Harlequin

The harlequin of New Cross comes
singing reggae walking past kebab shops
with a tyre around his waist
with a traffic cone his crown
falling into every pothole on fire
doused in hotsauce and ginger.
The ladies beam and pelt him with gold
from their wrists, scrabble at his thighs
tear off their burkhas and hijabs
and run home to bathe in beer.
He's drinking malt with the Ghanaians
covered in mayonnaise and flour.
They clap his shoulders, offer fishes,
bake his eyes red and roll him
battered out into the street
where he feasts on beef brisket and shrimp.

Children dance all around him,
swing from his red and green tailcoat,
prank on his chicken ribs, his bells.
He grins like a piano, plucks goats' eyes
from behind their ears. When their mothers
come wagging tongues like steaks in scolding
he waltzes them across the drains
crooning to them like the Caribbean sea,
leaves them breathless, bosoms bowling,
holding baskets of mangoes and figs.
Twilight, he quits the drunken town.
Cartwheeling, throwing off his clothes,
his crown, he gives a glorious cockadoodledoo
and leaps like a lion into the sky.

In the garden

In the garden
poplars crack and leaf
a fox eats daffodils
sparrows begin to bloom
gurgling in the trees
ivy drops like smoke
branches lose their rags
a squirrel chews its foot
falling from the fence
pidgeons crash unconscious
into the bramble bushes
the roses come humble
with twenty kisses
the crow is stalking
from behind the tulips
the ground is broke
the soil is soaked
the rotten stump falls
in love with woodlice

At night the rain
will wash the reeds
drink the ants
coronate the bees
now the starlings crackle
around the king
the badger wakes
and eats its young
owls shed their wings
deer are mating
in the sun
while in a ditch
frog lies bleeding

Host

The pontiff has a whale eye
turning like a planet in his head.
His bone groans from the weight,
the other eye is cowed and red,
squashed bloodshot in a corner
with his nose, his lips.
His skull is like a shell
exploded, the rest lopsided, bent
to fit this ball of blackness in.
Tears of oil fall when it
turns to heaven, when it blinks.
At night his body is shaken
as it rolls back over hours
finally baring ropes of nerves
encrusted with salt.
These seem to grow each night,
boring into the socket
until the old man gasps
and the parasite sings darkly
out of his closing throat.
The priests whisper together
the eye has found its throne.
They go to him, and see
the other eye has fallen out,
the human mouth is gone.
The pontiff's body rises,
robed in blubber, ghost of bone.
The eye sings out
as it drinks them in.

Pop Idol

O Coca-Cola
let us kiss your horny feet
look on us weeping ink
you chink of belly light
you sickly constellation
you sudden racing heart
you dizzy god of us
with a gazillion microbes
rinsing in your caramel
let us lie in your wake
bearded with creamy froth
dreaming of black diamonds
dreaming of nougat
dreaming of the dog
that barks you slickly
in the faces of the stars
dreaming maybe of death
the brown hair of children
ploughing up a thirsty earth
the gaping gulch.

O Coca-Cola
O let the levee break
crows are exploding
crops are burning
the planets are moving
the storm is coming
the children are dying
the king is going blind
the veil has dropped
there is such drought
O pope us with black love
blind us with black light
cake us in your grace
stomach our salvation
we are but purée before you.

Beer Bear

I was walking past an alley
when the beer bear leaned out,
grabbing me and pulling me in.
It burped in my face, took
a couple of healthy swigs
and fell backwards into a bin.
It crawled out, covered in slop,
eggshell, bits of fat and fruit,
shaking, starting to moan.
"You're a disgrace," I said, "look
at all this shit all over you."
It threw up everywhere, hunched
against the wall, then turned to me,
face dripping snot and spit
and growled "This is nothing new."

I remember it was so handsome,
toothy grin and pristine fur,
on the label of every brew.
It talked to me for hours,
about the baiting, the back door,
the way they screw you
out of every cent, pay in perks,
dope you up, finally kick you out
or just dump you at the zoo.
They way they bring you down.
It crushed the bottle in its paw
and tried its best to stand.
"Fuck the world," it said,
"I'm going to get out of this town,
walk until I'm in the forest."
When I left the alleyway,
it was face down, starting to snore.

Riddle

My mouth's a wallet
and my teeth coins.
My eyes are bulbs
tucked up in bed.
My head's a pumpkin
with a hand inside
holding a tablespoon.
My gut's a grate
full of melted fruit,
melted typewriters.
I sing like shoelaces,
I dance like breeches,
a bow tied tight
beneath my chin.
At night I let the cat
climb out my mouth
and in the day
I let him climb back in.
My star is blue,
my cockerel crowned.
My bowels go round
and round and round.
My hands are getting thin.
Who am I?

Riboflavin

Village life is peachy, no?
Every driveway a kingdom,
every latch, gate, porch,
or set of steps a curlicue
emblazoned, cack-handed
on a coat of arms.
Your ever loyal subjects?
Potted plants. Your mount?
Sit down lawnmower, baby.
Ride that in circles Sunday,
watch the geraniums die,
the neighbour's conifers spread
like imperial Russia until
they blot out the sun,
watch Bob McJog run
with his wife alongside
screaming from a Land Rover.
The great dane breeder
from number twenty four
goes behind your back
with your Black & Decker.
Your organic milk is sour;
you are a curd yourself.

The wife has joined
the parish council board
from which she'll lead
a horticultural revolution,
finally renouncing you
in favour of asceticism;
she will become a hydrangea.
You prune her daily
as you limply sip your coffee,
then tinker in the garage
until you stop and realise
your underwear needs ironing,
your toenails are getting long,
you didn't eat your five a day.
You didn't get your vitamins.
You didn't get your bran.
Your hair is getting thin.
And what if Fairtrade
isn't fair? Can you trust
the National Trust? What
about your tax returns?
What about the drive?
There are weeds coming
up through the cracks.

You start pulling the crazy
"oh dear God help me" face
as relaxation, gurning
like an emasculated gargoyle
every time your children
turn their backs.
They will find you, one day,
by the kettle, silently
punching yourself in the face.

Waltz

The trolley man come
past the cardboard houses
with their folded eaves,
where the doors open up
like bright yellow gills.
The north wind blow
the cock o steeple south,
the cobblestones dry,
fish guts on sticks
pirouette their prophecy.
Trolley man skid by
the yackety yak flats,
washing out in banners
teatowel flags of neighbors,
skipping ropes and carts,
kids with dirty noses
and ribbons in their hair
coddled at the waists
of the broody local girls.
The trolley clatter on
down into dusty lane
and trolley man waltz
like he did in his day
past the palisade
and the odeon
in the muddy rain.

The Arc

The hellship has embarked
from a tear in the earth's backside
in a shower of soil and lava.
It now makes its final run
on the gassy upper airs,
crashing like a retarded donkey
into a buffet of stars,
chocolate streaming from its prow.
On the planet below, captive hearts
held by the race of wives,
captains of the dawdled year,
the coffin mouthed lawyers,
the hopscotch children, hobos, kings,
find their stomachs turn chrysalis
and their souls pour as butterflies
into the beautied air.

A billion cabbage white rise,
pale horses from the husk of earth,
all crackling up around the ship
sucking at its sugar oars,
painting its ghost with wings.
Still bruising into deeper space
the hellship takes our butter souls
turtle-backing back to Om ―
the all-voice of the minstrelry,
the arse that candy coats the night
and swallows the cosmic thumb.
Inside the ship the humours
are boiling into an every-none,
biles black and yellow squirm
and lunch on bones of fire,
carving ribbages whole out of
the alien queen Phlegmata's side.
A boar of blood stalks the deck,
biting off the heads of flowers
and phthiffing out confetti colours.

At the gooey epicentral pit
the galaxies digest themselves
and that is where the captain steers
this caterpillar Noah's arc,
into the berth of Omish caramel,
the seventh circle of the universe,
the vortic treacle pit.
At its lip the vacuum crumbles,
the orchestra of stars ― nebula
singing in tongues out of a fit,
calves at taurus' heels, every
jack o lantern mother of suns ―
all fall silent as the sea
and watch the hellship teeter in.
Hull broke, the seeds of man
spilt silly into the depths of dark,
blood bile and phlegm coughed
blackly back beyond the lights,
and the ship took itself in bits
under the broom of nothing.
Our butterflies tinkled down
into the abysmal sluice
and found Om waiting there,
buck toothed and delicious,
a pinata of blossoms.

Last Supper

Doner is the lamb
polystyrene is golgotha
about the darkened sky
articulated thunders freight
their cargo culte.
The son is minced
the carver comes down
the word is spun
on a metal skewer.
This daddy's boy, the
every-other-lover
dances in circles
as all his disciples
digest and redigest
the ground-up moggies
fat knuckles of pigs
the dogs bollocks.
But Bo Peep's sheep
sure has no worries.
Though spun, not done,
his fumes are sucked
into the aluminium vent
where Abraham, Isaac
and David probably went
on that last trick
that last meal ticket.

The big spinning stick
is the new dogma,
a chip pan fire
roaring to the roof
caught with holy water.
In this town
we shish our saints
and tenderise madonnas.
Prophets in the stocks
are brought down, fried,
and served up in a box.
On the shining hill
it still stands, the vehicle
miraculous, all-skewer,
blood shadow, superhero
of the world-belly,
a new cross.