VIRTUE WILL BEAR US TO THE SKY

Immune from shape
Thought recreates itself
Anew on every slate,
With our troweled hands
And laboured fruits
Contributing to its purpose;
Traffic guiding and
Delighting in the work.
And from the burden of a back,
And ventures taken after,
It performs all miracles
Available and blows
More dust from more
Unknown coves than we
Ever conceived alone,
Or collectively discovered.
Swum up from a lower light
With previous windings,
Mixed and counter signed,
Delivering linguistic
Fixes before we realised
We needed them,
And certain of each bond
Of threaded words;
Whole in the outcome
Offered from such depths
Once cooked and coached,
And made possible by
Us, and impossible to
Refuse, regardless
Of the constant ceilings faced.

USANDTHEM

My father made the sun shine
And the stars sparkle;
He made the day and night equal.
He saved me from the world
And had a new one turned,
Set fair and meaningful
And true.
Ideals were stacked correctly next
To actuals,
Dreams and aspirations
Kept in context,
Clarified and ordered,
And informed.
And always us and them,
Us and them,
You and we,
Our family troop:
Its sometimes relatives and friends
And streets descended from;
Occupied,
Not lived in mind,
But settled.
With no need of flag or tweed
Or tune to bear before us,
No language barrier or age
Or sex discriminating us,
No lack of love or trust or humour
Sweeping through,
Just us and you,
And any strains that grew
Were sieved out of the mix when
Thoughts of coarser fools arose.

PROGRESS

Final decay
Was not in the grave
But above,
When stone crumbled
Like quicksand
Windblown in the fold
Of God’s love.

RESURECTION

With his pitch and posts and cooking bowls
He approached from winter’s distance,
And with those worldly goods slung horizontally
Across his back he appeared as a shuffling crucifix,
Convinced of his salvation from the snow.

At the middle interval he paused, unsure of whether
He’d seen us or if snow blindness had afflicted him,
Until the wind, assaulting his last elements with one
Final arid strike that nearly felled, compelled him to
Continue before certainty was proven true.

And only yards away he heaved a better breath
Before unloading his belongings to embrace us,
But as he did so he tipped forward from his poles and,
Raising a mist finest icing, fell face down. We rushed to
Comfort but his spoilt eyes said more than we could soothe.

We were as lost to him again as we had always been,
Though stood tall and blizzard blown we thought us noticed,
But thinking of the wretched weather
Should have taught us more; such stretch of un-trod
Paper with this footnote as the only message left.

YIELD

Here is where we have landed,
Where our stand will be made,
Now the sirens have stilled
This island’s civility;
A distinctive form of English terrorism,
Filtered through old prayers and hymns.
We’ll request the projectionist to pause
In time for a refresher course;
To sweep us new born baby clean,
Of all but baby born debris,
And to our terry cotton staple
The freshest christened labels.

Now is when we take control,
When our new dawn will fall,
Before the batteries have done
With venerable England,
And denied its populace
A worthy occupation.
A clockwork object spliced back into action
With every frame a clearer one;
Swelling as its celluloid,
In colour bright and simple noise,
Explains to people safely home
About steeples and domes.

RELIEFS

I’ll keep what grief I have to myself
For he was the only one worth sharing it with,
And I’m left amidst the remains of others,
Or the residual wisps of what they were meant to be.

He has gone ahead and I am at the mercy
Of these drifters, stark against their background;
One day they may have responded to
External stimulation, but not this one.

Today they float in and out of sight and have
Absolutely no interest in what they see,
Confined to their own panoramas and unable
To stretch themselves beyond a stereotype.

They are examples of puppets, and simplistically so,
Hung for good along a doweling rod with no fixed points,
And slipped behind shoulder blades or other corners,
Gliding until grounded.

He resides here more than they; not in spirit or
Apparition, but in memory of omission,
And though I may never compare, I do not want to,
I only wish to meet him again in elation.

FUNERAL

In charge of
Something larger;
A smarter sort
Of bravado.
Light emitting from a cloud
Creating a new corona for our commonwealth.

Gas plasma bursts
From one last black hole,
Highlighting the best shape
We’ve been in since birth.
It holds and releases,
As it grows and decreases in equal measurements.

The full extent
Of the next generation was sent,
And I prayed so long
That my lingering prints fell off,
Once polished by their burden,
For the world is a harsh place to live in without him.

The flame remains,
But without flicker,
And settles as
The sight of our time;
It’s not often that one has to wear a burial
Suit as often as this, so try to keep it crease free.

UNDONE

We can be delusional
Until we analyze our maladies,
And find their faults exploited
By folk who should know better.
Preachers, politicians and
The lesser spotted body guard
Who follow them, and
Validate their handling.
Our little empires of doubt
Are ploughed over in the night,
And parodied ravines dug
For morning sacrifice;
Simple insecurities increased
And multiplied until we
Don’t know our past from
A hole in the ground.

NEWYEARSEVE

NEWYEARSEVE

That day I had no wood
To touch
To keep sore thoughts at bay;
No ladder to avoid
Or leave
Tough luck beneath in case it fell.

That day I had to stem
The fall
Of man into his own indulgence,
And shepherd what flock
Remained
Out of despair’s good fortune.

That night I had to face
The first
Day of my tribe’s responsibilities,
And announce to the world
The last
One of my predecessor’s reign.

That night we all had to feel
The cruel
Fate of chance upon us,
Although the caretakers and practitioners
Of change
Told us it was the way they wished to go.

ICECREAM

It’s not that five pointed pipe
That rectally winds from a silver
Machine to a cornet and
Looks like a dog did it,
No this is scooped and shaped
With a flat spatula by a maestro
With less muscle than grace,
And the patience of Italian saints.

MORTALITY

A scratch of some description
On the back of my hand
As an indication of
Yesterday’s activities
Maybe, and another
Grazed day,
Or received during
An evening’s attempted rest.

Or an exit wound from some
More intentional tool,
Regardless of whether
Once pinioned through a
Palm or in-between the wrists
Carpal bones, measured
Out as evenly as possible
To indicate its matter.

Or a brush with other materials
That do not give or grown under
The weight of human presence,
But leave a lone impression
Know only unto them, and
Me, being on the receiving
End and still convinced
Of my mobility.

RAPE

As pretty as a poppy field,
And twice as high.
Undisturbed in surface yield,
And lemon bright.
Whose lofty blinding flower stems
Arouse the town
With all the warmth of spring’s new scent,
And its renown.
Brushing dust against your frame
When it is sprung,
Whilst fever sufferers complain
About their lungs,
But they are usually the folk
Who moan a lot,
And are the first to invoke
Afterthoughts.

WOMAN

In the middle of the street,
Being swirled around by the wind,
Were the pages of a pornographic magazine
Intermingled with several shredded newspapers,
All vying for my attention.

Advertisements for assorted vices,
And all kinds of inducements, fluttered by;
Personal columns dispersed between neutrally
Coloured women, and stories beginning to curdle
Even as their pages separated.

Readers wives, and even seedier
Lives, were displayed in uncompromising
Lights, and here and there were couples involved
In connections too abstract for even the most athletic
Or aesthetic amongst us.

Whilst further up the road than you
May have wished to go, propped against a
Wall, a lonely centre fold stood out, with more
Staple holes in her than anybody’s love of piercing
Could ever have reflected.

And though you may suppose that this
Smut belongs in the gutter, you can’t help
But love her, in her beautiful perfection, with
All her life before her and beyond; a vision of Eve
In her prime before Adam came along.

SCATTERED

Those seedy little seasons
In-between relationships,
Where anything that’s going
Flows through your head and
Does not quite drain, coloured
As If a master’s brush
Has touched your face.

And though you may feel
Clean when next you meet
A steady soul, the puddles that
Found themselves a loophole
To exploit remain to hamper
Your attempted foundations.

And you’ll find yourself requesting
All manner of deviations that your
Newly moved in partner can’t
Take part in, as you were not
Like this before – but then you
Were, remember – when you
Where on your own and
Loved the flood.

ROUNDSIXTEEN

A whole generation of kids
Coming of age with
Less than two parents
Behind them or more
Than three in front.

Unsure of who’s who,
Or what to call them,
Or whether to allow
Them into their room,
Or refuse their advance.

And then the one parent
Relied upon all of their
Lives decides for them,
And one stranger leaves
As another danger arrives.

And the arguments go on,
And the cycle repeats,
And suddenly school is reduced
To a few seconds’ thought
Between bouts,

And the object that
Remains once the bell has
Begun is the pummeled
Mass of an adult who has
Been rung out before the count.

SELF

Couturier and catered for of cloth,
Vendor and purchaser of alcohol,
Espouser and follower of politics,
Preparer and consumer of food,
Holder and hammer of angst,
Preacher and laity of faith,
Miner and pit of wisdom,
Dealer and buyer of vice.

SETASIDE

Summer thumbs more used
To shelling peas than peeling
Shells from Christmas almonds,
But marzipan won’t wait for
The ingredients of the season,
And anyway the farmer let his
Field of sweetest legumes fester
For the sake of subsidies,
And I don’t need a green
Moment right now.

I’m making my cake and keeping
It for a later date when the
Need for a sweet out ways my
Salad days and I will have
No care for calories or their
Specifics. Print a sell by date
Upon my overcoat and I’ll
Outgrow it even if it means I
Have to rot more thoroughly
Than any farmer’s field.

PURGING

With the arrogance of the ignorant
He felt no inferiority,
Managing inadequacies
That manifested themselves
Fitfully as equals.
He baited them with indifference
Until they made the surface,
Where they were feted with servility,
And whilst swirling in the comfort
Of the status he accorded and the
Assuaging manner offered,
They relaxed as he expected.
Then as the second hand announced
The hour he split his front asunder
Catching all there unawares,
And whilst still slippery from sleep
They were no match for his deceit.
He shredded them with their envelopes
And stuffed the contents into cushions
To prop up his next project,
Which as usual would be the same
As the one before, as they were
Always returned unknown.

SKYJACKED

A lip sync stop
And a jump and a hop
To the top of
The complaints list,

A compact case,
Roughened rouged face,
With the grace of
A militarist.

A landlord’s nightmare
As the solar flare
Of armchair
Critic hissed,

And all concerned,
Who had not learned,
Were told in turn
Of this.

LAYERS.

She hit me with an acrobat,
Collected on her route,
A single spinning individual
Abandoned by its troop.

And though it spun it did not turn,
So lateral swipes were dealt,
Until in untold anguish
My skin began to melt.

And as it dripped I registered
More pain with each degree,
Where seven levels of sunscreen
Had left their mark on me.

And having bared my muscle,
Sinew, vein and bone,
It left at her instruction,
As my cover was blown,

And everyone could see me,
For what I really was,
A collection of creation,
Lax and ludicrous.

LAWYERS

When I talk about our compatibility
You accuse me of nattering,
So let me compare us
More quietly:

You’ve got more faults than a fracture,
And your meter is inaccurate,
And you’re tearing us apart
Every night,

Whilst my emergency services have resigned
And been replaced by a force less inclined
To pick up the pieces
Dispersed,

And with one double bed replaced by two singles,
And a number of flaws intermingled,
They’re waiting to see
Who’ll crack first.

DELTA

Do not wipe my
Eyes when I cry today,
For I know the laughter
Lines of my youth have
Found their calling,
As falling calms
The flow.

DISTINGUISHED.

The error was inherent,

The tangle integral,

The blooper absolute,

The failure inalienable,

The incursion conclusive

And fault inalterable.

GROWTH

A further teenaged disturbance in the street,
But unlike others this one caught up with me.
So there I am with my hands at the throat of a moron,
When I sense another behind me set to strike;
I spin round with the first in my arms
And he takes the second one’s spike.
The assailant looks mildly surprised
Before gliding backwards and flying,
Leaving two smaller goons, who, after
Chattering monkey grunts at each other,
And scratching their obligatory baseball
Capped heads, also leg it.
I drop the trash I’m still holding
Into the nearest wheelie bin,
And wonder if the council’s
Policy of recycling really does
Work on people.

ELSEWHERE.

In corners,
Off centre,
Over edges,
Unmentioned;
Around Inclines,
Amidst half surveyed ridges
Of surface pitch,
Behind the horizon,
Beyond the sun rise
And underneath the earth.
In pocks and post holes
Hidden in the road,
Lower than the street lit tarmac,
Between the natural and artificial
Boundaries of livelihood,
Where concealment pits
Rain water drained against
Our sewage merchandise,
And perfect well springs begin
Without knowledge of what
They will become.

HALF

There was a bingo caller’s hole
In the middle of her forehead
Where her single eyeball rolled
Until eventually florid,
And her weathered vest was served
By a solitary nozzle
Whose measured dress was curved
To hold her only elbow’s jostle.

A lonesome socket loitered
In the centre of her pelvis
Where the sole hip rocket jointed
Hopped and swivelled more than Elvis,
And one trouser leg was anchored
Over half a pair of gaiters
That aroused a keg of thankyous
From the patrons and the waiters.

WHOLE

The tarantula and pepsis wasp
Performed their famous dance;
The spider reared,
The sphecoid neared,
And quickly took its chance;

It stung the softer abdomen,
And like a fallen fly,
The spider’s legs
Collapsed, as eggs
Were laid to multiply.

LIVED

More than a car crash:
A train wreck,
A plane failure,
An air strike,
A tectonic plate quake,
A comet impacted planet,
A solar nova,
A colliding spiral galaxy,
A universal stretch
And crunch,
But fun while it lasted.

LOVED

It did its thing on me
As she was passing,
And pulled the rug from underneath
Whilst I was still fastened,
Felling me to my arse amidst
A partial introduction
And displacing granite structures.
Filliping my minstrel’s grace
Until it failed to function;
Taking a hammer and pick to my side
And offering terms of alliance;
Purchasing a furlong because of its light
And running me around in the dark,
And like a nimble man in limbo land
Who thought he’d won but couldn’t
See that entropy was closer to the ground,
Dragging me down first, and educating more
Thoroughly than loathing ever did;
Then standing me candidly and
Leaving me with a queue
Jumper’s view of the scene,
And the feeling that I should
Have stood in line.

GIRLFRIEND

Compared to my pastimes your hobbies
Seem less complicated, although I can’t imagine
What else they could be,
Ruled by desires undiscovered by mine,
And moved by music less tuneful,
And books with pictures,
And films with flash edits,
And others arts charged by crayons or
Pencils or pastels or painted by numbers.
But what could I have expected when my
Heart was captured by a backwater
Woman like you;
So I’ll revel in your body,
And buy you the lingerie I like
For your birthday.

LADIES

I prefer those girls who shave
As opposed to those who epilate,
And those who aren’t pushy
Or inclined to dominate;
Those who smoke filter-less
Compared to light cigarettes,
And are wont to inhale
And unlikely to spit.
Them that drink pints
Instead of kids’ halves,
And take it up the arse
Without having being asked;
Those who move with you,
As opposed to wet fish,
And flood twice a day,
And grant any wish.
The ones horizontal,
The few standing up,
Bent double or trebled
Or single or grouped,
And who feel like a boulder,
And sound like a scream,
And look somewhat older,
And say where they’ve been,
And taste like the ocean,
And smell like sunshine,
And are dirtier than earth
And glow when they’re mined.

ANGEL

Be grateful that only
A voice escapes from
The darkened place,
And not its owner:

The hateful incumbent,
Whose eyes see what
You do not want to,
But cannot deny;

The attrition maker,
Scraping the surface
Of your spirit with
Ancient abrasives;

The partition breaker,
Whose last word is
Always the same as
The worst available;

The first amongst equals,
Rivalling every level
And rolling down
Your finest aisle;

The legendary devil,
Incarnate within you
And no longer
Fallen from heaven.

IDEAL

I can see that wheelchair pushing future
Creeping up on me,
Rolling closer
Every day;
Nobody thinks of us
Who are left to pick up the pieces
Of a broken back.

So we plod on like Humpty’s faithful
Foot soldiers attempting
To glue you
Together again,
And anybody left to
Encourage our efforts should be
Fallen in,

But they’re too busy rebuilding their
Own bodies, and keeping
Their parts separate
From each others,
To know if somebody else
Needs more care and attention
Allocating to their clots.

And when they do fall down their hill,
And their former corner
Pieces mingle with yours,
Don’t call me,
For I’ve spent too long looking
At the box art and imagining
How you should look.

TEENAGED

The not so little half ladies
Crawl around the terraced streets
In crews of no less than seven
Looking for alcohol, or fools
Willing to finance it for them;
Either down the throat
Or up the road, or any way it flows.
Though everyone round here
Is enamored of themselves,
And the armour assumed as society’s:
Hefty golden hands,
Backwards baseball caps,
Elasticated waist bands
Of fallen truck apparel,
Half priced fags from strangers,
Diluted drugs from neighbours,
Booze in bulk from nearer
Home than continental superstores;
They’re junking or dealing,
Or foreign or freewheeling,
Or a tribal member or a tourist lost on
The edge of industry, or a
Rambler thigh deep in
Gilt edged fields -
So those little girls
May be in luck.

KIDS

Unfortunately, as I said to my child,
The story of the tree trapped cat
Would not be the most important
Tale of the day, but she still watched
The news anyway so I guess she’s
Learned something today.

Not that it will matter tomorrow, when
Once again she will ask at the worst possible
Moment the first thing that enters her
Head and then tramp off flat footedly
Upstairs before an answer, to trance out
In front of an equally unwitting mirror.

Stronger in the brain’s casing than
Its contents, but she’s not overly concerned,
As all the other kids out there are
The same and the number of times
I’ve asked her not to use this in
Defence of her case increases.

But they’ll only do what they want,
And play ball in the street, and get hit
By a car, and then some useless track
Suited moron substituting as a parent
Will blame the driver for not looking, but
As long as it not my wife, I don’t care.

BONED

I set little bets with myself
As to when you’d come home,
And lost everyone.
Found scraps of paper wrapped
Around coins in your pockets,
And avoided the phone.
Talked myself awkward until
I ripped out the wires and
Was left with no tone.

Fastened my latches and blotted
My lights whilst I sat
Up alone.
Slept when I thought it correct,
And awoke outside
My comfort zone,
And watched as you notched a
New mark on the face of
My stone.

FUGUE

The tubular metal skeleton
Of the wheel barrow
Was all that remained amidst
The ashes it was
Meant to shift,
So I had to shovel them
Into a sink bowl to move them,
And was later told that the dishes
Were still in there, but they weren’t, as I
Imagine they’d been re-fired the night before.
And to top it all
Nobody knew
When it was dinner time
As the only clock in the house
Had also been sacrificed to the flames.
Luckily for our tired frames
The settee and its relatives
Still remained in the front room,
Although one chair was slightly charred
And scuffed with
Paint the same colour
As the back doorway,
So we must have remembered
Enough sense to return the furniture
Inside before it burned too.
There was so much distance in that house
Once we arrived, although it was only terraced,
And silence in the sounds
Once cherished.
Not only were we going slowly,
But poorly as well.

SOLD

It’s that soda fizzing,
That coated chicken,
That family secret
That can never be kept.

And if you want to flog a car
Sling a bird in the back,
And if she fishes her tits out
You might sell two.

How far we fall for flesh
When all seems set
Upon the unexpected heights
Of simple trading rituals.

LAUREATE

He single-handedly reinvented
Verse for the masses,
The new middle classes,
High born horse’s asses,
So called experts passing,
Chattering proles gassing,
Word burglars harassing,
The bled and set fast,
The received and outcast
And first born and last.

FEET

One fine lazy day
Those old soul mates
Met up at the bottom of the bed,

But the lesser of the four,
In toe and claw,
Were a little too loving for the others.

And temperature wise,
Were characterized,
By the stale embrace of embalmment,

So the senior half
Of the partnership,
Disgorged them from the covers.

They packed their weight,
Though hardly straight,
And made the trek down stairs,

To lonely alight,
Until, by night,
Limber up together.

TEETH

I have no real teeth left
Save a facsimile smile of
Tinctured planes surrounded
By unsure enamel walls.

Surfaces propped up by God
Knows what, and sustained by
Matter unknown to even the
Most polished drill enthusiast.

Some are true and some are
False and some don’t even
Qualify as either once noticed
In-between satin gaps,

And still others are hinged with
A pin pricks desire to inflame,
Given the right temperature,
Or incongruous bone fragment.

Unlike hair turned grey
Overnight or eyes shot with
Blood’s fast acting retribution,
They have decayed quite gracefully,

But all are in need of a
Kindred display to encourage
Their constant rebuilding,
And keep wealthy fairies at bay.

FEATURED

Frown on my face,
Frown on encased
In downward landing lines,
More glorious and laboured than
Those curled and favoured
By the blander kind.

Although distinct and personal,
And less infectious than the thrill
Of fresh elation,
They gravitate
Once correlated
With location.

CORRECTED

Time snips little bits of impatience
From my frame and fits them together
For its own amusement; creating in
Its image a picture of a being
In finest humour.

In my margins critically written notes
Are crossed out or erased, and lovingly
Collected impediments are corrected;
Cornered bruises and headache
Making sights are brushed over.

Fallen idols are rebuilt and splashed with
Leadless colour before being under arm slung
With cables and hoisted back into place;
Their biographies adapted in
A joined up childish spiral.

Bargain bin chicken dug fingers ease my
Ink dripping limbs apart, replenish my coin box
And settle down to watch as I spin
Around in peace with the leeway
Of a good natured fool.

FAT

As solid as a snake
Encased in ice,
And less likely to
Slither than slide.
Rock pocketed laid,
Escaped from height,
And as useless as a
Tether untied.

PRESSURE

I knew a guy
Who had holes
In his fingers
And thumbs,

And believed
That the world
Was covered
In lumps,

And since
He’d been blind
For all of
His life,

He lived with
A man who
He felt was
His wife.

SUNDAY

Yorkshire pudding rain clouds
Drifted out
Of the oven
Whilst her beef
Was in need
Of a seasoning
And potatoes
A well roasted
Coat.

The top of the hob
Was covered
In cauldrons
That troubled
The bubbles
That boiled,
As carrots and peas,
And badly cut Swedes,
Dried out in the evening heat.

But worse than the taste,
And the obvious
Waste,
Was the static
Attraction
Created
By the glaze of
The gravy
Once plated.

SATURDAY

Twelve plastic English flags
Twisted around the washing line;
Bunting from an earlier age
In celebration of today.

Burdened by a region’s need
To show collective colour,
Though less than taxing presently
As there’s a pleasant breeze.

Treated to another summer’s sport
In England’s name, and consumed
By the hope and glory of George’s cross,
Though most crusades are lost.

WEEKENDERS

You’re either dragging your feet or being
Dragged along by people you eat with and
Supposedly sleep with, but God forbid live
With (as house mates are better at that job
And more abundant) to uncharted regions
And urban retreats, where a party is happening
And a guest is most welcome, especially if
Dressed in that weekend’s sheath of aesthetic
Apparel. And the one who coerces you
Spends most of the evening eagerly standing
And recanting their life and all of its story to
A stranger they’ve only just met, who is doing
The same, and suddenly adore. Gossip is
Spoken in place of most orderly tongues,
And cattish is served after gazpacho; would
You like two ice cubes in that or three sir?
Make mine a double and skip the fizzy mixer eh.
And of course there’s no sport to talk of or
Thought of that day’s exertions by overpaid
Waiters, and cinema seems to have been
Relegated with it and replaced by whichever
High cultured new wave the host read about
Earlier that day in his weekend supplement,
Which, incidentally, I’ve just wiped my arse on,
As although they’ve stocked up on every known
Food stuff and nose puff and teen beverage,
They’ve forgotten the toilet necessities, and I
Do hope I’ve managed to leave the right impression.

MARRIAGE

I embarked upon a crash course in fund
Generation in order to achieve a goal:
The sole ambition of creating
Sufficient monies
To ensure multiple
Escapes from the bonds
Of containment, and to be
Able to sustain them.

Indeed the essential quality of the venture
Was highlighted by the fact that my
Best man was due to get married,
And with the stag do and gift
Giving and country estate
Ceremony, it was going to burn,
So to fuel it I worked like a
Newly born turtle attempting the sea.

And it all came out right in the end after
Several attempts and weeks spent away;
Money was earned and returned
To the tax man in so many ways,
As our friends tied a knot whose
Noose was eventually tightened by lawyers
Several years later when she decided it wasn’t
For her, and now he’s not the only one who’s owed.

HOARD

A cellar with
A smell above
Average

Full of many
Schedules and
Dispatches,

Stored before
Sandwich board
Buyers

Had time to
Advise their
Suppliers,

And broadcast
The same suppressed
Message

As previous
Leaders had
Packaged.

I’ve canvassed
The public
For answers,

But they still
Seem obsessed
With the questions,

Whereas product
And placement
Space rented

Is returned
When investments
Cemented,

But what interest
From this can
Be gained

When all of
The rates are
The same.

APRILFOOLS

Form heady atop my beer,
And swelled in content by me;
Foam loaded and facial trimmed
And condemned to repeat and leave.
Comfort slacks worn wearily
In time to rise and fall
From such indulgent
Pandering of needs.

Cheapest vodka cocktails
Made with lime instead of grapefruit
And by the time they’re finished the
Single malts will be assured of a mixer’s company,
Although, as I keep saying, they’re for
Sipping, but she keeps swaying and
Insisting that she doesn’t
Taste them anyway.

I’m sat in a corner of the
Pub picking bits and pieces
Of this and that from myself,
And discussing why your wife left,
Whilst mine is sat next to me,
Thinking of leaving, and can’t
Even attach a flame to the
End of a cigarette.

LAVE

Here’s a pint of my fine
Yorkshire piss for you
To moisturize with;
It’s the only thing that
Will soften your sun stained
Skin before winter,
But if you need to exfoliate
I’ve got something grittier.

CONTAINMENT

The quiet does not replace
The rage it merely papers over it,
And whilst agitated stillness
Tries to stem the overwhelming
The raw un-vented temper
Dwells malevolent; awaiting
One small lapse of will to snap
Free of your chassis and model
Itself upon more corporal walls.

Heed the incursions and
Take care of your burden
Before it becomes you,
And your good deeds
And awards are rubbed out in
The blink of an impulse or jolt
Of intolerance;

Stay any hand you choose
To raise, and be longer
In tooth than claw, and in
Your tomb, before unknown
Blood flows through them.

INCOMMENSURATE

The place was full of those who
Dabbled with topicality whilst dangling
Working class cigarettes from the
Ends of middle class fingers,
And only inhaled when induced
To do so due to confusion;
One even smoked a Cuban
Cigar that way, without
Realizing how delicate he looked;
As if waiting to fall from it.
Lipstick laced tabs and menthol
Tips chased one another around
The ash of their gallery,
Whilst everyone discussed the meaning
Of life on the back of that morning’s headlines,
Or match book just picked up.
It’s not a nice scene to attend, let alone
Belong to, as the changeable ways of
The participants are not worth
Any attention span.

CIRCUIT

Many an opinion maker has been
Approached by a fool and known
How to respond.

Many a fool has left with a borrowed
Notion and stumbled under
Its unexpected weight.

Many are the fool’s beloved who have
Witnessed their adored one and
Committed them under illusion.

Many are the illusionists who
Have scraped the gist of the
Trick off the floor and reused it.

Many are the masses who as one
Passed word of its casting and
Hooked themselves a mention.

Many are the mentioned who
Were forgotten by the politicians
Who adopted their advice.

Many an opinion maker...

BENEFIT

If everybody worked
How many people would
The council have to lay off
In their benefits department,
And then have to re-employ to
Work out the benefit for those now
Out of work, and unable to buy a cap.
And if everybody worked
What would become of those
Souls at the job centre, contracted
Out of their natural environments,
Customs & excise say, where they worked
For years before duty closed their house. What
Would they now do, having already been moved
As sideways as possible with nowhere left but down.
If everybody worked
What would the minister for
Employment do, or education for
That matter, because what would be the
Point of either if there was a constant supply
Of raw material for labour’s demands, regardless
Of intensive market forces or competitive foreigners.
And if everybody worked
What would we have to discuss,
Or moan about, or compare ourselves with:
Who would we frown upon and put down, whom
Would we deride or imply indolence of, or call work
Shy and worthless, how could we judge us improved or
Ladder scaled if everybody took their own dice throw and
Had nothing to fear from snakes.

BELOVED

Fair well within the hours I set aside
For your departure; dipping into my time if
Need be, but still leaving me enough to wonder.

On ship or shore or gangway planked between;
Unsure of whether coming or going or leaving
Would make up for the tide times I denied us:

More than twenty years, less than thirty, who’s counting?
Maybe the harbour master, but then he’s benefiting from
My indecision along with the fool who gained you.

And in all these years have you really been happy in
The company of second best, not that I was first, but
Compared to me he was less, and probably third or fourth.

So he sired with you a couple of scouts, and you moved
Out east, and he was probably more conventional than me,
But in reality that’s all, nothing we couldn’t have achieved.

I only wanted more, as I was filled with the dreadful unrest
Of youth and the conviction of the self deluded, but before
The reality could be consummated I left you to his pursuit;

You could have cast him swifter than I did you, if you felt the
Same, and told me how ridiculous I was; I didn’t need much
Convincing as I knew even before you how lost my cause.

But we don’t work like that do we, and we’ve spent our lives
Since at different angles to each other whilst being ruled
By similar values, whose lengths are still being contested.

ANTHERAL

It appears that everyone has got a
Statistic to attach themselves to,
And I don’t - for example:
One of our friends is allergic to something,
Whilst twice that amount are rotund,
And three million people have done things
That more than four fifths haven’t done.
And a sixth of us have bad circulation,
And a seventh have minds that are lost,
Whilst eight out of ten mystics are certain
That the ninth circle of hell has been crossed.
And eleven per cent have gone bust,
Whilst twelve provide cash on demand,
And those born under the sign of Ophiuchus
Have fourteen more outs in their hand.
Now you’ll get fifteen to one odds of dieing
From the sixteenth cigarette of the day,
Whilst seventeen year olds who can’t drive
Live eighteen more years that way.
And most play around at the nineteenth hole,
With twenty per cent less of their livers,
As twenty one million more bankroll
The twenty two million skivers.
And it’s been twenty three years since virginity,
And twenty four from graduation,
And if I don’t get a quarter of gin in me
I’ll not finish this dissertation,
And as I’m only twenty odd years away
From collecting my own residues,
I’ll make do with being fifty per cent of
The genders that make up the news.

NEAP

We began
To let the Ouse in,
And it puddled at our feet,
And over time
Its water line
Crossed over our streets.
And as it rose
Above our clothes,
Up to our wattled throats,
With one last breath
We dived beneath,
And left the world afloat.

CULL

Behind every shoulder
Was another soul’s head
Ready to take the place
Of the one in front,
And every face hung
Was held aloft and
Looking to see at what
Cost it would be sent.

Behind every shoulder
Was another emboldened
By the immovable
Frame before it,
And the knowledge
That they were made
Worthy for use by the
Price of their service.

EXODUS

And the wherewithal of it
Does not penetrate,
So its thrift wills itself
Forward to a place of
Greater purchase
To perform its elegance;
As the stages of nature confirm
Our migration,
Hibernation
Or death;
A blown open robe kind of revelation.

WORKING

Your vowels were a massive find:
Evenly encased in consonants
And brightly written alliterations.
My tendered ramblings identified
As the lading of a less spacious mind,
And tainted by sloth’s association.

Proudly used in defence of my
Workless ways, and supported by
The ordinary man’s tax burden,
Though fulfilling everyone’s ambition
For them regardless of whether
They sought or reported one.

For the sake of tired arrangements and
In the wake of understatements made
By the digressions of an ageing man,
I am stuck, but not for the trials of
Sticking or the act of trying to
Avenge the reliance of convention.

But still, the over riding unending
Knowledge that your simple doodles
Far outweighed my cart load;
But still, I try, endlessly attempting
More than failure offers in the hope
That what’s offered won’t fail.

SCRIPTURE

A simply written thing
Containing nothing new,
Perpetuating attitudes,
And continuing to do
The work of rule.

A complimentary scroll
Revealing no account
Of fundamental doubt,
Or unilateral bouts
Of allowance.

A verbal warning
Scribbled in reports,
Universally supported,
And exonerating
All distortions.

A conventional ledger
Elevated to altitudes
More able of view,
And containing truths
Too tall to disprove.

LOVE

Stretched
the longest syllable,
Stitched
it to itself,
Slipped
it on your window sill
To
help you with your health.

HERE.

Do something inappropriate today,
Like kissing your optician
As he leans over you,
Or tempting your dentist
With more than a smile,
Or returning the world to flora
In the least bit of garden.
Or use a hose pipe ban
To justify intemperance,
Or be damned good
To damaged goods,
Or worship the ground they walk on,
As they walk on,
Or guess how attracted you have to be
To still be attractive to me,
Or wonder why it’s a pity that the
Rest of you is not as pretty as your titties,
Or be here for the sake of someone else’s health,
Or have a fat back story and be all the leaner for it
And a rum away from jumping...
Or praise the government..
Or praise the government?
Or be ironic for a minute when
There’s no one to second guess you,
Or raise your titanic arse
Out of bed for a piss
And realise that you
Should have practised.

UNDEAD

No catafalque for me
Or fallen lintel bier to lie upon;
No beam of light available
To carry evidence of my prostration,
Or sight of grievers passing.

No pious land unbroken by a
Paddle’s dig or fire bothered
With a swaddled corpse;
The sea and air untroubled
By such mess as me.

The page still white
Awaiting any scrape of word
About my life’s essays,
And screen as blank as
Any programme crashed.

Town criers quiet,
Newspapers saved,
No obituary writers sighted,
As I appear to still be
Here, my dieing uninvited.

SPACE

Where does the border
Lie between our lands?
For though its line rules
Firm upon the page
It cannot be traced by
Sight across the ground,
And even to the many
Folk who step across it
Regularly with ease
It seems to have been
Laid uneasily.
Ordered to existence far
Across a tract of soil
Made specific by a
Pull of ink on paper,
But where no plough or
Hand scratched any mark,
Or white road signs or
Marking posts or even
Pissing dogs point out
How attention was
Divided.
And the manner of the
Language used left no one
Doubting the commitment
To its cause, under concreted
Yard stone, unseen for years
Worth, the dirt of early
Embers awaits a late return,
In case we dare uncross a
Foot and leave its print
Where someone else’s
Trod.

SLAVISH

An easily repeated town
In a time of waste;
An equal echo falling down
At pace.

Encircling a made up mound
Where from a voice debates,
And evenly along the ground
Migrates.

SHOOTINGSTAR

We wished upon a fallen star,
Amidst the broken trees,
That must have come down in the dark
Or just about to be;

For some of them collapse by day,
Where posts and pylons gleam,
And harry the trajectories
Of most terrestrial beings,

Or revel in the mesosphere,
And flicker for their worth,
Then quickly winking, disappear,
Before they reach the Earth.

But this brave body made it down,
And silent as a mouse,
And just before it came to ground
Demolished our house.

REALESTATE

As distinguished a view as you would
Wish to see;
With so many points of reference as
To require more eyes or independently
Swivelling ones:
Heady oscillations cycling around the
Planes existence in spiral time more
Accurate than has ever been possible in
Previous eras,
Sufficient rise and fall with fast and slow
And high and low fulfilling object markers,
Pointing out the cupules, and residues still
Swilling there, forgotten as the most
Momentous passed.
And those bowls no longer filled with
Life’s acrobatic micro organisms, now
Spilled from brims and lava flowed before
Them, have taken centre stage upon the face
Changing journey they characterised once
Made manifest.
Delivering up for every shape worth claiming
Copyright for or ownership of or extant
Fossil record in the sediment; the silts and
Clays and soils and grass and forest paths,
And deepest set foundations for the stilts and
Maze of coils and glass and deforested graphs
Of cheapest let.

LEGION

I was instantly wedged in the
Space between the airwaves;
On the left and the right and the
Front and back that were
Being forced towards me at once,
And even the prone in this crammed land
Deserve a decent leg to stand on.

And if life is so quick these days that
I don’t even have room to stand for
A piss, let alone space to sit down
And shit, then a sorry that isn’t a sorry
Once said will not excuse the situation;
Turning out of the crowded lungs about
Me, like vapour, and permeating mine.

I have only ten words left to use, but
Am afraid of using them in the name
Of fruitless causes five times a day,
And it’s important that the slide into my
Forties is not lubricated by my own body
Fat, though now blinkered, I’ll at least avoid
Being hood winked by my countrymen,

Who’ve all given thanks and shaken
Hands with credit whilst being shot to
The corners of their once battened down
Home towns, because in the centres there
Are powder burns and instant outbursts, old
Canons to feed where death bears shiny and sharp
Greedy steel and a vacuousness, a lack of us.

LAMENT

You look forward to augured attractions,
But back on tragic facts,
And the comedy and drama
Between are equally charming and black.

And once flowers cascade from your railings
And shrivel with age
Their awful condition supports
The futility of once sought courage.

For there in the ashes of grief and its guilt
Is tea leaf revealed the truth;
Where neither hope nor despair can divine it,
Forever entwined with her youth.

LULLED

All the morning’s headlines
Were repeated in the evening
Supporting everybody’s best endeavour;
Existences in check or checked in regularly
In-between points of repulsion more befitting
Magnetic poles,
When we thought us forceful.

Less busy, but more explicit with it,
Than the definition of its distance initially
Suggested, but once its content had skipped
Over us, and stitched the two ends of the day, we
Were left as always in the middle to expect the same
Tomorrow as before,
Where we hope to be driven.

INDIFFERENCE

You can race snails
Up and down my spine
All night long and I will
Still not feel you,

Or lie and falsify
A way to your truth
And fail to conceal
It in mine,

Or make a scratch
Upon the wax of my
Skin and not transmit
A needled word,

Or rearrange
The settlement of cloth
About me and expect
Me to accept it,

Or estimate my
Patience in comparison
To yours and sit back
To out stay me,

Or on leaving wait
A little longer than the
Moment affords and
Collect a last sensation.

ENVIRONMENTALHEALTH

Out of the mouths
Of fountains
Came the
Measurable truth;
Century flowed
And swept over
The lowest
Gathered granules
On its way to glory.
Cursed with a cure
For all ills,
But destined
For great use,
It stuck for an
Address to rest its
Weight when
Accidentally washing
Up against ours,
And obligingly,
Dragged with it
The grit that would
Replace our grist

FETOR.

There’s a stink all over town
That comes from baking Soya beans,
But smells more like making Soylent Green,
If you know what I mean.

HOME

You can never leave,
Though tried and seconded;
Attached to an elastic strap
That keeps slapping you back
Just when you think you’ve made it.

As lights go out daily
Here and are not replaced;
The fridge bulb always seems
To go first followed by those little
Known incandescent fish bowl filaments.

And faith in the fleeting
Path you crossed and doubled
Back upon in that glorious saturnine
Light soon left you in no doubt about
Your ultimate connection to its gene pool.

HAUNT

I live in a place of old history;
Seeded and suffused
With the residues
Of elsewhere’s mystery.

Not packaged or pawed
Or sensibly meant,
But sentient
Swept of accord.

Not ugly but frightful,
Smoke shadowed and damp,
With gas chambered lamps
At nightfall.

With beautiful bulkheads
At rest in their berths
Besides disused adverts
For comfortable beds.

Peopled by vagrants
Who have lived here forever;
Disinclined to relive
Their childhood’s transplant,

Though dire for outsiders
Who seldom come back
Because of the attractions
Provided.

INERTIA

Nothing is perfect.
There will be flashes
And passages of perfection,
But that’s it...
Studies will be made into
Its possibilities and the
Chances of a
Viable outcome...
The cost of its adoption,
And whether public or
Private wealth could
Finance it...
The benefits of selling
It to an apathetic
Population and likelihood
Of them buying it...
The effects of it upon the
Institutions of religion
And science and philosophy,
And why...
The reality of it in conjunction
With the rejection of
Facts and the ability to
Attract fiction...
And finally the alternative to it,
Which in essence is our situation,
And suffices, so why therefore
Waste time seeking solutions.

FILLED

The time drag
Once reviewed speeds past;
Though when renewed slows to a halt
Confronted by its vacuum packed gap.

Begun with a share of pressure
Equally sided and another hour
Slept, another brewed, another read, fed,
Sagged watching background radiation flicker.

Visits from unlisted family members,
Un-listened to in front of, hastened out,
Chased away to be faced another time more fitting.

Early evening news reports on several channels,
And memorable only for the prettiest presenters.
A lag of jet proportions before nine and then the
News again, in case you didn’t get it earlier or
Something unexpected happened in-between,
Though the text explained it better when you read it,

And bed again, regardless of its proper use:
Of sleep convicted
That on next reflection seemed to flit so fast.

CONTRITION

This sanity
I give to thee
Has therein words
Anew to learn,

As lividity
Performs for me
The act of
Its internment,

Whilst sanguine coats
Adore the throats
Of those who feed
Alone,

But are less motley
Once resorted to
Soaking up
Atonement.

DOGMA

Now the positive and often negative nature
Of small things lend themselves to the
Balanced dancing of nuance,
And all its positions.

And though the make up man often announces
A different set of available colours the
Palette is still held in less esteem
Than the brush.

CLAN

We have poor lung functions
From carbon expansions
And nitrogen sunsets;

Whilst ammonium compounds
Conspire in the tired ground
To worsen events.

The aggregate of various poisons
Irritates the eyes as a mass
Of evidence suggests,

And most researchers insist on clean linen
To breathe through as their bed shot
Eyes need screening.

MASS

An example of angles at ease with themselves,
Endlessly flexing their lengths of extent,
Statues chipped out from one mountain’s rock,
Drilled to perfection until the bit broke.

Clothed in the furls of a regular pledge,
Shouldered arms steadier than any regiment,
Cannonball jaws jutting rather than shot
And topped by the closest of hooligan crop.

As driven as rivers with spring’s rise in mind,
Surer than anchors weighed after the tide,
Airtight and seamless and pin repelling,
Strung to each other without any string.

Greater than any eighth wonder could be,
Straighter in stature than any draftee,
Stronger in skin and in vein underneath
And as still as a willing participants peace.

Wider than sides bridged by single suspension,
Broader than gorges gouged out of invention,
Deeper than depths filled with evil descending,
Higher than heights left for heaven’s ascending.

Whiter than any supremacist cause,
Edged with the colours of every rainbow,
As sexless as any androgynous seraph
And as ageless as time’s aftermath.

BONDAGE

I’m not afraid of the dark;
Only the things that move
under its cover,

Or spiders or sharks;
Only the ones that consume
their own lovers.

Or alien nations;
Only the fellows who exist
to remove them,

Or rubber striations;
Only the people of who try
to disprove them.

Or pious clubhouses;
Only the waiters who carry
the rations,

Or sexual espousing;
Only the thought of
castration.

WANT

Fish eyed,
And not fresh;
Fixed sight
Far-off fetched.
Quick dried,
And enmeshed,
This side
Of the fence.

Wish listed,
And condemned,
With shifted
Sediment.
Missed chances
Lamented,
But mixed risks
Prevented.

LANDFALL

The weather is no more severe
Than it was last year,
There are just more here
To be affected:
More people and places
Consuming the spaces
Previously in stasis
Or protected.

But the threshold is bracing
And tipped to be facing
A more ruthless fundraising
Than expected;
Fewer surfaces appear
With each auctioneer,
Though only the inferior
Are objecting.

BEACHED

The bonds of tolerance were stronger
Than he these days, but as long as the waves
Stayed in their trenches, and not too
Much silt was thrown his way, he was grateful.
The sky broke daily to allow its patrons
View of him, and he returned their favour by
Communing with genres and authors,
Regardless of status or popular demand,
Until bluster caught him off guard.

The storm tension tore strips of paper
From his old man’s facia,
Whilst his formal beach front clothes collapsed,
Weakened from within by such distress.
Four days faded beneath the weight
Of coastal duelling before he reflated,
And upon doing so he surveyed
The last rattle of death as it left the sand;
Swooning with a trickle of stolen silicon.

He swept the rest of the grit from his porch
And settled back down to his belongings,
Increasing his frame upon a lounger
Amidst the comfort of ruined cushions,
And after wiping his wind wrecked skin
With imprinted fingers,
He brushed his hair back, picked up his page,
And with a shrug of resolve
Assumed the position again.

BAPTISED

What does it matter
If we have our health,
Or fuzzy scatter of intelligence,
When peals of laughter
From a lantern’s wealth
Reveal the aftermath of deference.
So look at this glistening young thing,
Freshly vined and shuttled free,
Pure in vein and subtleties,
And tell me how much better
It would be
Heeled.

EQUALIBRIUM

Whatever equal opportunities are fashionable at any
given moment tend to throw me off balance;
contradicting my belief in self reliance and supporting
my fevered dislike of local environs. The oarsmen
of the apotheosis are no longer sought or ever likely
to be required as uncomplicated things have been
replaced by less elementary models with yearly upgrades.
Respect being a prime example: whereas once it was
twinned with simple things, and complimented them,
it is now expected in connection with urban ectopia;
utopia having been lost under the crust of me-dom.
A sugar coating glazes o’er the eyeballs of all the once
renowned, now above ground, selling coal to old coal
miners who used to receive it freely. Still when there’s
nothing left to burn to the right or earn from the left
we’ll be able to re-open negotiations with the pits,
as long as we wear our wet suits, by which time we’ll
all have been trained to hold our breaths. And balancing
the act of diving against driving, and walking against
slumber, and talking against any number of listening
devices attached to the walls will always win sympathy
from the lonely hearted and prevail even when they’ve
dabbled with love and still remained lonely hearted.
The shape you assume on your own is your own, and
all the better when spread evenly against another
of a similar view, but let’s face it love, it’s getting bare
out there; some sell insulation, and it’ beginning to
look like the approaching battle will be between those
who wish to penetrate or purchase it.

ADVENT

The morning bright and gorgeous
Formed before an imprint could adorn it;
Filling every corner of creations walkways.
Hesitation held us well beyond its threshold
Until every inch was covered twelve times over,
And then foot by foot allowed us out to touch it.
We swarmed forward with an order of intensity
Unseen for centuries until our infantry
Had altogether settled down for more,
And once grounded our abutments raised
Their tired and twisted arches to their
Fullest and broad sided reach to greet it.
It thanked us for our custom in its own unique
Tradition, which as always taught us more
About the act than the performance,
And then evenly sped on regardless of
The spreading throng before it, as today
We brought more people to applaud.
And as darkness left the space beneath our eye lids,
Followed quickly by the cold tip of its contact
And the cover of its weight,
The light shot through the hairpins on our skin
And swilled our blood a little quicker, and less
Thicker, than it had been whilst asleep;
The world was full in its pavilion and
Further than our sight would ever travel
Or dawn armies occupy,
And in eulogy its glory passed to
Our offspring who even in the halls of
Boredom turned to listen.

SIMILAR.

There were only so many perfect legs in the world,
The others being pillars,
Or mere stocking fillers,
And she had them all.

----------

She was the best unsupported
Actress at that year’s swollen
Globes awards for her performance in
More Ounce to the Bounce.

----------

She was a blind date
Who nearly saw out the night;
The kind of fate
That’s almost right.

----------

She had a corrugated flue tube,
And I, a concertinaed penis,
But when we got together
You couldn’t find a spark between us.

----------

She’s ripped your head off, and body legs,
And bit your arm bones thru;
Chewed into your torso tank
And gargled on your juices.

----------

A double ended broom handle
Was needed to keep her candles lit,
As her switch could not be flipped
By any normal creatures kit.

----------

Even her faith in terraced streets
Had faltered recently, whose lanes
Were strewn with the lazy waste
Of drunken fools playing house.

----------

She had less weight in her words than her face,
And the air of her actions embraced
All the breath in the room that emerged
From the latest admirer purged.

----------

She had to watch what she ate,
Well at least until it reached
Her lips, which incidentally
Were the first to cause fights in night clubs.

----------

She got busted by Customs
Coming home from France;
All that crash bang wallop bollocks
Made her think.

----------

She had a rather pinched aspect while walking,
And a perilous angle on the spot;
A rude undertone on the lean,
And was leaden aloud when she dropped.

----------

She was a rice picker,
A chicken plucker,
A duck stuffer,
And there were many more like her.

----------

Her amazing back balancing act
Was all the more spectacular for the fact
That her spine was at a ninety degree angle
To her abilities.

----------

She lay on her side
For her belly to slide;
Oh the salve, the lotion,
The friction of the motion.

----------

I whistled like a wolf,
But a cat replied,
Asking for the nature
Of my call.

----------

Her outline was etched onto the work bench
In the cellar, where mould had grown on
Months old sweat, so that when she left my
House her silhouette remained.

----------

The gap between best and next
Is a splinter of a second,
But she ended up last, on her arse,
With her broken legs to heaven.

----------

At the wedding do
We looked like two
Whales out of water
At a penguin party.

----------

Beneath the train was a single track with no other
Either side; apparently there was no way back
On this ride, though unlike flying, there were
No extra dimensions to die in.

----------

At my core
I have no pips to procreate,
Therefore she’s willing me
Fertility.

----------

She had to find somewhere
More plausible a place,
With a cause less
Visibly embraced.

----------

That flat mouth pout of hers told
You everything you needed to know,
As she hitched a tit up,
Like old ladies did.

----------

I slept all day
And worked at night,
As I couldn’t stand,
Let alone lay beside her.

----------

Please take note,
My fashionable friend,
That traditions will still be popular
When trends end.

----------

Do I approach you in your place of employment and
tell you what to do; if that’s the case then it must be
time for a woman or someone in a wheelchair, as
your paucity exhibits a richness of embarrassment.

----------

She’s fucked at night
Under covers,
Not in day light
By lovers.

----------

Surely the soul ages the same as all else,
All those badly weakened body parts
And disintegrating brains
Must expect the spirit to do the same.

----------

The first war was fought for colour,
The second aggression sight,
The third in time for summer,
The fourth conflict for night.

----------

Child, go back to the vacuum
Packed room you came from,
For death has left us a homework
Moment to resolve.

----------

The right cut of cloth,
And shape of stride,
Tight single vent,
And belly ride.

----------

He’s a right dirty man with blood on his hands,
But says that he’s a doctor,
Though I don’t believe him because I’ve seen him heaving
His smock up.

----------

The longest resuscitation scene
Since the last one left me
Breathless and gasping
Whilst trying to attract her attention.

----------

There was an unhealthy selection
Of things thrown in her yard,
Although it was nowhere
Near the road.

----------

There was no date upon her
As all her form was even,
But there’s not much worse
Than a plain blond worked on.

----------

This is about as far as you can fall
And still remain conscious,
But you have to remember that
One day you’ll rise again, though maybe this isn’t it.

----------

I try to date the damage
That’s been recently observed,
But like the corrosiveness of oxygen,
It has always been there.

----------

I’ll love again when Christians have passed,
And there is no Islam,
When Hindu’s forgo caste,
And Judaism psalms.

----------

The matchstick bridge,
Which from afar seemed whole,
Was splintering up close
And losing all perspective.

----------

What little spirit she had left
Feathered from her chest,
And leaked away
Behind her glass case.

----------

The molasses had been removed
From her roots too soon
For me to judge her flavour
As anything more than bland.

----------

She had a regular collection of facial scenery,
But once removed to other shores I could not convene it,
Though granted it must have had a semblance of style,
Otherwise we’d not be here discussing her appeal

----------

Her plastic masked face was set gleaming
By the thought of recording the semen
That was pumped up her raw liver chambers
By a thousand and one eager strangers.

----------

She lost her heart to a britches maker,
A pants creator, a crutch draftsman,
A knickers etcher, a fucking draws drawer.
Or was it her arse...

----------

She lived beyond the edges of the furthest peripheries,
And drifted into town in summer time,
To spread her rewards and that seasons’ syphilis,
And pickle our particulars in brine.

----------

She’s got disease that sees, to my
Displeasure,
That I get to breathe in the either of
Her treasure.

----------

Her patio was paved with gravestones
Whose words had long ago allowed
The wind to dust them down,
Obscuring their owners.

----------

One decision from oblivion,
Or uncontained thought,
A fissure in the vision
And a slip away from knot.

----------

Now I’ve given up my giving in,
And refused their refuse collection,
I’ve cradled the bow that I have broken,
And injected my own infection.

----------

As you thank all the people who came
You realize you won’t see them again,
Until one of their kinsmen is gone,
Or a child is submerged in a font.

----------

And if you feel you don’t belong,
Then come and join the club;
Membership is free for life,
But therein lies the rub.

---------- ----------

THIRTY

Happy endings
Are few and far between,
Even when it means
Bending the author’s ear.

A kind of loving
Is what comes over me
When I read this book,
And see it through again.

Look into me
And tell me what’s here,
For I don’t know.
The feelings are explored,
The ones more adored by lovers,
But they do not reveal their interiors.
In the arguments that linger there,
And hinder participation,
The conventional always surfaces,
From where it watches you
Remove the doorway’s
Lock.

A kind of loving
Is what I feel,
Is what comes over me,
And I’ve seen this film before.

TWENTY NINE

You know it’s said
It can be so,
If it says so.
I know it’s sad,
And yes or no,
On any throw.

If it gets through
You’ll be put down,
On its command.
Then we will mourn
Another one,
And then who knows?

So use your head
In any way,
And don’t delay,
And if it asks you
Where you have been,
Be swimming keen.

TWENTY EIGHT

Maybe it’s that what I’m in
Neglects a kind of anything,
I don’t know why it works.
Or possibly its altitude
Reveals the things my sight precludes,
I don’t know if it should work.
Day I can try,
But what is it you want me to say again now?

Could be that its smiling face
Can not see past its hiding place,
I don’t know how it would work.
Maybe that its zodiac
Is too wrapped up for looking back,
I can’t see why I bother.
Day I can try,
But what is it you want me to say to the cave men.

TWENTY SEVEN

I read a tale today about
A complementary frog
And an amicable prawn
Underwater;
Aqua marine land drop out
And famous crustacean of kinds.

Frog popped up for some air
For his skin,
And afar, on the nearby land a rare
And larger kind.
He dropped back down again,
Leaned towards his tasty friend
And spoke in froglike tones
About the aggressive hormones
Necessary to vandalise
The false idols of the
Big fools.

But suddenly from the air outside
A width of water opened wide,
And as it got brighter
A shape from out the light
Descended to the two.
It slopped and hopped on the
Water gravel bed,
Bloated to offend,
Intellectually incompatible
With the frog and his friend.

The frog withdrew a step,
A skip, a jump or two,
And back sided the prawn
In hot water,
It was the contemporary toad
Who sloth before them.

Thick of skull
And thick around,
The largest rival to be found.
He spoke quite slow,
But so direct,
He had discovered that he was next.
He asked why,
But the frog could not deny
That it was true.

You see they had decided to purge
The water,
And redeploy those that ought
Not to be seen frolicking
In the underwater scene
With the rubber monoliths
Every Sunday;
In the morning rays
With their rope nets,
And therefore he was next.
The toad bloated again,
Intellectually incompatible
With the frog and his friend.

The toad broke down,
To his haunches he fell,
To the same spot where
The prawn was entrenched,
And asked
What was the shell fish connection?
The frog confirmed
That their vote had been sought in order
To help them in the forthcoming election,
And pass the official injunction
To class the toads function
As a legal rich man’s luncheon,
And have nothing to do with them
When they wanted elsewhere’s help,
And kick them out of the froth
And into the above
To cement their love
With their
Intellectually compatible equals.

A good tale,
Straightforward end,
The toad ran screaming,
His hide a’ steaming,
To find another story,
With elocution lessons to gain,
Intellectually incompatible
With his water land kin.

TWENTY SIX

There is a man with his
Face in snow,
Counting as the world bides
The windward side.
There is another man
Facing him,
With a tenderness,
Embracing hale for the game,
As it goes on.
On his back with a laziness,
Comes out for the night,
People think him crazy.

There is a man whose
Face is snow,
Hand is snow,
Standing cold.
There is another man
Facing him,
Looking drawn,
As stuck as stone
That newborn.
The snow will always fall,
And you’re asking us to turn away
And shun it all and love what?
The wind has no love for the white,
But who are we to take sides.

TWENTY FIVE

Don’t screw with me
Flattery,
Or you’ll
Be in the
Coal house with the TV;
You see
I got her here with me.

Don’t mess around
Unwanted noun,
Or you’ll
Be in the
Earphones with the sound
Surround,
I got her here in town.

Don’t stay up there
Fallen hair,
Or you’ll
Be in the
Fingers of the fair,
Take care,
I got her who don’t care.

You see,
She already packed off philosophy
With a spade on the head
And a hole by the tree, beneath the shrubbery.

So don’t fool with the why,
Mystified,
Or you’ll be
More incoherent
Than denied,
Don’t cry,
I got her who ain’t shy.

Don’t stay on the table
Tangled up cable,
Or you’ll
Be in the
Barnyard stable
Attached to a lable,
I got her who’s quite able.

Don’t pull at the curtain
If you are uncertain,
Or the battery
Of philanthropy
Will empty itself
And return to the shelf,
And be laughing a while,
And be throwing a smile,
Aiming to undermine
The inclined
Like yourself.

You see
She already packed off eternity
With a spade on the head
And a hole by the tree, beneath the shrubbery.

Please douse your flame
You spellbound dame,
Or you’ll
Be in the
Mincer with the maimed,
Be sane,
I got her who ain’t tame.

Don’t burn your books
My apprentice cook,
Or you’ll
Be on the
Next outward bound hook
That was chucked
By her who don’t look.

And so please tell us how
Unwanted cow,
Or we’ll
Be in the
Country’s last bow,
And I got her here,
And she’s spitting now.

You see,
She already packed off modernity and maternity
And uncertainty and everything else of me,
With a spade on the head,
And a hole by the tree, beneath the shrubbery.

TWENTY FOUR

To find yourself
You must enter through the head;
Clearing eyes,
Under air tunnels,
Rounding a bend
Where elsewhere ends,
By a memory
Long dismissed,
And into the heart of the mind
Where hither is,
And has defined
The start of yourself.
Onto the edge
Of the id’s home,
Tiptoeing quietly
To bolt from its hold,
And fleeing anxiety,
Schizophrenia’s lair,
Paranoia’s there too,
And disorder and stress;
Passing acquaintances
No time to address.
Faster and further
And finer until
The last of the mind,
Has been defined
By a boundary line.
But where is spite,
The source of all fear,
Took a vacation
Says aunty sanity, oh dear,
We’ll have to wait another year
To be submerged under its hand,
And recommended surgery.

TWENTY THREE

On this night I sit
Looking at the bay;
Over the inlets
Of a tired sea
I find me
With the things that offer most,
And wonder if your life could see me now between the
Curtains of all this
Then would it arrive in time to take my sting out of
Its hide.

And by dawn the bridge
Carries me to you;
Over inlands,
And renewed grounds,
To where you sleep in your silk
With eyes wandering, and I
Wonder if I’m in there too.

Money talks more times
Than it cares to hear
Who is near
Or touched by it;
Wait it will pass,
But you seldom
Ask the creditors,
For you are happy in your wisdom now you say that
Life is long
Enjoying what you have and not withholding
Altruism,
But I’m too drawn to arrive today and stop it surging
On ahead.

TWENTY TWO

Blood red
Fuel from the fuselage
Is spilling on my feet,
I see a face with some fire,
Shimmering through the heat haze;
He touches a torch
To his surroundings,
And is fried without a sound.

I see a monochromed dictator
Taking dictionaries round,
He slips and falls,
And breaks his monocle;
Banging his head as blood spills on the ground.

I see ten people with a nest egg,
Held up towards a man,
He rushes them, books at his side,
They side step and throw the egg,
It cracks on him and turns him pearly white.

I see a black sheep lambing
People by the pair,
Eventually there’s nigh on ten,
They gather round, produce an egg,
And the mother goes on producing people elsewhere.

I see a slaughter house assistant,
Slicing gizzards on his shift,
He does these dirty doings everyday,
He sees a pregnant woolly sheep in labour,
Decides they need all the help they can get and leaves.

I see a woman waking up
And baking all day long glass ware,
She pushes husband abattoir man
Out of the house,
Who takes his cut throat razor and his snap.

I see a man cooked like an egg;
He’s scrambled, hard boiled or poached whole,
And the sadistic victim of his own malice,
Whilst setting fire, his goals conspired,
And marked the man with avarice.

Before he went
He saw a woman sleeping in her bed,
He shoved her in the head and said
Get up and make some cups today.

For everything done
Comes back to you
In a circle as vicious as vice,
Sometimes it’s sweet,
And sickly so,
Sometimes it’s not so nice.

TWENTY ONE

I did what? When?
Not me then.
I would not do
That to you,
You see
It’s not quite me.

Baby I wouldn’t take your prize.
What kind of man do you think I am?

What ledge? Where?
Not me there,
I wouldn’t throw
That under you,
In fact
Please retract
Those remarks
That hark back
To when we were kids again.

But I would never even ever displace you.
What kind of man do you think I am?

What now then,
Well maybe, when,
But I wouldn’t
Tell you so.
You’ll see it when it blows,
But the wind is weak,
As you would have me believe
Are many things.

Boy, I wouldn’t never ever displease you.
What kind of woman do you think you are?

TWENTY

You’re in a paper bag trying to get out,
Whilst outside is air that is trying to get in,
And if on the off chance you happen to set yourself free;

Then there’s a peer on TV who’s trying to get out too,
Hoping to get inside your head and shape it.
He’s got brass that belongs on a pirate’s box,
Not yours, but one entrenched in servile time;
He’s unperturbed by the laws laid down to govern this,
Or strengthen that or lengthen terms earned in-between,
Never been a better time to lay down with colleagues,
Licking his lips with a tongue he’s painted with.

Some sort of Lord with an outlandish reputation,
Works in the big house where they pattern persuasion,
He’s got the right face to take advertisement,
And deputise a highway man.

NINETEEN

It’s the kind of thing
That happens without
You realising that it has;
Too seldom for once in a while.
I say
What a lovely place to go
But I wouldn’t want to stay,
But then again, maybe:
To be sat somewhere,
Next to someone,
Watching something
And smiling;
It’s that kind of thing.

EIGHTEEN

If you ain’t seen me for days,
Don’t think twice or be amazed,
I ain’t joined a tender craze,
Not been in no micro waves.

I just been a keeping me,
Hidden from humanity,
Underneath the sand and sea,
In the basement with fruit tea.

If I happen by your place,
Wearing some familiar face,
Knotted with a broken lace,
Not in much of any haste.

Take me in and sit me down,
Knock me out and bring me round,
Smooth the crease out of my frown,
Take me out up on the town.

But do not prop me up the wall,
You may find I’m not so tall,
Find my tare weight is too small,
And leaves me slouching in the hall.

And upon arriving home,
If we are not quite all alone,
Talking to appearing bones,
Quickly exercise your phone.

And don’t let me out your eye,
Don’t you dare kiss me goodbye,
Or try to elevate my sky,
For if you do I might just die.

SEVENTEEN

Amber light from my glasses
Reflected on your arm;
Listening for our backbones, and
It’s hard to concentrate
With unordered clouds above
And chords of anchored love;
What weather the weak bring,
And what warmth will spill
Within our caravan.

SIXTEEN

I wish it was
Like this there now,
Or like that
Was then today;
I know what I mean,
I believe what I say,
I say what I like,
And I like it.
I wish it was
Like it was then,
Here today,
And aired.

FIFTEEN

Out in the bottom of the
Cold winter garden
Is a little lonely wooden hut;
Inside this standing building
Sleeps your tall frame,
In your tweed coat.
Morning awakes in this
Cold winter garden,
Albeit prudential,
In suburbia sweet.

Sleeping past tense in this
Post frozen garden,
In a little morning rut.
Get up and go back to your indoors,
Where your woman is playing.
Creeping softly from this
Mild winter garden,
In time for retention,
And passed potential;
Back into your woodhouse.

FOURTEEN

Running round the block at pace,
Tell tale signs upon your face,
Displaying openly that you are
Not the man you used to be, and
Always one for vanity, and
Do deny the rumours that your
Lover turned you out.

And she left you long ago,
With another’s love in tow,
And because this sad experience
Of marriage slit your throat you
Knew that you would have to start
A campaign to entice the girls
From even younger worlds.

As the good years passed,
As your health relapsed,
Started talking to a fish eye mirror
As your harvest failed,
As old age prevailed,
You took up exercise with such a
Fervour that you really shouldn’t have.

THIRTEEN

Listen can you hear me,
Listen;
For there is a place
That we all can go.
Open hearts are so full,
But opened
Their sides bleed until
Your tears tell me more.
Have faith in me, as I have,
In the strength of our love
To enter all the places it was once denied access.

Never be afraid,
Never,
Do all the things you feel
You’ve always wanted to do.
Softly do you hear it?
Softly;
The fall of a guard,
A single restraint,
Listen it says,
Come in love,
Come in peace,
Here is a place where only nothing else remains.

TWELVE

’85 lipstick on
’86 lips,
Kissing through the years
As the clock strikes twelve.
A New Year revolution:
No swearing,
Or rowing,
No flagrant
Kowtowing,
Or bended knee
Bowing,
Or looking at beautiful women
Who aren’t you,
For even though they may catch my eye
That’s as far as I’ll rely on nature,
Or be prey to its features,
Or dress it up in a hobby’s sunglasses,
Because you are my lass
And from now until the end of time’s passage
You will be.

ELEVEN

Are you implying that I am an optimist,
Or are you just hoping for the moon?
Are you aware that by using such tricks as this
You might not get past the afternoon.
What gives you the right to slander me in this way?
And call me such names I’ve never heard.
In defaming my character what will the
Right minded members of society say,
As they shun me, and believing every word,
I’ll lose my tie,
My shirt,
My pension,
My friends,
My dwelling’s roof
And gable end,
My calls and most of all,
When the day ends, my self respect;
Who the hell will you call bad names next?

TEN

There’s a debarking certificate
Attached to my heart
Telling all that its surface
Has stripped and departed.
Acting captains seldom resort
To the kind of dirty tricks
I’ve just been taught,
And to state the obvious,
The weather was there,
Falling through the summer cloth
I chose to wear,
Whilst the central parting of
Our ways was conducted
To a baton waving beat,
Played by an inconsistent
Orchestra to a crowd
Of lumberjacks.

NINE

The void engulfs you
Within a minute;
The ever present
Void surrounds,
Flouting
Space within
And full ‘til you come down.
The highest feel
In the world of your room and yourself;
That ceiling cling,
That cobweb sheen.
Return to the start and the birth and all else.
And a caller registers you,
Or is it reversed
With a sharp reply
That brings you around.
The telephone ringing
Tells of the time needed to answer it;
Its voice singing more
Than you ever thought beautiful
And resolute and true.

EIGHT

Pig in the middle,
Being panned around
From speaker to speaker;
Arguing on the airways
Somewhere out there,
Wearing their interests bare.
I got onto A,
A sends me to B,
B returns to A,
Now hold on here I say:
You say you’re not liable,
She says she ain’t viable,
So who the hell’s reliable?
So B got back to A,
A sends him away,
So quite defiant B
Gets back onto me.
Well I tell you, I’ve had enough of this,
So I slam the phone down.
Then the boss rapped me,
So I posted him my notice.
Then I got onto you, my friend
From way beyond,
And asked for your advice.
Sorry, says your wife,
You can’t come out today,
You’re painting her spare room,
You can’t come out to play.
So I slam the phone down,
And now I’m sick in the middle
Without either end to take my place.

SEVEN

A windy river bank
Early in May,
Spring’s rinse at bay;
A very cold afternoon,
Whose sun couldn’t come too soon,
And everything blows open clearly,
And grows very freely
To a height that nearly
Is big.

A windy windy river bank,
Well into the year,
And sunned nowhere near;
Small trees with names carved in,
Where lovers might have been,
And bandstands sound so much older,
And appear more lonely
When the weather is colder,
As now.

A very very nearly summer’s day,
And all of an hour
Until moonlight devours,
And unveils how
Every bold figure
In this wind will wither,
And anybody who still stands
Will be blown beyond this land’s
Archive.

SIX

So educate my people better,
And with most urgent methods,
But teach them more than words,
Teach them deeds;
The selling as well as buying,
Teach them history’s triumphs
As well as mistakes,
And don’t make them responsible for either.
Yes we should treat each other fairly and squarely,
But some of us still need our edges planing,
And political chisels don’t cut it at the moment.

FIVE

It’s a very early Sunday morning
In between two sunny days;
There are birds singing and people yawning,
Somewhere,
But not here.

I’m on the floor in a bed,
With an Italian woman I only just met,
And I’ve never been fed
Anything
Like this before.

She says “Have you had many lovers?”
I say “No.”
“Did you ever want many lovers?”
“Yes”
“Do you want me?”
And my heart stops, like I just lost my life.

In our berth the ice is broken,
And we start the story of our lives,
And it’s like nothing ever spoken,
Anywhere,
To anyone.

And in the end we sleep at dawn,
By which time we’re down to endearments,
And it’s like it’s not so late
Anymore,
Like it always was.

FOUR

Would time be dismissed
If your lips skipped a kiss?

Or tenderness hailed
If such peck prevailed?

Or symmetry locked
If either stopped?

Or imbalance lost,
With the drops.

THREE

Little world
Lest you see the like again
Do not spurn him so.
Little world
Open up your residence and shower him
With all the treasures of your station.
Show him, little world,
Show this child what there is
Of good and kind and enterprise;
Smooth his mind’s confusion,
Sooth his soul’s refusal to remain,
Extol his gifts,
And know,
Little world,
That there are no more like him due;
No wombs capable of bearing such
And then releasing, no age able to
Hear much of this heart beat,
No hole deep enough to cover
His escape,
Because,
Little world,
You are the combination
Whilst he the key.

TWO

Dismiss me
And I would faithfully be alone;
I would miss me more than you.
All the milling hours
That we would never spend together
Would entomb an instance,
And in some distant future an eminent archaeologist
Would come across a frozen space
With words like “Here lies…”
Chipped under, and me inside
Still new;
Smooth of face and grandly thatched,
Trapped by a rash of youthfulness,
Mouthing miss you.
Don’t leave me ever;
Not for me, but for you,
Because you wish to stay,
Because you do not want to see me encased
In such cold raised in your name,
And in doing so spirit stripped
And mingled with myth;
Do not miss me.

ONE

Would it be I were
Engaging,
Would it keep you here?
Would you still be keen?
Would another word
Secure you,
Or crystallise
Your allergy.

Would it be I were
Consuming,
Would you sing my praise?
Would that you could sing.
Would it be I were
Unworthy,
I would understand
You’re reserve.

Would the sun resign
To crying
If the moon was bright,
On the gravest day.
Would the Earth
Run dry
If the gods above
Refused to sleep.

INTRODUCTION

I found a fragile manuscript one day
Whilst tidying for posterity my chambers;
Leaf fallen from a cloth eared
Depository and gathered at my feet.
Once lifted for replacement its
Cracked and crumbling structure
Caught my eye; heaving staves,
Once catgut strung, were bowed
Loose by the wilted stems of heavy
Notes, whilst bass and treble clefs uncurled
Into abandoned rests and dynamics
Appeared to have been dismissed
In favour of less formal script.
I took pity on the smeared screen,
And in my current state of cleaning
Cotton picked each piece and laid
Them gently out to hydrate and
Revive; thereafter planting them
Carefully along a fresh trellis etched
Upon a crisp new parchment, where
Hopefully they were correctly noted,
With new bars to bind them firm,
And left to grow.