Scorn

My business has many ways to express scorn:

the Lighting Cameraman who couldn’t

light a box of matches; the

Director who couldn’t

direct traffic; the

Producer who couldn’t

produce his prick from his trousers.

 

But you have refined scorn to a

simple glance.

Sun/Shade

Protecting myself from the heat

I have built a

shrine of shadows.

Empty Dancefloors

There’s this invisible

iron rod between us

ten feet long so

when I move you

move too in a

perverted mirror of

how we danced once on

empty dancefloors.

Pass the Parcel

Women confuse men:

it’s a gift, one I have been

trying all my life to unwrap,

unsure what might lie beneath the

final crumpled fold.

A Simple Act

After so long of course you can

irritate sometimes just as I can be

your irritant but today we met

one of the two pearls that are

products of our joint irritants and later

walking London’s sticky streets we

made each other laugh and

forget the press of problems by the

simple act of holding hands.

Missing in the Multiverse

We are multipresent in the multiverse,

always online, available as

avatar or bare-faced,

named or anonymed, at the

press of a key or a button

emailed, messaged, skyped, blogged to

so many it’s hard to know who you have

missed, why they might be

missing, whether you will be missed when

you go missing.

“Night and Silence”

The distant shudder of a helicopter

drifts away and I find myself amidst the

most perfect silence:

it is barely midnight and yet

every house is dark and blank and

even the motorway is void of vehicles.

 

Am I alone then in

relishing this absence of noise, this

empty pail waiting to be filled with

thoughts and doubts and

dark desires under the

stars and clouds?

What is Summer Worth?

The weather chases itself about the Earth.

People curse it, “what’s it worth

buying such gaudy summer stuff

to see it locked up in a shed,

bedecked with dust and fluff?”

 

Madonnas by Firelight

The warm Spring made us think of camping and the
boys built a big fire to keep
Spring’s heat alive into the night when some
berk with a Blackberry found it was
Beltane when it behoved us to dance
naked round the flames and we hooted and
laughed and shouted “NO!” but the
bottled beers and the craik
cracked our shells and clothes were shed with
whoops of embarrassed excitement and we
danced naked in the firelight, even
podgy Judy looked amazing with her
tits flying, our hair
whipping round our faces and the
sparks from the fire shooting up as our
boys revealed mens’ erections and
Spring ended up properly fertilised.

Cairn

Time began when we discovered death,

stopped leaving lost ones to be

stripped bare by nature on

barren savannahs but

hid them instead and began

wondering what became of them.

 

Did they remember where they were,

the dead? Count Moons between the

cycle of food sources? But where in a

bare landscape could a

scraped grave be marked but with a

stick or a stone.

 

Maybe on their travels some

special stone caught the eye, was

kept and carried, treasured, laid on that

suddenly recognized place which,

repeated year on year became the

cairn of all our religions.