I wondered if these
brain-babies would be
born deformed with all this
Thalidomide I’d ingested, or
whether they’d just be
differently-abled, better
perhaps than my old self at
working out who or what or
where or when or
why.
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“Ow”
“Ow” wasn’t quite cutting it, wasn’t
getting my point across, and
modulation, tone, timbre all
ran like raindrops off the
PPE surrounding me until
my body twisted my “ows” into
bellows which cowed the
bustling E.D. into an
unnatural silence.
“Ridi, Pagliaccio….”
Some days, on a day like this,
I feel the coarse stuffing coming out
of my side and torn places like
tissues someone’s wept in.
Whenever I look there’s a
miserable offstage harlequin
sharpening his knife,
looking for his wife.
I know I could kill him
just by laughing at his jokes,
but I don’t want another body floating
in the false-blue pool in the backyard.
Days like these are like a long Unseen,
a test with no answers, taken endlessly.
I would go out but the streets are full of
pretty girls striding with a masculine gait,
aggression oozing from each drop-dead pore:
I’d kiss you but I’d cut myself!
So, it’s another shitty day in Paradise
where even the flowers smell of nothing
and great causeways of silence cross
the still lagoons of afternoons.
I will offer my ghost a drink but not a chair
for ghosts don’t…
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Life Curves
I knew behind those clouds were
stars, just the ones I could see, and
behind them stars and stars and
yet more stars
but so what when
life is almost but
not quite, close but
no cigar? Well maybe
half-empty or half-full
life curves away from
mystery to the
stone kicked, the
moment we have all felt when
our dreams must
give way to a
different reality.
Chiromancer
I’ve read your palm so many times:
holding your hand on that first date and
now walking London streets; after
sex when touch seems so much more
intimate; even now when
intimacy has gone but your
slender hand seeks mine in the
silence of sleep but despite
knowing it so well I still
cannot read your future, nor
mine.
White Noise
Each flake absorbs one
microdecibel of sound
squeezing the air silent
all the botheration
compressed by coldness into
white noise released
distortedly in the
sharp crunch of a
well-shod foot.
At the Dark Ends of the Day
A very early poem
At the dark ends of the day I burn dim lamps
to bathe my face in the refractions of an empty page.
This eucharistic light, these cigarettes, quieten me,
though candles never yet raised a corpse.
But if I should sleep the pasts close in,
heavier than blankets, more stifling than Summer,
from which world I return haggard
as from the Harrowing of Hell.
So each cigarette is my prayer (should God exist)
to let me rest or let me write, while the
shape in the bed mumbles, “Come and sleep”,
and my body trembles at the summons of my Queen.
But the King must answer the endless question,
“Sit I thus upon my throne and cannot rule my page?”
Unanswered, I find myself praying,
“Lord of all I don’t perceive,
receive me now.”
The Realm of Sleep
That day, run ragged by rugby,
telling my mother I just needed a
moment’s rest on the sofa, sleeping like
sleep was newly invented and I was
taxed with testing it to destruction,
waking a day later, life having
manoeuvered around me as I
ran riot in the Realm of Sleep.
New Music
You complain that my music is
too loud, too discordant, too
new, implying that I am an
old fool fumbling to stay hip,
whilst you embalm yourself in the
music of your youth where you are still
golden, naked and available with
none of our history ahead of you.
Mind
I wondered if my mind would
mind my desperate attempts to
find, amidst the flotsam of
jottings, the flutter of
post-its stuck everywhere,
unsticking whenever I
open the door,
littering the floor,
whatever it was I
set out once to do.
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