling shout
scatosphere per iph er aieeeeeeeeeeee!
Thursday 23 July 2009
Misery, after Bukowski
I have my possessions.
Books, creasedcovered, clothes stretched,
holey. Some silver coins, nil.
Just a cub scout, paper route, merit
badged, buck toothed, ruck
sacked, dough eyed wandering
child.
Without her I'm a foetus in a furnace.
I choked up at the terminal,
fitted, couldn't take, pitied
myself and loved and shit-
picnicked pathos couldn't care
for her the way she needs,
wish I could go back
and kidnap her or something,
make a beeline for Utah,
live as happy gurning Mormons,
bone on fake Navajo rugs,
drink radioactive well water,
be happy, together, dumb.
Shortest night of the year, dusk to
transatlantic dawn in five dry hours.
Was it a dream my hand
twined hers, my neck
wet with her tears?
Godfucking damn cunt shit
all-American swearwords
just about cover it.
Only last night she drew my portrait
frowning and unsatisfied hand
stuck to thick ol' paper bluring
my features into hot coups des graces,
her Gaugin instinct goes agin, in
the pursuit of a better suit
to align my malign chin in.
I sat all lock-jawed
getting a neckache, a rumble
in the temple, thinking I'd better
not foul her art up
by blinking, just brace
elbows, settle in, stare
at the same page of Ulysses
for over an hour,
trying to crack Jimmy's
perverse bastard code.
I flicked a pupil at the pap-er
once in a demi-heure
trying to spy-her
pretty pic-ture,
she frowned.
I loved her pride,
wish I had her eyes
on me right now.
After drawing she drawled
and nodded on the sofa,
sleepy, counting roller coasters.
She is the one, only one I can
turn on, turn to.
I'm depressurised, alone,
darkened cabin, sleeping yanks,
harassed stewardesses tidy messes
on the plane that jerks cross half the world
and I cry into the dirty mirror
above the vacuumed toilet bowl.
Books, creasedcovered, clothes stretched,
holey. Some silver coins, nil.
Just a cub scout, paper route, merit
badged, buck toothed, ruck
sacked, dough eyed wandering
child.
Without her I'm a foetus in a furnace.
I choked up at the terminal,
fitted, couldn't take, pitied
myself and loved and shit-
picnicked pathos couldn't care
for her the way she needs,
wish I could go back
and kidnap her or something,
make a beeline for Utah,
live as happy gurning Mormons,
bone on fake Navajo rugs,
drink radioactive well water,
be happy, together, dumb.
Shortest night of the year, dusk to
transatlantic dawn in five dry hours.
Was it a dream my hand
twined hers, my neck
wet with her tears?
Godfucking damn cunt shit
all-American swearwords
just about cover it.
Only last night she drew my portrait
frowning and unsatisfied hand
stuck to thick ol' paper bluring
my features into hot coups des graces,
her Gaugin instinct goes agin, in
the pursuit of a better suit
to align my malign chin in.
I sat all lock-jawed
getting a neckache, a rumble
in the temple, thinking I'd better
not foul her art up
by blinking, just brace
elbows, settle in, stare
at the same page of Ulysses
for over an hour,
trying to crack Jimmy's
perverse bastard code.
I flicked a pupil at the pap-er
once in a demi-heure
trying to spy-her
pretty pic-ture,
she frowned.
I loved her pride,
wish I had her eyes
on me right now.
After drawing she drawled
and nodded on the sofa,
sleepy, counting roller coasters.
She is the one, only one I can
turn on, turn to.
I'm depressurised, alone,
darkened cabin, sleeping yanks,
harassed stewardesses tidy messes
on the plane that jerks cross half the world
and I cry into the dirty mirror
above the vacuumed toilet bowl.
Wednesday 22 July 2009
She's sat lopsided, hands crossed,
feet tucked rubbing, jerking in & out
of sleep by me on the wornout sofa.
Chewing air, she's gasping mute
"save-me"s, nearly biting tonguetip,
dropping her head then rearing up
a night mare, horsey squeak teeth
gleaming, wax lips bared, noddy.
Up and down jack in the box twitch
as if she massages her hair this way
to give it that Italiafro beehive pouf,
finally nods way down, forehead
meets hands in lap, back complains,
consciousness wafts in, flies by.
feet tucked rubbing, jerking in & out
of sleep by me on the wornout sofa.
Chewing air, she's gasping mute
"save-me"s, nearly biting tonguetip,
dropping her head then rearing up
a night mare, horsey squeak teeth
gleaming, wax lips bared, noddy.
Up and down jack in the box twitch
as if she massages her hair this way
to give it that Italiafro beehive pouf,
finally nods way down, forehead
meets hands in lap, back complains,
consciousness wafts in, flies by.
Sunday 19 July 2009
Gunshots pop sparsely from the police
training installment down the valley,
bubblewrap punctuations drifting lazy
through afternoon atmosphere, through
conifers for miles up to our height.
Across the shallow trench green
turns blue with distance to the end
of the state, the skyline a Richter
reading on an ordinary day, bumps
of a far ridge, mild green hills.
On the shale path below the tower
Kathleen seduces a yellow butterfly,
leaning over the fence. She comes
back up the path to see the view
from the drystone wall, drooped tops
of pines, grey stalks of branches,
white clusters of far off towns. She
shrieks at dozy bees feet away,
calmly sits back down and stares
at her pale jumping kneecaps
(ivory against granite and earth),
spots a snakeskin and exclaims.
The tower closed at 5, families
still troupe up the path, only
to stare into the empty office.
No sweat, too hot up top any-
how, you can't enjoy the view.
Better to perch on the crags
around its foot,
kick heels,
take notes.
training installment down the valley,
bubblewrap punctuations drifting lazy
through afternoon atmosphere, through
conifers for miles up to our height.
Across the shallow trench green
turns blue with distance to the end
of the state, the skyline a Richter
reading on an ordinary day, bumps
of a far ridge, mild green hills.
On the shale path below the tower
Kathleen seduces a yellow butterfly,
leaning over the fence. She comes
back up the path to see the view
from the drystone wall, drooped tops
of pines, grey stalks of branches,
white clusters of far off towns. She
shrieks at dozy bees feet away,
calmly sits back down and stares
at her pale jumping kneecaps
(ivory against granite and earth),
spots a snakeskin and exclaims.
The tower closed at 5, families
still troupe up the path, only
to stare into the empty office.
No sweat, too hot up top any-
how, you can't enjoy the view.
Better to perch on the crags
around its foot,
kick heels,
take notes.
Wednesday 15 July 2009
Summer day, dappled shade on dog-
eared clover, above the chalk grit
of opulent driveway a hiss, leaves
catch the sun — cabbage white wings
fizzing, or silver tambourine-rim
bells shim — as wind shakes heart-
shaped faces wildly on twig ends.
Lawns iguana-green stretch out
velvet, some-wheres rubbed wrong
to stand out emerald veined
stalks, tougher vibrant grasses'
slick flourescent oils spilt.
Starlings chat brash bush-
nonsenses between worn branches,
cheap chimes tinkle nothing
hanging from sagged porches.
eared clover, above the chalk grit
of opulent driveway a hiss, leaves
catch the sun — cabbage white wings
fizzing, or silver tambourine-rim
bells shim — as wind shakes heart-
shaped faces wildly on twig ends.
Lawns iguana-green stretch out
velvet, some-wheres rubbed wrong
to stand out emerald veined
stalks, tougher vibrant grasses'
slick flourescent oils spilt.
Starlings chat brash bush-
nonsenses between worn branches,
cheap chimes tinkle nothing
hanging from sagged porches.
Jennings Beach
Cross-legged on the beach blanket,
its variegated stripes speckled with sand
and stitches, Kathleen fingers her salty
fringe and brushes wet grains from the cyan
folds of her bathing suit. She reads
The Great Gatsby, holding open the spine
with an unclenched fist, narrows her eyes
in the sunlight, each time the sun
goes in, bats her eyelids and her irises bloom.
On the mat by her, damp towels smelling
of brine, a creme canvas hat, a bag
of crushed up chips, broken sunglasses,
my copy of Ulysses, a flask of cool water.
Her blue-and-white striped dress is like
the collapsed facade of a Brighton beach
changing hut circa 1930. The sun goes in,
shells half buried are bleached faces
peeking from under tiny dune recesses.
Across Jennings Beach, gulls patrol the last
games of squawking kids, harass old guys
with tanned brown hides as they fold chairs.
Moms in bulging dresses head for cars,
collaring their sprogs, wrapping sandwiches.
Their husbands trudge a step behind, empty
cool boxes hung from towel rack arms.
The late afternoon water is blue and gentle,
almost flat but for a little lap, right over
the sound, blue-grey beneath a pastel sky,
to the millimeter line of Long Island
on the horizon, obscured by turquoise
sails of small boats. A gull ruts its yellow
bill inside the heel of Kathleen's sandal,
I startle it and it yells, then clatters off.
A volleyball punts past the white wood
of the lifeguard's seat into the long grass
beyond the wire fence. Along the shore,
shades of umbrellas darken the ground.
The sky is strung with an endless procession
of Magritte's great cumuli, each identical
and dull, candyfloss pillows in flight.
The day wanes, Fairfield's box houses, white
mainsails, the trees, concrete benches, all
darken and burn in the evening light.
Kathleen crouches by the water, its slosh
stains her leg, she straightens up and squints,
paces, jumps at a skimming gull, runs
a hand through the salty tangle of curls
drying on her sunburnt neck. She kneels
again, and stares out at the ebbing sound.
its variegated stripes speckled with sand
and stitches, Kathleen fingers her salty
fringe and brushes wet grains from the cyan
folds of her bathing suit. She reads
The Great Gatsby, holding open the spine
with an unclenched fist, narrows her eyes
in the sunlight, each time the sun
goes in, bats her eyelids and her irises bloom.
On the mat by her, damp towels smelling
of brine, a creme canvas hat, a bag
of crushed up chips, broken sunglasses,
my copy of Ulysses, a flask of cool water.
Her blue-and-white striped dress is like
the collapsed facade of a Brighton beach
changing hut circa 1930. The sun goes in,
shells half buried are bleached faces
peeking from under tiny dune recesses.
Across Jennings Beach, gulls patrol the last
games of squawking kids, harass old guys
with tanned brown hides as they fold chairs.
Moms in bulging dresses head for cars,
collaring their sprogs, wrapping sandwiches.
Their husbands trudge a step behind, empty
cool boxes hung from towel rack arms.
The late afternoon water is blue and gentle,
almost flat but for a little lap, right over
the sound, blue-grey beneath a pastel sky,
to the millimeter line of Long Island
on the horizon, obscured by turquoise
sails of small boats. A gull ruts its yellow
bill inside the heel of Kathleen's sandal,
I startle it and it yells, then clatters off.
A volleyball punts past the white wood
of the lifeguard's seat into the long grass
beyond the wire fence. Along the shore,
shades of umbrellas darken the ground.
The sky is strung with an endless procession
of Magritte's great cumuli, each identical
and dull, candyfloss pillows in flight.
The day wanes, Fairfield's box houses, white
mainsails, the trees, concrete benches, all
darken and burn in the evening light.
Kathleen crouches by the water, its slosh
stains her leg, she straightens up and squints,
paces, jumps at a skimming gull, runs
a hand through the salty tangle of curls
drying on her sunburnt neck. She kneels
again, and stares out at the ebbing sound.
Monday 13 July 2009
Supper, kitchen smells like onion,
Karl streaks mustard down the bun
slides hot round Hebrew National
dog. Kathleen tugs the fridge open,
grabs an avocado, quick stress-ball
squeeze if it's ripe? then knife
in two, spoon scoop out a half-
cup. The pan, sautéing, spits
a bit, she takes three steps to
nudge slices free with spatula.
Now the avocado mushing, spoon
death-dealing, pulped vegetable
brain sweet and mild on stain-
less steel. She crunches a chip
between her teeth, tortilla salt
saliva straight out a crinkled
pack, just masticate it to pap,
cornflour dry and oh so light.
On the side bagels and big
portobello mushrooms in Saran
wrap, buns in bags, waiting for
the pan, the grill, the immolation
then grinding of glittering molars.
Karl streaks mustard down the bun
slides hot round Hebrew National
dog. Kathleen tugs the fridge open,
grabs an avocado, quick stress-ball
squeeze if it's ripe? then knife
in two, spoon scoop out a half-
cup. The pan, sautéing, spits
a bit, she takes three steps to
nudge slices free with spatula.
Now the avocado mushing, spoon
death-dealing, pulped vegetable
brain sweet and mild on stain-
less steel. She crunches a chip
between her teeth, tortilla salt
saliva straight out a crinkled
pack, just masticate it to pap,
cornflour dry and oh so light.
On the side bagels and big
portobello mushrooms in Saran
wrap, buns in bags, waiting for
the pan, the grill, the immolation
then grinding of glittering molars.
Late Sunday
She made an awkward snow angel
on her bedroom floor, limbs splayed
around, back bending from the crick
in her neck. Her face glazed out
of several rooms, a sore-eyes sigh
passed her teeth as she stared
past the ceiling, thinking the future
over and over, worried tonight for
her sister and bitten by that old
Sunday night melancholy gnat.
It was humid, I tried to talk her
up off of the floor, she was calm
and sad, thinking of life and all
its little dislocations. She sat, stood,
blinked, thought, said thanks she
felt better. I watched her curl up
nearly foetal on the bed and rub
her feet one over the other, that's
normal but I knew from her elsewhere
eyes her train was thought to ribbons
like a T-shirt thorned out in the wilds,
by money worries guilt and ardour.
When she tried to smile I loved her.
on her bedroom floor, limbs splayed
around, back bending from the crick
in her neck. Her face glazed out
of several rooms, a sore-eyes sigh
passed her teeth as she stared
past the ceiling, thinking the future
over and over, worried tonight for
her sister and bitten by that old
Sunday night melancholy gnat.
It was humid, I tried to talk her
up off of the floor, she was calm
and sad, thinking of life and all
its little dislocations. She sat, stood,
blinked, thought, said thanks she
felt better. I watched her curl up
nearly foetal on the bed and rub
her feet one over the other, that's
normal but I knew from her elsewhere
eyes her train was thought to ribbons
like a T-shirt thorned out in the wilds,
by money worries guilt and ardour.
When she tried to smile I loved her.
Friday 10 July 2009
Torrington butt-end outskirt street
the kids are out in skirts and shorts
trying to shout down cars from behind
their rickety chipboard lemonade stand.
Running round the lawn, pink and blue
blobs wavering in haze like artistic
notions of children, they yell 25¢
and trampoline, sugar junkie balls
of energy, frisbeeing and jumping on
the dog that moans from its fur,
they drop ice cubes in the jug, by
the pile of empty sherbert straws.
Any middling gopher happens to take
a stroll, even puts a foot out on
the porch, they're gonna get jumped,
force-fed pink unknown, skipped at
with skipping ropes, yo-yo'd into
the next life in all probability.
the kids are out in skirts and shorts
trying to shout down cars from behind
their rickety chipboard lemonade stand.
Running round the lawn, pink and blue
blobs wavering in haze like artistic
notions of children, they yell 25¢
and trampoline, sugar junkie balls
of energy, frisbeeing and jumping on
the dog that moans from its fur,
they drop ice cubes in the jug, by
the pile of empty sherbert straws.
Any middling gopher happens to take
a stroll, even puts a foot out on
the porch, they're gonna get jumped,
force-fed pink unknown, skipped at
with skipping ropes, yo-yo'd into
the next life in all probability.
Cabal
Cloud passes for a moment over
the street, calming the quivers of grass
on vast lawns, relieving the tarmac
of the worst bubbling heat haze.
A soft wind creeps up and tricks around
poolside cries of American boys and girls
that hang, chimelike, with the echo
of a monastery, wind and voices lull
together, the herald of a memory;
closing both eyes on the swings,
whipping like a rocket through the air
with, on all sides, a cabal of voices
like chants, the soft punt of a ball
sailing in the hot air overhead.
But after a twisted minute the cloud
is gone, the road is wobbling up
like a spread parachute, the plastic
mailboxes are microwaves on white sticks,
little Union flags fall limp in the noon
from their cheery poles at the end
of each driveway, among the shrubbery.
The children, whose shouts had risen
as incantations out of an unknown back yard,
are silent. Only chirps of street-noise now;
the flowers broiling, the milk in all the
the fridges cracking sour, the inaudible sigh
of Porches in garages, brand new, devaluing.
Through half-closed eyes, the clouds
crackle like an old time movie, black
with the heat and their great wet weight,
angelic Hindenburg crashing in a flicker
of cine flame through the stark blue sky.
Their passing to the horizon seems to
whiten and buckle the mind's blank corners.
the street, calming the quivers of grass
on vast lawns, relieving the tarmac
of the worst bubbling heat haze.
A soft wind creeps up and tricks around
poolside cries of American boys and girls
that hang, chimelike, with the echo
of a monastery, wind and voices lull
together, the herald of a memory;
closing both eyes on the swings,
whipping like a rocket through the air
with, on all sides, a cabal of voices
like chants, the soft punt of a ball
sailing in the hot air overhead.
But after a twisted minute the cloud
is gone, the road is wobbling up
like a spread parachute, the plastic
mailboxes are microwaves on white sticks,
little Union flags fall limp in the noon
from their cheery poles at the end
of each driveway, among the shrubbery.
The children, whose shouts had risen
as incantations out of an unknown back yard,
are silent. Only chirps of street-noise now;
the flowers broiling, the milk in all the
the fridges cracking sour, the inaudible sigh
of Porches in garages, brand new, devaluing.
Through half-closed eyes, the clouds
crackle like an old time movie, black
with the heat and their great wet weight,
angelic Hindenburg crashing in a flicker
of cine flame through the stark blue sky.
Their passing to the horizon seems to
whiten and buckle the mind's blank corners.
Tuesday 7 July 2009
On the hill above white painted houses
a huge crucifix sicks straight up out
of the trees, sun breaking the clouds
to tease leafy treetops with Zion valley
glow, but the white painted cross is over-
cast, Golgotha darkness haunts its pristine
timber frame. Below, the highway churns
day and night, traced by blind juggernauts
and nine to five hatchbacks. The billboards
are rectangles, blank steel frames warming
in the radiation of the Odeon car park.
The sun is out, every windshield has
its nova glare, white hot. June was wet,
July is going to blister. On the red brick
outside the mall, a smell of burning rubber.
a huge crucifix sicks straight up out
of the trees, sun breaking the clouds
to tease leafy treetops with Zion valley
glow, but the white painted cross is over-
cast, Golgotha darkness haunts its pristine
timber frame. Below, the highway churns
day and night, traced by blind juggernauts
and nine to five hatchbacks. The billboards
are rectangles, blank steel frames warming
in the radiation of the Odeon car park.
The sun is out, every windshield has
its nova glare, white hot. June was wet,
July is going to blister. On the red brick
outside the mall, a smell of burning rubber.
Burr Pond and the sun's sunk almost
behind the conifers, spreads last sepia
across the cobwebbed water, catching
gold on the tangled twigs and drowned insects
scummy on the surface, sending families
goose-pimples to pack them back in the van.
The barbecues are folded, stowed, kids
are wet and scolded, crabby in the fading
evening with lake-chill and sundown.
The nylon towels, Disney emblazoned,
scratch young hides, muss hair, whining
follows the cool-boxes and volleyballs
back beneath the trees. Black teenagers
swear and joke, pull sandy swimshorts out
of butt cracks, and make off. The lakeside
is clearing out, but the last rowdy Latin
family hubbub hovers and swells under
the copse, a smell of charcoal and men's
deoderant lingers near the picnic benches.
The Canada geese amble out of the water,
shake, stretch their necks, and make
a survey of the noisy evening sands.
behind the conifers, spreads last sepia
across the cobwebbed water, catching
gold on the tangled twigs and drowned insects
scummy on the surface, sending families
goose-pimples to pack them back in the van.
The barbecues are folded, stowed, kids
are wet and scolded, crabby in the fading
evening with lake-chill and sundown.
The nylon towels, Disney emblazoned,
scratch young hides, muss hair, whining
follows the cool-boxes and volleyballs
back beneath the trees. Black teenagers
swear and joke, pull sandy swimshorts out
of butt cracks, and make off. The lakeside
is clearing out, but the last rowdy Latin
family hubbub hovers and swells under
the copse, a smell of charcoal and men's
deoderant lingers near the picnic benches.
The Canada geese amble out of the water,
shake, stretch their necks, and make
a survey of the noisy evening sands.
Monday 6 July 2009
Big Crazies
I been down slurring records maybe
broken half a crown, big crane flies
struggling to free their feelers from the
corners of my eyes, or UP in the
polls, screw-crazy, stir-loose, the
big cheese, the man, the, the, the,
Escaped halfway across, skipped
no man's land to land in her lap,
but soon to be hoisted back up from
the conjugal to the merely cold by
the cold arcade claw of money, facts
situation, brass fucking tacks, oh,
honey, somewhere, stow me, I
don't wanna fly back to that godforsaken
North Sea dogger rockall hebrides
moderate to good ROCK flung like some
smeary turd from the heel o' Europe.
I don't want the mania, the dirt,
the lungs flapping like fish, junkbox
soldiers mugging me stealing my souls
one by one to sleep spare change, the
endless terrifying internet giving my
dreams tumours and setting off flash
bulb drive-byes bye bye birdy baby...
Gonna have to stuff all the big crazies
back down my esophagus and chew,
just use those blue eyes to hold me
firm, try not to be such a cry-baby.
broken half a crown, big crane flies
struggling to free their feelers from the
corners of my eyes, or UP in the
polls, screw-crazy, stir-loose, the
big cheese, the man, the, the, the,
Escaped halfway across, skipped
no man's land to land in her lap,
but soon to be hoisted back up from
the conjugal to the merely cold by
the cold arcade claw of money, facts
situation, brass fucking tacks, oh,
honey, somewhere, stow me, I
don't wanna fly back to that godforsaken
North Sea dogger rockall hebrides
moderate to good ROCK flung like some
smeary turd from the heel o' Europe.
I don't want the mania, the dirt,
the lungs flapping like fish, junkbox
soldiers mugging me stealing my souls
one by one to sleep spare change, the
endless terrifying internet giving my
dreams tumours and setting off flash
bulb drive-byes bye bye birdy baby...
Gonna have to stuff all the big crazies
back down my esophagus and chew,
just use those blue eyes to hold me
firm, try not to be such a cry-baby.
Mild grey front lawn, the creak
of peeling shutters, cawing crows, and
the whisper of leaves on a slow
afternoon. Fuschias hang from baskets under
the eave of the porch, pink flamingo
beaks declining from between the leaves,
raw syrup accruing inside for the
hummingbirds to stab at as they hang
before the shaded front windows.
Dull green rocking chairs, a pair, sit in a
wooden monogamy on the decking, right
by the glass, paint and gilt edge of a fine
front door. Kathleen lounges in polka-
dot blue and white on the blanket
she brought out, kicking her heels up
behind the knees lying on her stomach
like movie starlet in the 50s, on the phone
nonchalant to her sister in Philadelphia.
Now she gets up, dreamy, and dawdles
her way to the porch swinging one hand
by her side, paces the boards slowly
like a white shingled catwalk still
chatting and fiddling sometimes with
the flowers, blue dress blue as the pool
bubbling chlorine behind the picket fence.
The lawn is clover all over, dry and thinly
carpeted with shy white flowers, bees
pecking at their stems and buzzing clumsy
quiet down into the loamy underneath,
down where ants battle to the death.
of peeling shutters, cawing crows, and
the whisper of leaves on a slow
afternoon. Fuschias hang from baskets under
the eave of the porch, pink flamingo
beaks declining from between the leaves,
raw syrup accruing inside for the
hummingbirds to stab at as they hang
before the shaded front windows.
Dull green rocking chairs, a pair, sit in a
wooden monogamy on the decking, right
by the glass, paint and gilt edge of a fine
front door. Kathleen lounges in polka-
dot blue and white on the blanket
she brought out, kicking her heels up
behind the knees lying on her stomach
like movie starlet in the 50s, on the phone
nonchalant to her sister in Philadelphia.
Now she gets up, dreamy, and dawdles
her way to the porch swinging one hand
by her side, paces the boards slowly
like a white shingled catwalk still
chatting and fiddling sometimes with
the flowers, blue dress blue as the pool
bubbling chlorine behind the picket fence.
The lawn is clover all over, dry and thinly
carpeted with shy white flowers, bees
pecking at their stems and buzzing clumsy
quiet down into the loamy underneath,
down where ants battle to the death.
Friday 3 July 2009
Quiet afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Telesco
potter round the kitchen so mousey
not-even-a-peep you could sleep and not
dream. Mrs. T stands, busy tidy pursed
lips, thin specs and amber ear rings,
at the counter folding Mr.'s boxers,
goofs with him while he's straining
his eyes at soldering that he's more pairs
than she has, and in so many pretty
colours. He's botching resistors onto a
Radio Shack circuit board, insisting
it's the cheapest crap to try to build
computers on, but what the hell it must
be done this Sunday or bust, Google
just gaffer-taped consoles and fused 'em
and they had millions to blow. He's
trying to build the world-computer,
hardwiring himself into Gaia, Frank-
ensteining hunched over grey-browed
dense and wise, snipping red wires, hot
iron in hand. Mrs. T has another kind
of monster brewing, almost cackling
gleeful as she heaves beef sides
into the big crock pot, farting the last
BBQ sauce from the upturned bottle
over the red hunks, maniacal smile
as she eyes the concoction, "I shoulda
been a butcher." No but really,
they speak all this only hushed,
getting on slowly with necessary tasks
as it's Independence Day tomorrow.
Kathleen comes in, plops her purse
down on the counter, twitches her skirt.
The flowers at the hem sway like
children's faces on a fairground ride.
potter round the kitchen so mousey
not-even-a-peep you could sleep and not
dream. Mrs. T stands, busy tidy pursed
lips, thin specs and amber ear rings,
at the counter folding Mr.'s boxers,
goofs with him while he's straining
his eyes at soldering that he's more pairs
than she has, and in so many pretty
colours. He's botching resistors onto a
Radio Shack circuit board, insisting
it's the cheapest crap to try to build
computers on, but what the hell it must
be done this Sunday or bust, Google
just gaffer-taped consoles and fused 'em
and they had millions to blow. He's
trying to build the world-computer,
hardwiring himself into Gaia, Frank-
ensteining hunched over grey-browed
dense and wise, snipping red wires, hot
iron in hand. Mrs. T has another kind
of monster brewing, almost cackling
gleeful as she heaves beef sides
into the big crock pot, farting the last
BBQ sauce from the upturned bottle
over the red hunks, maniacal smile
as she eyes the concoction, "I shoulda
been a butcher." No but really,
they speak all this only hushed,
getting on slowly with necessary tasks
as it's Independence Day tomorrow.
Kathleen comes in, plops her purse
down on the counter, twitches her skirt.
The flowers at the hem sway like
children's faces on a fairground ride.
UConn campus 1st floor hallway
shining with tube light white
on 100 metres checkerboard lino
dull cream color, occasional square
dotted pastrami pink or seaweed
green. Forever walls house green
office door frames, kinks down
a perfect vanilla spine, each faculty
a new vertebrae with novelty
coffee mugs in place of cartilage,
motivationals and fliers plastered
to the doors peeling so slightly
like day old sunburn. The dull
midday ripples the far tiles from
a big Mondrian criss-cross glass
wall down the corridor's end.
Every door has its number
but the last is steel barred and
badged EXIT lightbulb-retina-
afterimage red, in the night
this will be the only scenery.
Pastoral; Vivaldi "Spring", steady
light of fire escape, sheepish
quiet lowing of security camera
servos as it turns its head,
some peanut sucking joe has
his hand on the joystick tonight.
Ha. By day the flora fauna just
consist of the water fountain's
sparse inexplicable bellowing fan,
and the goatish melodrama of
some lecturer banging on about
the American War of Independence.
shining with tube light white
on 100 metres checkerboard lino
dull cream color, occasional square
dotted pastrami pink or seaweed
green. Forever walls house green
office door frames, kinks down
a perfect vanilla spine, each faculty
a new vertebrae with novelty
coffee mugs in place of cartilage,
motivationals and fliers plastered
to the doors peeling so slightly
like day old sunburn. The dull
midday ripples the far tiles from
a big Mondrian criss-cross glass
wall down the corridor's end.
Every door has its number
but the last is steel barred and
badged EXIT lightbulb-retina-
afterimage red, in the night
this will be the only scenery.
Pastoral; Vivaldi "Spring", steady
light of fire escape, sheepish
quiet lowing of security camera
servos as it turns its head,
some peanut sucking joe has
his hand on the joystick tonight.
Ha. By day the flora fauna just
consist of the water fountain's
sparse inexplicable bellowing fan,
and the goatish melodrama of
some lecturer banging on about
the American War of Independence.
Breakfast Menu
McDonalds, American car park near
the mall, cast iron chairs with mint
color plastic arse dimples, row on
row beneath stuck-on marbled table
tops. Wrappings, still greasy undone
yellow and white like world's worst
sunflower, stare up at the pebble dash
polystyrene ceiling tiles' loose corners.
Texan family round soda fountain
like piglets, little ruddy screwed
faces, shaved-head son wears Stone
Cold Steve Austin skull T-shirt, fat
mom hippie tie-die, who can judge?
They are thirsty and loud nice enough.
Old timer grumbles about taxes in
his truck driver cap pushed back,
says hi to foxy septuagenarians
cruising by his table in their best
thurs am McD make-up and blouses.
Midget Latina server just arrived
and hangs in front, arms inside
her ultramarine work shirt for
warmth. Fat, friendly, hoop-eared
girl bungs burger-crates in the big
trash can by the two swing doors.
Out through the allround huge fish
tank window panes, blank school
photo grey light of a grey day
over white & grey Chevrolets, Buick
pops quick out the drive-thru, food
falling out the corners of its driver's
lips. On the hill, the traffic lights tick
over for the hundredth time today.
the mall, cast iron chairs with mint
color plastic arse dimples, row on
row beneath stuck-on marbled table
tops. Wrappings, still greasy undone
yellow and white like world's worst
sunflower, stare up at the pebble dash
polystyrene ceiling tiles' loose corners.
Texan family round soda fountain
like piglets, little ruddy screwed
faces, shaved-head son wears Stone
Cold Steve Austin skull T-shirt, fat
mom hippie tie-die, who can judge?
They are thirsty and loud nice enough.
Old timer grumbles about taxes in
his truck driver cap pushed back,
says hi to foxy septuagenarians
cruising by his table in their best
thurs am McD make-up and blouses.
Midget Latina server just arrived
and hangs in front, arms inside
her ultramarine work shirt for
warmth. Fat, friendly, hoop-eared
girl bungs burger-crates in the big
trash can by the two swing doors.
Out through the allround huge fish
tank window panes, blank school
photo grey light of a grey day
over white & grey Chevrolets, Buick
pops quick out the drive-thru, food
falling out the corners of its driver's
lips. On the hill, the traffic lights tick
over for the hundredth time today.
Evening lamp lit living room,
plain oval coffee table the white
of shingled New England houses
with coasters again floral, remote
diagonal, left last night that
way when the TV blinked
off. On the white table, guide
book to Italian art gallery,
photo albums big and square
full of thanksgiving and
graduation caps and smiles,
no ringmarks. Hay coloured
rug like giant welcome mat.
Sofas slouch brown thick
and warm, slight wool scratch.
TV, like rug, sofas and
albums, big and square.
Trapezoid lampshade leafy
brown casts that tungsten
filament vanilla glow on
the copper coloured lampstand,
printed out pages of chords,
and Kathleen strumming Bon
Iver, frowning and stopping
then speeding on like a stuck
record. She's wrapped in green
hoodie, concentrated, three
chords, the song sings from
the wood box and she goes,
but stumbles on the F.
Her feet are half peeked
blush pink out of her jeans
and she yawns plucking
at her lids to get a speck,
too tired from the insurance
place, poor baby. Hiccups
up ice cream and caesar
salad, strums on again.
plain oval coffee table the white
of shingled New England houses
with coasters again floral, remote
diagonal, left last night that
way when the TV blinked
off. On the white table, guide
book to Italian art gallery,
photo albums big and square
full of thanksgiving and
graduation caps and smiles,
no ringmarks. Hay coloured
rug like giant welcome mat.
Sofas slouch brown thick
and warm, slight wool scratch.
TV, like rug, sofas and
albums, big and square.
Trapezoid lampshade leafy
brown casts that tungsten
filament vanilla glow on
the copper coloured lampstand,
printed out pages of chords,
and Kathleen strumming Bon
Iver, frowning and stopping
then speeding on like a stuck
record. She's wrapped in green
hoodie, concentrated, three
chords, the song sings from
the wood box and she goes,
but stumbles on the F.
Her feet are half peeked
blush pink out of her jeans
and she yawns plucking
at her lids to get a speck,
too tired from the insurance
place, poor baby. Hiccups
up ice cream and caesar
salad, strums on again.
Kitchen slash living room New
England, organic cereal box idle
on the counter of granite color
imitation, creamy vanilla sink
that can't stand boiling water, a
little row of soap & liquids handy
by extendable tap and plastic tumbler.
Petrol station glass left in sink,
with a sip of stale tap-drip hung
in the goggle bottom. Dish cloth
crumpled green drying like brand
new modern sculpture, neighbor
to white bowl symmetrical each way
but for cold potato fry fat in the
coin-size concave dimple. Cupboards
stolid brown rectangular full up
mugs plates bags champagne flutes,
all sealed up fresh dusted waiting,
dullest utility terracotta army. Dust
bunnies bustle back behind in
crevasses, where the screws and glue
hold the whole deal up there.
England, organic cereal box idle
on the counter of granite color
imitation, creamy vanilla sink
that can't stand boiling water, a
little row of soap & liquids handy
by extendable tap and plastic tumbler.
Petrol station glass left in sink,
with a sip of stale tap-drip hung
in the goggle bottom. Dish cloth
crumpled green drying like brand
new modern sculpture, neighbor
to white bowl symmetrical each way
but for cold potato fry fat in the
coin-size concave dimple. Cupboards
stolid brown rectangular full up
mugs plates bags champagne flutes,
all sealed up fresh dusted waiting,
dullest utility terracotta army. Dust
bunnies bustle back behind in
crevasses, where the screws and glue
hold the whole deal up there.
Tuesday 30 June 2009
She lounges in huge brown corded
armchair, blanket with woven
floral fresco draped over the back
cushion, great padded arms too
far apart for one sitter, it's a
short chaise longue. She's half
curled up, knees drawn in to make
perpendicular with her rise and falling
belly. Ribs, spare, breastbone and
collar make neat cage that seems
to urge forward from the deep
chair every inward breath. Her
elbows oppose like an Egyptian or
a strange demoisselle, framing
the contact lines and soft creases
of her breasts. Over the scaffold
runs the light membrane of fabric
of her top in yellow and tiny dots,
still bleached like her lightening
hair. Her shoulders are embarrassed
red, caught red, fair and baked
by the slow afternoon dropping rays.
Her thick hair bunches against
the armchair cover, catches in her
thin black eyebrows, shadows those
dark Italian lids. Her lips and nose
tip are pert and flushed, oval
of white teeth in pink buds, below
her shiny suntanned jut. Her
white legs are pale warm branches
grown parallel, shins inbending
infintessimally like first shoots
straining. Her shadow-cast feet
are two veined vivid fruit
hanging in the heat of the lamp,
a bunch of fives catches enough
of the glow to make her toes
into some ripe painted mural, each
one bent and tucked just as her
hands, arms, belly button. Her
butt peeks out of her short
blue shorts, the pocket is dark
with the same shade that's over
her hand, and is unbuttoned.
Her cheek, the colour of an old
playing card, the softest peach,
runs up to her modest dipped
eyelashes; two still recesses
holding bulbs that dry the contact
lenses with rapid eye movement
as she wheezes like a tiny
cat, dozing softly early evening.
armchair, blanket with woven
floral fresco draped over the back
cushion, great padded arms too
far apart for one sitter, it's a
short chaise longue. She's half
curled up, knees drawn in to make
perpendicular with her rise and falling
belly. Ribs, spare, breastbone and
collar make neat cage that seems
to urge forward from the deep
chair every inward breath. Her
elbows oppose like an Egyptian or
a strange demoisselle, framing
the contact lines and soft creases
of her breasts. Over the scaffold
runs the light membrane of fabric
of her top in yellow and tiny dots,
still bleached like her lightening
hair. Her shoulders are embarrassed
red, caught red, fair and baked
by the slow afternoon dropping rays.
Her thick hair bunches against
the armchair cover, catches in her
thin black eyebrows, shadows those
dark Italian lids. Her lips and nose
tip are pert and flushed, oval
of white teeth in pink buds, below
her shiny suntanned jut. Her
white legs are pale warm branches
grown parallel, shins inbending
infintessimally like first shoots
straining. Her shadow-cast feet
are two veined vivid fruit
hanging in the heat of the lamp,
a bunch of fives catches enough
of the glow to make her toes
into some ripe painted mural, each
one bent and tucked just as her
hands, arms, belly button. Her
butt peeks out of her short
blue shorts, the pocket is dark
with the same shade that's over
her hand, and is unbuttoned.
Her cheek, the colour of an old
playing card, the softest peach,
runs up to her modest dipped
eyelashes; two still recesses
holding bulbs that dry the contact
lenses with rapid eye movement
as she wheezes like a tiny
cat, dozing softly early evening.
Tuesday 23 June 2009
N Y C
Washington Square Park the old guard
are kazooing out of the woodwork,
sidestepping, tambourine in hand,
the gaps of gum disease and cool
to gather like some lame-ass carnivà le.
These juvenile geriatric wannabe Bart
Simpsons shout and spit roach butts,
sing First Cut is the Deepest, rapture
off this decade's mortal coil back to
Woodstock, poor old disenfranchised
hippies. They make Ob La Di sound
like the Anthem for the Doomed
Youth, they grunt and shake,
jazz hands in hands with acid
flash backs, children of the garden.
The rain comes, they shelter under
the monument and sing through blunt
yellow teeth and watch the fountain.
Below their tattered sneakers, rumbling
of the subway, pirate dance troupes
jump on and off steel carriages
and tumble, spin, hustle change, beat
box, swap shoes. In the corner,
an old black man shakes his walkman
like a maraca and croaks along,
eyes shut. Uptown lady gets caught
in the closing doors, head lopped
off laughing by the wall as the L
speeds out of the station. I hold
my hot hot dog between my teeth
to warm 'em. I sleep on my
girl's shoulder, she feel my tongue
rattle on down the train tracks.
Later, Broadway's cloaked in mist
that condenses on neon Coca-cola,
golden arches, Hellow Dolley, M. &
Ms. M&M copulating above a crowd
of buck-toothed English tour-bus tools
holding Guggenheim mugs. I dance
at the periphery to Beyoncé piping
out of the Times Sq merch-marts,
like some MTV clown, ticket tout
shouts "Do it, white boy", I laugh
across the black and white stripes,
the white man says walk, don't
bump your head on our yellow
traffic lights. I turn to look
back down the street and see
la femme jolie qui sort with me
lit up like a saint in LCD,
red, blue, yellow, fauve aphrodite.
She takes my arm and we go
NoLIta TriBeCa SoHo NoHo,
glowing dough ambrosia, serenaded,
fed, spun, flipped, bloated, wind-
tossed, gripped in the concrete arms
of this mad grandfather, left
to drift in the rock pools of ancient
Manhattan. Wild trolley bums
rattle past in baseball caps on cell
phones, vendors pack up thinking
of their homes, and we head for
the sound of saxophones. Greenwich
Village is all sex shops, blue notes.
Stray jazz men want your love,
Toys in Babeland want your lust,
it's dizzying and flamboyant, glaring
street lights blur with rain as we
stumble down the steps into the club.
When all your paper money's gone
the city churns on, orgiastic and
brave. By tomorrow all the scraps
of litter, the tramps under the bridge
by the river, will have been inhaled
and blown off down some avenue
to wilt and shiver in the morning
light. For now, we get our coats,
leave a tip, walk out, and offer up
our fragile bodies to the night.
are kazooing out of the woodwork,
sidestepping, tambourine in hand,
the gaps of gum disease and cool
to gather like some lame-ass carnivà le.
These juvenile geriatric wannabe Bart
Simpsons shout and spit roach butts,
sing First Cut is the Deepest, rapture
off this decade's mortal coil back to
Woodstock, poor old disenfranchised
hippies. They make Ob La Di sound
like the Anthem for the Doomed
Youth, they grunt and shake,
jazz hands in hands with acid
flash backs, children of the garden.
The rain comes, they shelter under
the monument and sing through blunt
yellow teeth and watch the fountain.
Below their tattered sneakers, rumbling
of the subway, pirate dance troupes
jump on and off steel carriages
and tumble, spin, hustle change, beat
box, swap shoes. In the corner,
an old black man shakes his walkman
like a maraca and croaks along,
eyes shut. Uptown lady gets caught
in the closing doors, head lopped
off laughing by the wall as the L
speeds out of the station. I hold
my hot hot dog between my teeth
to warm 'em. I sleep on my
girl's shoulder, she feel my tongue
rattle on down the train tracks.
Later, Broadway's cloaked in mist
that condenses on neon Coca-cola,
golden arches, Hellow Dolley, M. &
Ms. M&M copulating above a crowd
of buck-toothed English tour-bus tools
holding Guggenheim mugs. I dance
at the periphery to Beyoncé piping
out of the Times Sq merch-marts,
like some MTV clown, ticket tout
shouts "Do it, white boy", I laugh
across the black and white stripes,
the white man says walk, don't
bump your head on our yellow
traffic lights. I turn to look
back down the street and see
la femme jolie qui sort with me
lit up like a saint in LCD,
red, blue, yellow, fauve aphrodite.
She takes my arm and we go
NoLIta TriBeCa SoHo NoHo,
glowing dough ambrosia, serenaded,
fed, spun, flipped, bloated, wind-
tossed, gripped in the concrete arms
of this mad grandfather, left
to drift in the rock pools of ancient
Manhattan. Wild trolley bums
rattle past in baseball caps on cell
phones, vendors pack up thinking
of their homes, and we head for
the sound of saxophones. Greenwich
Village is all sex shops, blue notes.
Stray jazz men want your love,
Toys in Babeland want your lust,
it's dizzying and flamboyant, glaring
street lights blur with rain as we
stumble down the steps into the club.
When all your paper money's gone
the city churns on, orgiastic and
brave. By tomorrow all the scraps
of litter, the tramps under the bridge
by the river, will have been inhaled
and blown off down some avenue
to wilt and shiver in the morning
light. For now, we get our coats,
leave a tip, walk out, and offer up
our fragile bodies to the night.
Tuesday 16 June 2009
Tremors
Any feather, oiled and sprung, can be
smoothed over, its tensile spine lulled,
unwound by a touch. I stuttered darkly
for months, coiled and tired in my bones,
and fed on regurgitated love-lung.
No more — you, waiting for hours
in the airport lobby, were the light
that struck my unwrung nerves;
cabin pressurised and frayed all over
I was hand-held and led across
the city. That night we clung, lumps
trembling to sleep, sung off by cats
fornicating on the sly. I let out a
rib-deep whale sigh I'd been holding
since the winter. You remade my rag
and tatter skull, stitched and whistled,
needle between your teeth, and stood
me up again, shook the splinters from
my skin, patched me up where I
was thin. You can just sleep, mouth
gulping like a frightened child's, your
head in my lap, until the TV startles
you awake again. This shiver; pop
of a flash bulb in my iris, baby blue;
vivid thread strung out from me to you;
shudder of my diaphragm puppeteering
a tremor to my fingertips; my stars
racing your stripes and rolling, spastic
with laughter, to the floor —fits and
taut translations never turn a hair
to time. There's no hole you can't coax
me out of, sleeping beauty, you're mine.
smoothed over, its tensile spine lulled,
unwound by a touch. I stuttered darkly
for months, coiled and tired in my bones,
and fed on regurgitated love-lung.
No more — you, waiting for hours
in the airport lobby, were the light
that struck my unwrung nerves;
cabin pressurised and frayed all over
I was hand-held and led across
the city. That night we clung, lumps
trembling to sleep, sung off by cats
fornicating on the sly. I let out a
rib-deep whale sigh I'd been holding
since the winter. You remade my rag
and tatter skull, stitched and whistled,
needle between your teeth, and stood
me up again, shook the splinters from
my skin, patched me up where I
was thin. You can just sleep, mouth
gulping like a frightened child's, your
head in my lap, until the TV startles
you awake again. This shiver; pop
of a flash bulb in my iris, baby blue;
vivid thread strung out from me to you;
shudder of my diaphragm puppeteering
a tremor to my fingertips; my stars
racing your stripes and rolling, spastic
with laughter, to the floor —fits and
taut translations never turn a hair
to time. There's no hole you can't coax
me out of, sleeping beauty, you're mine.
Monday 8 June 2009
50th St.
50th Street the stars are out.
At home, they hawk you drugs
over the tube, arthritis cures, prozac
and viagra, may cause miscarriage,
cancer, impotence, consult your
doctor. Between commercial breaks,
America may sing its song.
What JFK say? America is a
chorus line? On Broadway, Liza
Minnelli heaves her chalky train
and stamps, whale-bark, croak,
paunch flung out to meet her
public, before the parade passes by.
On CNN, Tiananmen Square 20
years on, they blocked the news
cameras with undercover police
umbrellas, on CNBC exposé
of drug companies diluting chemo
doses, many murdered, the FBI
wept. The humanity. 50th Street
it's all song and dance, the glitz
of chemical death won't blunt
tits ties teeth tans tunes tap shoes.
The veterans of decades on the stage
tear up and talk of overwhelming
joy, just pray we're not in for
a revival. They cry and gnash
their teeth so you don't have to,
oh boy. All America is a spasm,
drug-addled divas, artistes that
suck their own penis envy, ain't
we pretty here in the big city?
A spasm centuries wide, paid
up with medication, insurance,
sponsorship, self-love, insanity.
I might laugh, cry, scream
bloody murder, please somebody,
quickly, pass me a mic,
or palm me a placebo.
At home, they hawk you drugs
over the tube, arthritis cures, prozac
and viagra, may cause miscarriage,
cancer, impotence, consult your
doctor. Between commercial breaks,
America may sing its song.
What JFK say? America is a
chorus line? On Broadway, Liza
Minnelli heaves her chalky train
and stamps, whale-bark, croak,
paunch flung out to meet her
public, before the parade passes by.
On CNN, Tiananmen Square 20
years on, they blocked the news
cameras with undercover police
umbrellas, on CNBC exposé
of drug companies diluting chemo
doses, many murdered, the FBI
wept. The humanity. 50th Street
it's all song and dance, the glitz
of chemical death won't blunt
tits ties teeth tans tunes tap shoes.
The veterans of decades on the stage
tear up and talk of overwhelming
joy, just pray we're not in for
a revival. They cry and gnash
their teeth so you don't have to,
oh boy. All America is a spasm,
drug-addled divas, artistes that
suck their own penis envy, ain't
we pretty here in the big city?
A spasm centuries wide, paid
up with medication, insurance,
sponsorship, self-love, insanity.
I might laugh, cry, scream
bloody murder, please somebody,
quickly, pass me a mic,
or palm me a placebo.
Chicken Soup for the Soul
At a Formica chair and table
I'm a scratchy will-o'-the-wisp
with a stomach turning over
pulped Mc Do dough, egg
shat by some light-starved peck,
sausage stringy like a fish cake,
fermented grease ragging
on my pancreas. In front
of me a metre wide mustachioed
cowboy flicks through a mag,
you can see his neck fat grip
each bovine sway his body makes.
In this nowhere back lot,
a book shop should be my best bet
(what else, Toys R Us or a picnic
on the pavement?) but even here
there's a fucking Starbucks, whales
and business types thumb-flick
self-help, Twilight, Stephen King,
and slurp hot slew to brew
with their homely bile, heave
their ham and weep in the Real-Life,
Business or Christian Fiction aisle.
It's not Kafka they're after, it's
chicken soup, live the dream, a deal
whereby they're gladly duped;
as long as there's calories
and Catholic values pumping through
their arteries the nation-trolley
keeps on pushing. The publishers
know just the kind of comfort,
pseudo-science, bigotry and fear
that keeps the shelf-stock moving.
New Non-Fiction is stacked with
shameless mongering, cellulite moslems
are coming for us, what we need's
a ream of women hacks divulging
their period anecdotes and turning
our lives around for us with tears
and hugs and sickly homilies.
In American bookshops they give
you a shopping basket at the door,
and ask "Is there anything else?"
at the counter. Feeling queasy,
I get a Mountain Dew and a bun,
swing through the doors and take
a stroll beneath the billboards.
I'm a scratchy will-o'-the-wisp
with a stomach turning over
pulped Mc Do dough, egg
shat by some light-starved peck,
sausage stringy like a fish cake,
fermented grease ragging
on my pancreas. In front
of me a metre wide mustachioed
cowboy flicks through a mag,
you can see his neck fat grip
each bovine sway his body makes.
In this nowhere back lot,
a book shop should be my best bet
(what else, Toys R Us or a picnic
on the pavement?) but even here
there's a fucking Starbucks, whales
and business types thumb-flick
self-help, Twilight, Stephen King,
and slurp hot slew to brew
with their homely bile, heave
their ham and weep in the Real-Life,
Business or Christian Fiction aisle.
It's not Kafka they're after, it's
chicken soup, live the dream, a deal
whereby they're gladly duped;
as long as there's calories
and Catholic values pumping through
their arteries the nation-trolley
keeps on pushing. The publishers
know just the kind of comfort,
pseudo-science, bigotry and fear
that keeps the shelf-stock moving.
New Non-Fiction is stacked with
shameless mongering, cellulite moslems
are coming for us, what we need's
a ream of women hacks divulging
their period anecdotes and turning
our lives around for us with tears
and hugs and sickly homilies.
In American bookshops they give
you a shopping basket at the door,
and ask "Is there anything else?"
at the counter. Feeling queasy,
I get a Mountain Dew and a bun,
swing through the doors and take
a stroll beneath the billboards.
Drunk Love Poem
Coffee dripping Spanish TV lull,
epic swells of violins and violence
but under covers, soft and warm.
Our house is lit with amber
lamps, our suds are soaked.
We scattered over motel
floors and broke the seal, pushed
together and sighed back
under the billow of heaven's roof.
epic swells of violins and violence
but under covers, soft and warm.
Our house is lit with amber
lamps, our suds are soaked.
We scattered over motel
floors and broke the seal, pushed
together and sighed back
under the billow of heaven's roof.
Saturday 16 May 2009
The Last Night
Tonight New Cross is in remission,
curled up together in a hole, full
of gin and joint and love to keep
us going on. There are those wet
nights like these, you just drop
the needle in the track, take that
swig, neck it, smoke your mind out
to a different place, and think more
about a girl, waiting in another
hollow like this. Looking out into
the night, you're going to come down
in a jet, clouded over, pale, but
stronger than glass or guitar strings,
to run and not fall down, to sweep
up anything you had left, and when
its time, just to fall down with her.
curled up together in a hole, full
of gin and joint and love to keep
us going on. There are those wet
nights like these, you just drop
the needle in the track, take that
swig, neck it, smoke your mind out
to a different place, and think more
about a girl, waiting in another
hollow like this. Looking out into
the night, you're going to come down
in a jet, clouded over, pale, but
stronger than glass or guitar strings,
to run and not fall down, to sweep
up anything you had left, and when
its time, just to fall down with her.
Thursday 14 May 2009
Downpour
Outside the storm
hisses at my concrete and sifts
the grass-water from the gutter
juice, the night closes its eyes
and feels each drop slide down.
The storm has come for me,
the butter fingered branches
drop every cup.
The slush is foaming at the bank.
I lick caught air and turn
to you ready to sling shot
off this grey stone, through sky,
to blue, and the green lip
of your vast continent.
hisses at my concrete and sifts
the grass-water from the gutter
juice, the night closes its eyes
and feels each drop slide down.
The storm has come for me,
the butter fingered branches
drop every cup.
The slush is foaming at the bank.
I lick caught air and turn
to you ready to sling shot
off this grey stone, through sky,
to blue, and the green lip
of your vast continent.
Wednesday 13 May 2009
Water Works
Beyond my street's de
capitated trees
victorian semis peter out
to victorian sewers.
There's the colonnade,
the crap flats,
then old pipes wrenched out
of the ground
by greasy fingers in the rain,
slipped, skipped,
plastic put back in again.
I sip a glass,
which will slip through me to
stream, jaundiced,
from pipes, mine to theirs,
old or new,
the piss is still the same.
capitated trees
victorian semis peter out
to victorian sewers.
There's the colonnade,
the crap flats,
then old pipes wrenched out
of the ground
by greasy fingers in the rain,
slipped, skipped,
plastic put back in again.
I sip a glass,
which will slip through me to
stream, jaundiced,
from pipes, mine to theirs,
old or new,
the piss is still the same.
Friday 8 May 2009
Flood
The house is flooded,
and all you can do
is hum a childhood
song, tongue a half-
hearted half tone now
and again, let one sign
escape your bible mouth.
The place is ruined, wet
through, and wine glass
splashes ring silver bells
every time they tumble
to the floor. Your fine
distractions are soused
and only stare stupidly
as you run a finger
along their gilt edges,
or turn their sodden
pages. They are mourning
for this washed up hour,
when the clocks spit
apologies and bow, then
realise their rust, and
stammer into silence.
and all you can do
is hum a childhood
song, tongue a half-
hearted half tone now
and again, let one sign
escape your bible mouth.
The place is ruined, wet
through, and wine glass
splashes ring silver bells
every time they tumble
to the floor. Your fine
distractions are soused
and only stare stupidly
as you run a finger
along their gilt edges,
or turn their sodden
pages. They are mourning
for this washed up hour,
when the clocks spit
apologies and bow, then
realise their rust, and
stammer into silence.
Wednesday 6 May 2009
Stairs
There's people on my stairs, fucking.
Call me square, but isn't that one
thing done behind curtains, doors,
in "private"? Not between floors,
wearing out the carpet, bare-arsed,
moaning, like a couple cripples fell
on a tricky step, and got mixed up.
I must be out, they think, asleep,
absent or indisposed, insignificant
as far as late night shag consideration
goes. Well fuck it, its my house too.
I step out my room, grin; "I thought
this was a staircase, not one of those
sex shows." They jump, stutter, and
blushing, scrabble for their clothes.
Call me square, but isn't that one
thing done behind curtains, doors,
in "private"? Not between floors,
wearing out the carpet, bare-arsed,
moaning, like a couple cripples fell
on a tricky step, and got mixed up.
I must be out, they think, asleep,
absent or indisposed, insignificant
as far as late night shag consideration
goes. Well fuck it, its my house too.
I step out my room, grin; "I thought
this was a staircase, not one of those
sex shows." They jump, stutter, and
blushing, scrabble for their clothes.
Dribble
I could be a priest,
or a cockerel, a joke,
a clumsy mime. Only
sleep-walking or urgent
phone calls disturb each
night time. I'd paint
if I had the hands,
lay bricks for bridges, or
gamble with the peasants.
If I walked the street,
let one laugh slip, I
would have to hear the eye
bark back, and blink.
I've broken promises, tied
knots, heard voices, stepped
on cracks. I'm meant to
understand the words
that dribble from these lips.
or a cockerel, a joke,
a clumsy mime. Only
sleep-walking or urgent
phone calls disturb each
night time. I'd paint
if I had the hands,
lay bricks for bridges, or
gamble with the peasants.
If I walked the street,
let one laugh slip, I
would have to hear the eye
bark back, and blink.
I've broken promises, tied
knots, heard voices, stepped
on cracks. I'm meant to
understand the words
that dribble from these lips.
Sunday 26 April 2009
Daydream V
I hope to run, to burn
this new skin on, wrap
it in wind, tan it in
the sun, and when it's
done, wash it off
like so much sweat.
While the afternoon
wears on, I hope to
lie, spread like a cat
across the flagstones,
to let my hunger
smile and stretch,
and cough up little
bones. I hope to slice
a stripe of lemon rind
from the sky, let it
sour my teeth, yellow
my pages, and hold
it up at night, citrus
moon. I hope to peel
and crackle, dead bugs
fried onto my skin,
and beneath lobster-
red, feel juices run.
this new skin on, wrap
it in wind, tan it in
the sun, and when it's
done, wash it off
like so much sweat.
While the afternoon
wears on, I hope to
lie, spread like a cat
across the flagstones,
to let my hunger
smile and stretch,
and cough up little
bones. I hope to slice
a stripe of lemon rind
from the sky, let it
sour my teeth, yellow
my pages, and hold
it up at night, citrus
moon. I hope to peel
and crackle, dead bugs
fried onto my skin,
and beneath lobster-
red, feel juices run.
Dry Rot
Maybe we twisted some tendon wrong
in a hole back there, tangled hair
in the thorns and ripped a wig-full.
Maybe we saw the news, said it was
terrible, or stared into the earth
of our allotments, and dug spades in,
careful not to puncture anything
too fragile. Maybe we saw an eye-full,
cut our lip on the lip of the cup, dripped
a little drop of red onto the wood.
Maybe our laughter tumbled, spat
over the brim into a jumble of leopard
spots, brambles, lamb's brains, card
games, stupid gambles, signs, stigmata.
Maybe the rules were not clear-cut.
Maybe our cars were found in ditches,
stripped for parts, or maybe we died
of bad consciences, or weak hearts.
Maybe we asked too much, shouted curses
at our benefactors, threw childish glances
and split, spent our money, then threw
a fit, spilling guts, brains, debris, loose
change, saliva, semen, plasma, bile,
all into an assorted sack of dross.
Or maybe we learnt who was boss,
choked on cough drops, tightened up
our ties, top-notch, and learnt never
to be surprised.
Maybe, eventually,
we all crumbled, succumbed to dry rot.
in a hole back there, tangled hair
in the thorns and ripped a wig-full.
Maybe we saw the news, said it was
terrible, or stared into the earth
of our allotments, and dug spades in,
careful not to puncture anything
too fragile. Maybe we saw an eye-full,
cut our lip on the lip of the cup, dripped
a little drop of red onto the wood.
Maybe our laughter tumbled, spat
over the brim into a jumble of leopard
spots, brambles, lamb's brains, card
games, stupid gambles, signs, stigmata.
Maybe the rules were not clear-cut.
Maybe our cars were found in ditches,
stripped for parts, or maybe we died
of bad consciences, or weak hearts.
Maybe we asked too much, shouted curses
at our benefactors, threw childish glances
and split, spent our money, then threw
a fit, spilling guts, brains, debris, loose
change, saliva, semen, plasma, bile,
all into an assorted sack of dross.
Or maybe we learnt who was boss,
choked on cough drops, tightened up
our ties, top-notch, and learnt never
to be surprised.
Maybe, eventually,
we all crumbled, succumbed to dry rot.
Wednesday 22 April 2009
Flags
We wear these colours as flags
that declare the sun, ragging
as the breeze plies our skin.
The heat rises, colours deepen
slowly with our odour. Our feet
flash across concrete. All around,
the sounds of sirens and jangling
guitars, smoke signals on the green.
The air is full of mutterings
from inside shady stores, shouts
out of windows, jokes barked
on street corners. They are
received and translated, spun
into the fabric of each bright shawl,
each white shirt. On the roofs
the pidgeons sweat and thirst.
They came, cut the new growth off
the trees outside my window. Last
night I found them as barren giants.
Today even they are naked.
that declare the sun, ragging
as the breeze plies our skin.
The heat rises, colours deepen
slowly with our odour. Our feet
flash across concrete. All around,
the sounds of sirens and jangling
guitars, smoke signals on the green.
The air is full of mutterings
from inside shady stores, shouts
out of windows, jokes barked
on street corners. They are
received and translated, spun
into the fabric of each bright shawl,
each white shirt. On the roofs
the pidgeons sweat and thirst.
They came, cut the new growth off
the trees outside my window. Last
night I found them as barren giants.
Today even they are naked.
Sunday 19 April 2009
Nereid
There is a crowd of bodies
over the sand. The sea whisks
itself into a bad conversation,
as I count the tiny grains
beneath my toes. I glance up,
wince at the glaring bikini
tops in blue and red, count
migraine pills from a bottle,
stung bright with the sun.
There are children basted,
wrapped up in cotton shorts,
roasting in the shallows. Splayed,
tangled in a web of foam,
they are prey for jellyfish
or tenderised for waiting
barracuda, not watched by
the white loaves of pot-bellied
weekenders on the dry shore.
I make steps, moulding what
could be glass into perfect
casts for sculptured shoes,
following my burnt knees
with damp white feet, leaving
a trail from the forest of bare
pasty flesh, along the edge
of the shallows, up to where
the real sculptures are.
Here the rocks have chosen
to drop their ice cream cones,
assumed poses more becoming
of demi-gods or the off-cuts
of lunatic architects. Far
behind my back, I still hear
the complaints of a desert-full
of bulging troglodytes, up-
rooted from their crab burrows
and exposed to light, guarded
only by their waist-band fat.
I look down into the pool,
where microbes and crustaceans
dance and stumble. Suddenly,
before my eyes, the spirit
of these sands appears, only
to toss her brown curled locks
into the rock pool, only to
smile the sand out of my eyes
and lay a hand upon my
coral figure, tame my collar
bone and cool me like a statue,
only to offer me a single
wet glance from her lips,
and place a pale pearl foot
in my hands for me to kiss.
over the sand. The sea whisks
itself into a bad conversation,
as I count the tiny grains
beneath my toes. I glance up,
wince at the glaring bikini
tops in blue and red, count
migraine pills from a bottle,
stung bright with the sun.
There are children basted,
wrapped up in cotton shorts,
roasting in the shallows. Splayed,
tangled in a web of foam,
they are prey for jellyfish
or tenderised for waiting
barracuda, not watched by
the white loaves of pot-bellied
weekenders on the dry shore.
I make steps, moulding what
could be glass into perfect
casts for sculptured shoes,
following my burnt knees
with damp white feet, leaving
a trail from the forest of bare
pasty flesh, along the edge
of the shallows, up to where
the real sculptures are.
Here the rocks have chosen
to drop their ice cream cones,
assumed poses more becoming
of demi-gods or the off-cuts
of lunatic architects. Far
behind my back, I still hear
the complaints of a desert-full
of bulging troglodytes, up-
rooted from their crab burrows
and exposed to light, guarded
only by their waist-band fat.
I look down into the pool,
where microbes and crustaceans
dance and stumble. Suddenly,
before my eyes, the spirit
of these sands appears, only
to toss her brown curled locks
into the rock pool, only to
smile the sand out of my eyes
and lay a hand upon my
coral figure, tame my collar
bone and cool me like a statue,
only to offer me a single
wet glance from her lips,
and place a pale pearl foot
in my hands for me to kiss.
Friday 17 April 2009
Dust
The newspapers are full of faces
assuring me of their monumental
ease, glinting in the warmth, jaws
and shoulders laminated, strong.
For once I'd like to see them
stunned, speechless, strung along,
just one pang of romance, or lust,
or a thought they knew was wrong
and loved, that brought them back
the sin of Genesis, the dust,
and left them shaking, jaws slack
now, shoulders shrugging as they sob
for the innocence they put on,
for the love they lost.
assuring me of their monumental
ease, glinting in the warmth, jaws
and shoulders laminated, strong.
For once I'd like to see them
stunned, speechless, strung along,
just one pang of romance, or lust,
or a thought they knew was wrong
and loved, that brought them back
the sin of Genesis, the dust,
and left them shaking, jaws slack
now, shoulders shrugging as they sob
for the innocence they put on,
for the love they lost.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
In the -hood
There's some kind of crap
in your hair.
Young boy.
Pissing out the flame.
As he dances the music
plays, silhouetting him in the half
light of the spirit he has created, and
although he is just sitting there she
smiles
back at him
and for her this is it, this is where it
begins
a new experience
an initiation
of sorts.
A bronzed shield brushed with
burgundy,
A lamp pulsing twig limbs
all apart.
Brothers and
sisters, tugging the rope, drank
down the plug hole,
but in some kind of love.
Loft lifted out of written ropes,
rigged and fitted, doubt un-done,
beating to the heart of some
other one.
in your hair.
Young boy.
Pissing out the flame.
As he dances the music
plays, silhouetting him in the half
light of the spirit he has created, and
although he is just sitting there she
smiles
back at him
and for her this is it, this is where it
begins
a new experience
an initiation
of sorts.
A bronzed shield brushed with
burgundy,
A lamp pulsing twig limbs
all apart.
Brothers and
sisters, tugging the rope, drank
down the plug hole,
but in some kind of love.
Loft lifted out of written ropes,
rigged and fitted, doubt un-done,
beating to the heart of some
other one.
Eye-Whites
Beneath these branches, stones
slick and black as coal scratch
the spring out of the stream, cold
water between jagged edges.
Under tread, fists of thistle
and dewey bramble. I step
carefully and gulp my air
like soup. I turn and start
as a pheasant breaks the ditch,
cries dissolving in the fog,
leaving my eyes egg-white.
Above the ditch a bank, clawed
earth in the grasp of thick
kraken-green hawthorn roots.
Pores spit bark and loam into
a mulch-stew that slides down
the bank's scored sides. Beyond
the bank a pond full of roots,
boney trees bowed low into
the watering hole, to sift among
the last dregs of autumn. Black
leaves float in silt. Green buds
are born, fed on the funeral.
Above these branches the sky
is only so much milk. Below,
the opal pool reflects white
and lies open, a startled eye.
slick and black as coal scratch
the spring out of the stream, cold
water between jagged edges.
Under tread, fists of thistle
and dewey bramble. I step
carefully and gulp my air
like soup. I turn and start
as a pheasant breaks the ditch,
cries dissolving in the fog,
leaving my eyes egg-white.
Above the ditch a bank, clawed
earth in the grasp of thick
kraken-green hawthorn roots.
Pores spit bark and loam into
a mulch-stew that slides down
the bank's scored sides. Beyond
the bank a pond full of roots,
boney trees bowed low into
the watering hole, to sift among
the last dregs of autumn. Black
leaves float in silt. Green buds
are born, fed on the funeral.
Above these branches the sky
is only so much milk. Below,
the opal pool reflects white
and lies open, a startled eye.
Tuesday 14 April 2009
Divinination
Thou shalt not
wor-
ship fall sidles,
war-
doff dumm spirits
one two three
juju who'd you think
you'd be, me?
I'm too slick, sick
on my shoe, dick
on a soap box, handy
with premonishun,
got my pendulum
swingin, cling film
clingin entrails
stuck on my stick,
future suture kebab.
I been licked, flicked
quick off of mount
olympus, count
the fingers one
two three, squint
that six there triple,
get up, shake off,
move on.
wor-
ship fall sidles,
war-
doff dumm spirits
one two three
juju who'd you think
you'd be, me?
I'm too slick, sick
on my shoe, dick
on a soap box, handy
with premonishun,
got my pendulum
swingin, cling film
clingin entrails
stuck on my stick,
future suture kebab.
I been licked, flicked
quick off of mount
olympus, count
the fingers one
two three, squint
that six there triple,
get up, shake off,
move on.
Saturday 11 April 2009
Anima Domestica
Soapy hands can hold
a bubble, don't worry.
Fairy liquid seeping, slug-
ish to your glands, your
hair is greasy, knotted out
in strands, strung back
again. There's a tension
in the mention of your
name. Here, propulsion
and the architecture, the
strain of a sphere on lino
that bursts, sticks with
a prick to quick-lime,
detergent, soup, soap-
suds resurgent, froth
around sink mouth, gravy
slime, conjure you, kitchen
ghost. Your life grows
with time, between alkaline,
acid, marjoram and thyme,
the congeal of the last meal,
and the next, vexed in the
stink between the bubbles
of the saucepan and the sink.
a bubble, don't worry.
Fairy liquid seeping, slug-
ish to your glands, your
hair is greasy, knotted out
in strands, strung back
again. There's a tension
in the mention of your
name. Here, propulsion
and the architecture, the
strain of a sphere on lino
that bursts, sticks with
a prick to quick-lime,
detergent, soup, soap-
suds resurgent, froth
around sink mouth, gravy
slime, conjure you, kitchen
ghost. Your life grows
with time, between alkaline,
acid, marjoram and thyme,
the congeal of the last meal,
and the next, vexed in the
stink between the bubbles
of the saucepan and the sink.
Tuesday 7 April 2009
Two Fragments
Gobble gobble in the bush,
push fern fronds away,
roll, call, wild jerkey
stew, sweating through brush,
tendrils toughening around, the
ground swelling, flaking dry.
Today our sport, twisting to
escape the tiger's eye.
Old father bends and cups
a handful of bitter earth,
I guess at ivory or maybe
marble in his teeth, he
says "Tuck your wings,
your tatters of leaf be-
hind your back, and turn
back to me."
push fern fronds away,
roll, call, wild jerkey
stew, sweating through brush,
tendrils toughening around, the
ground swelling, flaking dry.
Today our sport, twisting to
escape the tiger's eye.
Old father bends and cups
a handful of bitter earth,
I guess at ivory or maybe
marble in his teeth, he
says "Tuck your wings,
your tatters of leaf be-
hind your back, and turn
back to me."
Before your Eyes
You fold your wings
as coward leaves
behind the knots
of your shoulders.
I want to dice this
apple into your mouth,
undo creation, head
south. Be your morning
star, take the stalk
and toss it; dust
into the atmosphere,
no fear no more.
Your feathers turn
to hair, your wings to
white skin. Light
breaks upon your back,
your collar bones.
When day dies,
fades, flies into bats,
clouds tangle night,
your lips, my tongue,
all into one dirty drip
of pale light
and blurring violins.
I want to stare you
down on to the page,
just trip with me
into the stream,
spit feathers, fall
don't fly, kiss me,
intertwine, learn me
line by line, grow
into a tree if need be,
sing, speak, don't dream.
Tuck those leaf-wings
up behind your back,
shiver lead to mercury,
promise what you want
to promise me, shimmer
down the river in my arms.
as coward leaves
behind the knots
of your shoulders.
I want to dice this
apple into your mouth,
undo creation, head
south. Be your morning
star, take the stalk
and toss it; dust
into the atmosphere,
no fear no more.
Your feathers turn
to hair, your wings to
white skin. Light
breaks upon your back,
your collar bones.
When day dies,
fades, flies into bats,
clouds tangle night,
your lips, my tongue,
all into one dirty drip
of pale light
and blurring violins.
I want to stare you
down on to the page,
just trip with me
into the stream,
spit feathers, fall
don't fly, kiss me,
intertwine, learn me
line by line, grow
into a tree if need be,
sing, speak, don't dream.
Tuck those leaf-wings
up behind your back,
shiver lead to mercury,
promise what you want
to promise me, shimmer
down the river in my arms.
Thursday 2 April 2009
Sauce
I'm jaws, lashed with
reggae reggae sauce,
chips dribbling from
my teeth, leer- ious de-
voweling frocks cocks
and gluey socks. De-
light, a fight with con-
d[e]ments, parents long
dead, dement -ed red ket-
chup f(r)iends slipping
up, dripping down debt
moun -tain. Duped, re-
duced to lips, lids, fins,
bruised shins, clammy paws.
Sawce, in mono. Let's go
scut ska ket jah sket
too far.
reggae reggae sauce,
chips dribbling from
my teeth, leer- ious de-
voweling frocks cocks
and gluey socks. De-
light, a fight with con-
d[e]ments, parents long
dead, dement -ed red ket-
chup f(r)iends slipping
up, dripping down debt
moun -tain. Duped, re-
duced to lips, lids, fins,
bruised shins, clammy paws.
Sawce, in mono. Let's go
scut ska ket jah sket
too far.
Monday 30 March 2009
Shower
Jet stream spat from the head
splits, one half sprints towards
the walls, one half congeals
and sweats across my limbs,
sputters into rivulets,
tracing creases over leather.
Steam curls into curtain
mould, black spots that dampen,
drop. Tub lips drip froth out
of spots fallen, lather
lost, soap stains. Plug hole hair
rafts, buoys, teased in a pool.
I feel beats, so small, burst-
ing on my kidney, my
vertebrae. Water runs cold,
I gasp. Runs hot, I scald.
splits, one half sprints towards
the walls, one half congeals
and sweats across my limbs,
sputters into rivulets,
tracing creases over leather.
Steam curls into curtain
mould, black spots that dampen,
drop. Tub lips drip froth out
of spots fallen, lather
lost, soap stains. Plug hole hair
rafts, buoys, teased in a pool.
I feel beats, so small, burst-
ing on my kidney, my
vertebrae. Water runs cold,
I gasp. Runs hot, I scald.
Saturday 28 March 2009
Vultures
I, hawk-eyed, dyed
brown shellac, pull up
keffiyeh, cloth over crisp,
overdone, cover nose, two
lips, to make a sheikh
out of my self. Break
the top two joints, roll
battered, spine shattered,
down dunes, double vision
makes two new moons.
Do I squint? do I splint,
bandage, tear, mend, join
hands? barter in the market
with mesopotamians, hop
the barge, butt the blunt?
Ashes from an urn, spilt.
Two vultures drifting down
see Jericho rebuilt.
brown shellac, pull up
keffiyeh, cloth over crisp,
overdone, cover nose, two
lips, to make a sheikh
out of my self. Break
the top two joints, roll
battered, spine shattered,
down dunes, double vision
makes two new moons.
Do I squint? do I splint,
bandage, tear, mend, join
hands? barter in the market
with mesopotamians, hop
the barge, butt the blunt?
Ashes from an urn, spilt.
Two vultures drifting down
see Jericho rebuilt.
Sunday 22 March 2009
Ecdysis
He finally abides, hands grey,
among cork and silk and carpet,
always smelling vinegar, or
cat's piss, or Vicks vapour,
or kettle crust or fog.
His hands have felt every
facet of this coop, this
kennel, every mahogany root,
sagging armchair, dust pan,
greasy mirror; each silent,
poised trapping of monogamy.
He is tired, too many bones
to prop, scars to balm and
sigh, too little open sky, dishes
to dry, glasses to clutch and drop.
Days uncoil slowly as the milk
and eggs spoil. He stoops and
creases into a chair, his skin
is tight and slack, thick and thin;
he wishes he could be a snake,
shake it loose and start again.
At night he never strays far
from his lamp, his floor, his
opened door. He lies awake
and watches gold-dust pass
the beam from dresser-top
to wooden boards, and breathes
his way towards the dawn.
And if he dreams, he dreams
of colors falling, rain and snow,
of children, laughter, beauty, no
late departed photograph,
no love, no curtains drawn
around his house, he has time
for them on purgatorial afternoons.
No, if he dreams, he dreams
of a wind, a breath, a tune twisting
on summer air, a thirst, a life;
of a dumb renunciation or
a tulip wilting in his hand.
among cork and silk and carpet,
always smelling vinegar, or
cat's piss, or Vicks vapour,
or kettle crust or fog.
His hands have felt every
facet of this coop, this
kennel, every mahogany root,
sagging armchair, dust pan,
greasy mirror; each silent,
poised trapping of monogamy.
He is tired, too many bones
to prop, scars to balm and
sigh, too little open sky, dishes
to dry, glasses to clutch and drop.
Days uncoil slowly as the milk
and eggs spoil. He stoops and
creases into a chair, his skin
is tight and slack, thick and thin;
he wishes he could be a snake,
shake it loose and start again.
At night he never strays far
from his lamp, his floor, his
opened door. He lies awake
and watches gold-dust pass
the beam from dresser-top
to wooden boards, and breathes
his way towards the dawn.
And if he dreams, he dreams
of colors falling, rain and snow,
of children, laughter, beauty, no
late departed photograph,
no love, no curtains drawn
around his house, he has time
for them on purgatorial afternoons.
No, if he dreams, he dreams
of a wind, a breath, a tune twisting
on summer air, a thirst, a life;
of a dumb renunciation or
a tulip wilting in his hand.
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