Monthly Archives: December 2013

Recycled Paper

I bought a ream of recycled paper, and

wondered what a palimpsest of

junk, bills, final demands, mail returned

“unknown at this address”, missives or

pleas sent to God, wish-lists to Santa,

love-letters rejected

unopened or unreceived my

love-letter lay upon.

Seems

“Seems”,Madam! Nay it is; I know not “seems”.

                                           Hamlet, Act 1 Sc.2

 

This way and that, things seem:

as the Moon seems sometimes

happily hammocked, sometimes

threateningly red; or when

clouds seem like camels, or

whales, or weasels; friends

like enemies, enemies friends;

seems implies fantasies, illusions,

wishful thinking, poetry perhaps;

seems is a pseudonym of

self-delusion or the pious hope that

seems will not end up ripping apart the

seams of one’s life.

 

Exhaust Fumes

She saw her life ebbing away—

with what? A sigh, a shrug, a

‘well that didn’t work did it?”–when

after the hard flush of change

she found there was still

gas in the tank, oil oozing,

hot stares in shop and street like

jump-leads firing her battery, the

engine idling, waiting for her

foot on the pedal to roar away from

husband, children, problems,

seeing them in her rear-view mirror as

shadows on the living room curtains

hazed with her exhaust fumes.

Heff in Epping

No one much likes Heff but

fuck me can he fix a car! We

left him with that

shunted Lexus? Christ,

good as new next day!

Hot as fuck in the workshop,

had to open all the windows and

doors through which

Madam appeared in full fig—

shit, how did that stunner

marry my fucking mechanic?

I bet he could get disability benefit, the

shape he’s in, and she’s

six foot tall, built to fuck,

tits like melons just

begging to be held while you

rut her from behind—OK,

guilty, I’ve had her, not

proud but—what a fuck!

 

Heff’s buried in a bonnet but

her eyes are elsewhere—“Trevor?”

–black guy, big, say no more—

“there’s a rattle in my Beamer,

could you take a look?” And he’s gone

like a rat up a drainpipe as I

watch her arse swing away,

dreaming of what I would do to it,

turning into Heff’s blank stare—

shit, do I go red or what?—but the

funny bugger just mutters

“Hot hammer, cold anvil” and

limps off to get tea.

 

What the fuck does that mean?

Winterized Heart

It took her some time to

winterize her heart but

once done Winter couldn’t

come quickly enough.

The Magic Hour

Image

The Magic Hour is when

film-makers get impatient,

photographers fumble with their F-stops,

lovers stop to kiss, people

close their curtains, oblivious, and

old poets slip out to gawp at those

slippery seconds when day is

confused with night.

 

Spite

Spite—from the Old French “despit”,

contempt, “despiter”, show

contempt for, though sometimes we

do things in spite of (in

contempt of the consequences?) or

despite (in fear of the same?) some

thing from which

we seek respite.

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