Plum

 

Plum

 

And what right have you

to complain we’re all rotten now,

in a woodland clearing, by the pool?

 

Oh, I have it, I earned it,

or at least I should bloody think so -

but here’s one, out of her plum tree

and they’re falling, believe me,

soft fruit where a brain should be.

 

Let’s get it straight from the start, Kevin,

here’s no fucking come on Eileen,

this is Steed’s sidekick onscreen,

some peachy-keen blue-eyed sapphire

that once fended off a rampaging pillow,

with steel for eyes.

 

Oh, it was supposed to be a swan,

I’ll grant you that, but, come on,

how dare she? Don’t give me Gurkhas,

reminds me of some Princess in a burka

floundering around minefields -

a potential car crash as ever there was.

 

You’re annoyed? You should be,

these holier than thou, gone now

famous in the last century

hollow vessels of yesterday,

holed up in cash jungles,

prime time strictly frolicking,

projectile vomiting anodyne politicking

were the first to advocate the vape

having smoked a lungful up till then,

and cluck, cluck, cluck, mother hen.

 

Listen, fruitbat - I'll tell you why -

we half recall a telethon,

where you stripped off clothes,

said something about a fucking red nose

and was more than glad

to parade about waving flags

in a bespoke black bin bag,

so think of how the cash was spent,

before you call us decadent –

you are the weakest link – goodbye.

Jane

 

Jane

 

Some student saw it first,

and, in gay abandon,

asked why - somewhat random

about nothing in something much,

just an old school tie, chucked

rumpled of the Old Bailey

in my desk drawer -

black with white footballs

stitched on the blade,

and I’m thinking old scores -

nothing Charlton, nothing Wolves,

nothing Rams, nothing Bulls,

just old friends, old schools.

It doesn’t take much, does it?

Setting off that chain reaction,

more of a Diana Ross,

than a meltdown at Chernobyl,

more of a Lulu hitched to

a Brothers Gibb with falsetto

than anything more substantial.

It was you, Jane, you - boxed it,

gave it, smiled, squeezed,

asked me if I was pleased,

if it was thoughtful or on the nose,

while how fast red roses

there did bloom, not fade

as Lysander would have had it.

Years ago, down past

and who was it who knew

this old thing would last,

would have so much blood in it

and make it halfway across

the world of love,

the world of loss?

And inside, I felt him smile – Chris –

long dead, who longed to kiss

you but never did

and called you his Billie Piper.

So, called to action,

I messaged, remembering,

well, how could I forget?

But all of you have slept

deep in my memory so long now

I felt reluctant, somehow.

I cut it off, that part of me,

deliberate and precise

and used old Seigfried’s hoofing knife,

bled and cauterized my life.

But here’s a lead, a binding tie

you’d noose around my neck

to make a mockery of regret.

Swallow

Swallow

 

She thinks in lioness, bares her teeth

not her breasts, and there’s no relief

from a badly pronounced tirade

of ticker tape parade in spittled diatribe -

calls it as she sees it and we squirm.

The paddles of the milk churn turn,

but no butter’s here to melt her mouth

or do anything with parsnips, no drought

to drain the drivel surging out,

no cool whirlpools, just waterspouts.

And if she you think she might relent,

the carcass killed, her venom spent,

here’s a hijabed cub with pints of tears

of how there’s scars from cruel years,

such tales of woe, such tales of harm,

to quicken the mother, raise alarms

and bring to bear all the big guns

that turn on turrets, bombard and shell,

and send adversaries to hell.

You? You’re idly wondering, sitting there,

why it is you should actually care

whilst dodging the gobbed projectiles,

an inner examination of fundamentals -

as jets are screaming overhead

strafing bombsites, craters, dry riverbeds -

illuminate a veritable doomscroll

of spreadsheets for whom the bells toll,

while thinking, performance management?

Been there, done that, paid the rent

and here’s another tossed off session

of training on how to teach a lesson,

you’re feeling it build inside, in solid hollows,

ah, fly away, and swallow, swallow,

dry your tears, my dear - smile and pray

and hie thee to the mosque and say

we’ll live to swallow up other days.

Bowing

Bowing

 

In the half-moon shadows

of a cool, blue swallowed afternoon

feeling strong, stronger than usual

I thought she could bow.

She’d already applied the rosin

tautened the screw,

rubbed the cake along the hairs

from frog to tip in smooth strokes,

until they’re friction sticky.

And she strokes so pretty,

using her French overhand, grips

the neck, the headstock, the scroll

and rocking her shoulders, glides

where organ notes rip and groan

deep within the belly’s f holes.

Her muscles rip, your mind slips,

other concertos, other players,

how Ms Rankine’s heavy breast

would rest upon your back and ribs,

as she pressed you

pressing hard on strings

wondered what suspensions bring

or how, only last night,

May-Fair’s quavers rimmed

above her brown-horned glasses,

in a speculative glance

at all those classes yet to come,

and meanwhile back

Daniella tosses off semibreves

clasps turning pins to her chest

in teases, winks, grins, breaths

while Mayumi slides in carousels

of sugar sugar honey cakes.

All these shadows beckoning

can only make my music grow,

she grasps the stick,

fingers vibratos, rubs pizzicatos

and in upsurging crescendo,

will draw her final bow.

 

 

 

Moon

 

Moon

(And It Went Like)

 

Is there a need 

in the world of men for you?

Nothing doing, but a few

scant interactions, idle breathed

gossips of fuss across your desk

and from hollow trivia - there's no rest,

no yellow half-moon, large and low,

no days of fast for their days are slow

that watched you grow

into more of a boy than a man.

You forgot to strut, balloon bellied,

in grey bearded thickets

with all the bilious zeal

of a performing circus seal

who clap for plankton.

You gained your cove with pushing prow

some years ago 

and they mostly flocked –

but some wintered here

after ice queens had combed your hair

while you were startled by flying fish

that dance and twist

their last moments upon desert decks

out of want for sex.

You let slushy sand through fingers drip

until she came at last to steady ship,

both wondering - and it went like

our moon will be forever this time -

but how to sup and where to dine,

in a voice less loud but subtly clever

and she sends messages:

It can be anywhere,

even in the Moon, 

as long as we’re together.

Master

 

Master

 

You know, I thought I’d put

rows of bus seats between us both,

yet somehow she found me,

stumbling down our narrow aisle

and all the while

her iPhone in her hand

as though it had been nailed there.

 

I’d trousered mine - I don't care

for hateful, vile oblongs of data, chips,

microcircuits, other random bits

of nasty, rammed in spyware –

where it remained, detestable,

while we tunneled through

Al Asiri underpass.

 

She’d turned hers into a looking glass,

meantime, but she’s no Alice,

fingering greasy tresses of hair,

pleased with what she sees there,

like two evil faces,

smothered with hypocrisy.

 

Somewhere deep in her psyche

there are specific powders, a phial

in a drawer marked ‘E’

begging the pharmacy

please to bring them to me:

keep sending, keep sending

but she will not change back,

there's something that the salts lack.

 

She must put it away from her,

hide this appalling evidence,

and I have nothing but sympathy,

but it just won’t extend

to final solutions, purges,

because it’s her urges, the urges

have her on the rack -

and it keeps coming out,

from her pocket

from her handbag

from beside her on the seat,

even when she speaks, maybe eats,

she cannot lift her eyes to greet.

 

And, I’m thinking -

here’s our Victor upping his mountains

from Chamonix to Montavert,

he’s watchful and on the alert

hobbling over the Mer de Glace

to lift some shadow from his dour face

and confront his demon.

 

And if she could put it down 

long enough to see him

it might say for afters, 

penetrate her greasepaint and plaster -

you were my creator

but I am your Master.

Tame

 

Tame

 

What you tame, makes you liable forever -

you read that somewhere

and it stuck, beat hard, hit home.

 

Devouring one sizeable rum and coke

prior to bed recalled

a sizeable slab of marble cake

Grandma once helped you to

that mother had baked –

her chill admonishment was the result:

iced eyes, glacial sneer, arctic tongue.

A shivering spine - and time

still has not shifted or eroded

your stubborn bedrock.

 

You were gifted a dream,

my Little Prince, not Baobab, not flower,

but of looking after a monkey.

 

You thought, at first, to eat her,

purchased for your larder,

freeze the choice cuts for later -

but your heart melts when you meet her,

she’s kind, a student to teach,

holds out arms that reach,

something in the eyes that beseech.

 

So you husband her instead,

quarter her in your keep

strew bales of straw for her feet,

only later to be filled with dread,

a jerking hangxiety, while you sleep,

thinking of the chaos

your untamed beast might wreak,

picturing it from an unsafe distance

and hoping she’s subjugate.

 

Grandson tangled in shag pile,

draws knees to chin

as robotic spiders sweep,

forage for predatory dust mites, eat

butcher’s select, plump fleas,

that have supped there, bitten deep,

entangled in some downy hair

that grows above the shin.

 

And later you pluck one with care,

encasing parasite in sellotape

watch it contract, explode

to foam a crimson bloodied rose.

 

That morning, when you awoke

it was as though you’d seen it all

through a foggy lens -

she who cannot walk, stumbles, falls

takes in payment what you resent

until you rescind what you had lent.

 

And as you kiss that other’s lips,

seize hair and breasts and grip,

a static spark between you slips,

earths in lightning through the floor

shocks both of you to the bloody core –

but even so, you shall remain

guardians of all those beasts you tamed.