....
7am
it's a relief when closing the door the washing machine white noises the radio
as the kettle moves to steam she drops a tea bag in the mug dusts the rubber plant
detente failed she gathers socks from under teenage beds harrying wakefulness
it amuses her between cycles and steam to hear that women want a penis
the tea hits a biscuit shaped spot
....
always
it's always the same people
sewing tabards, plaiting hair
painting signs for the carnival
you see them on cake stalls
pouring teas, friendly smile
counting coins for the PTA
or lopping at brambles
in the churchyard, planting bulbs
clearing up the litter
always the same
always the same people
always the same
....
art day
it's art day up on the ward
some are bored most are ignored
but look at the work of david lord
doesn't he capture it well
the way he tugs at emotion frayed
exposing the frailties of which we are made
of course it helps he trained at the slade
but doesn't he capture it well
never mind ahmed who drools in the paint
the pinhead so backward he thinks he's a saint
a jin to his family of which he's a taint
he doesn't capture it well
or poor old jim with his terrible life
a moral imbecilic who never took wife
who carves up his arms when he gets hold of a knife
he doesn't capture it well
but look at the work of david lord
the man is adored for daubing on board
yes yes salons cry as they stand to applaud
doesn't he capture it well
....
bradford.1
skint, I had enough money to get into see jules
and have a drink
I was yet to adopt the face
so when a whore accosted me, with a sob story,
out came a my change, looking for 20p,
and by the time she cackled into the night
I had enough money to get to see jules
I learned the face
and when she tried it again
I just said 'you've done me before'
and we had a laugh
or when I'd had enough of debt collectors
and ended up at linfield mount
I couldn't lie when asked how I felt
'fucking ace'
well you would on an overdose of anti-depressants
change your number
advised the police
and it was all over
but that's bradford i'n't it
it's a shithole
why lie
and the hills are hard work
but like that old woman
I used to see every morning
with a mouth which held too many fags
it's honest
you can't help loving it
....
camp napowrimo
what? what? you can shut up... well...
they ride up in this weather.... do they lady?
she should know.... daffodils, daffodils
what? If it's my teeth, that's not my fault...
yes, yes, make something of that why don't you.
Oh she's sharp, sharp... daffodils.... what?
shut up.... well it's not nice... not here...
where was I? daffodils.... has he gone?
has he gone? come here come here,
not that close - you'll break my pen....
daffodils, daffodils, yellow trumpet.... yes, yes....
don't get ahead of yourself dear...
you'll get us closed down.... is he gone...
has he? you've got to keep an eye out...
oh look she's got a false one... her eyes... her eyes...
daffodils.... oh yes... you've got to keep an eye out
or he'll slip in round the back... filthy minds the lot of you.
daffodils, daffodils, yellow trumpets
swing spring with louis armstrong
cheeks puffing pollen sweet
ah, ah. you didn't think I had it me did you?
be honest.... oh I've had it in me...
what? what? you'll get us closed down
shut that door....
....
cheri
the pink blossom cherry
does not ask permission
nor care for latin names
- it simply knows
to shine before the leaves
and words appear
....
coppery lunch
over lunch - it was that kind of place -
she asked me which poets I admired
so I reeled off the names - but she shook her head -
apparently versifiers on t'internet don't count -
so I said blake - as he was the most likely
to pen an elegant poem in 140 characters
but then pope was also a genius at that sort of thing
- and he could be mucky - which is always a plus
with the reddit crowd - god knows
I've read reams of sylvia plath
on those coded websites with white text -
she stopped me - to point out -
- and having done so - smile wiped -
we ate some fashionable version
of old style peasant food -
nicely presented -
....
dawdling
laying here - stroking your back - as you sprawl snoozing
it strikes me how much you have grown
though you are still small enough to ride mahout on my shoulders
and tug reluctant on my arm when shopping
your face when sleeping carries those babyish curves
you pull the heart at the smallness of perfect
but you are definitely growing
just as I get used to the slim child
you grow chubby
branch out and up
and a new slim child appears
you tell me that one day you will be taller than the sky
I can wait
for I love the smell of your hair
....
dead sheep in the grass
haunch polecat picked -
a butterfly suns it's wings
on a bed of off white fleece
- through the hole
green-fly guts
femur licked clean
bone mottled stage prop
invites profane inspection -
by the time I prepare the camera
the butterfly has flown
without pathos
only - pornography - lies
....
easter
between day and night
we dip our toes in clouds
pull the sun from hiding
put it in a pocket
warm our fingers
for here
above the normatives of time
above the rain
among the purple stirring heather
where all light slumbers
for here
we stretch out arms
in celebration
....
eli
pink morning rises laced with tongues of birds
calling 'eli eli why do you so awake me' -
as it is now - so shall it be and always it was
- the trees know this - and so I say love -
and so in ripe summer will I lick the flesh
of the peach you offer - for love - for love
is that passive moment of first tasting
when only now is and is always or ever will -
and all is new and known - the daisy knows this -
....
hanging
judas wants to go to tescos
easter money burns his pocket
in drizzling rain
we enter the garden
slipping from the wash of traffic
into the silence
of running water
'listen' I say
as he tip toes away on exagerated feet
from tree to tree
they sing
in sweetness marking territory
a dog barks twice
....
only now
yes - we could do no other
and to those others against whom
our wrinkled brow increase - lines laughing -
or pulled sour as over-briny gammon -
there was only the word - or reflex
around our eyen - caught in thought -
a perplexity of wronged reply
for caged within the accidentalities of life
- with our frailties and falseness
those petty fears and fear of success -
we all know st peter - and
none can forgive but oneself
...
opening
this morning
as I walked into town
a pregnant woman
bloomed
her face sepalated
filaments
anthers
rose petal perfect
I smiled back
pupil to her iris
....
paralax
between the end of bits and bobs
tanners and shillings
and the shaving of corners from lanes and roads
michael holding paces out his run up
bare chested
sunglasses
red shorts
big arsed rolling shouldered gait
whiff of a brylcreem
brothel creeper bounce
a pint of beer in each hand
'look mum there's dad'
....
point
bow bell swings -
tri-banded sky in blackness
as
soft bank yielding cut
opens
dawn in wide sea mouth
a single gull dives to catch
green fish
washed in pilot lights
....
soft centre
the ward is surgically unthreatening
rubber soled squeak
high backed support chairs
hold the condemned erect
amid the tea cups and grapes
low voices hum with the light
through the window grey sky
lifts the sparse cheer of the crowd
looking down he sees a forward
stretch, miss, slide past the post
taking another untouched roses
he wonders whose blood is in the drip
is it draining her
it's boring
worst christmas ever
a trolley comes round
visitors coo
bandying cliches to lift the mood
'oh I shouldn't' 'it'll do you good' 'one won't hurt'
embarrassed he is caught
holding sweet papers to the light
seeing the world strawberry dream
the papers join the pile in his pocket
half time, the paint flaked main stand empty
two seagulls strut the turnstile roof
a solitary groundsman sows sand in the centre circle
worst christmas ever
....
sow
and you ask why when everything is matter
and energy
do I still ask after the divine
god bothering you call it
though why
god would be bothered is not something you explain
but then for someone who denies god
you are
more anxious than I about his/her/it's existence
yes we can measure the average
draw parrellels
but it does not explain the relationship of the cloud to the tree
....
spirits
the dead will feel happy here
two tone walls canvas chairs
oh yes we nod but don't declare
the dead will feel at comfort here
he's world reknowned the posters said
he can channel maisy dick or fred
to catch his eye fills you with dread
of world reknown the poster said
I long to see the ectoplasm
snaking lights of any fashion
this mouse-like man convulsed with spasm
I'm desperate for some ectoplasm
when they come they come in threes
medium, contact, summer breeze
a red indian killed at wounded knee
holding hands they come in threes
does the name george mean anything
he says he knows where you lost the ring
and all about that man from Tring
does this man george mean anything
...
peace:)
The Blue Book
No comments:
Post a Comment