Wednesday, 10 April 2019

Dobson Meets the Tumbler


Dobson Meets the Tumbler


Dobson sees, with keen eye, parked at the bar
sporting off the shoulder Spanish number
draped, like serpent across this fellow’s dreck.
Pouting eyes, parting lips, and naked neck.
Accustomed is he to the basking shark;
bald fool, swimming out of his depth, in dark,
with only single dram to drown and down
then summon from within lost inner clown.
Scraping brain’s barrel for ancient bon mots,
she absent frowns and taps her mobile phone.
Stiff raises finger for the second round.
Dobson now yawns, ringing bell without sound.
Her gaze lifts and spies she’s been rumbled,
he, out of words, gulps jagged and tumbles.




Tuesday, 9 April 2019

Moving On


Moving On


A handful of change cut loose
from his pocket - chucked casual,
 on the shelf, with old, old hands.
Rattles baggy memories in his head
every night, of the living and the dead.
Damp spring night of fully clothed sex
 neon mid eighties, no time then
to unbutton the buckle
just unzip with husky chuckle.
Tracy, 25 years long a virgin,
who’d had it hard and written
all the time he’d been down there
fighting, till his tongue aching
cut through her well meant faking
 love-struck, the farewell smiles
catch reflection of the child
caught in memory’s amber,
morning frosts and breezes mild.


Grinning he sets to with an old brush,
stiff scraping dried up boot polish
cake, from the bottom of rusty tin,
rubbing black leather slip-ons, cracked
reflection shaded and looking back.
Sunny afternoon, matured into evening,
absent husband not quite into leaving
presumed missing, till who cares past four,
dead beneath wet knickers drawer.
Sue saw service and might yet see more,
as he turns up panting at the door.
She couldn’t make it up the stairs
her busy tongue caught him unawares
and let him in then and there.
Held his hand out to kiss goodbye,
to catch swift moments in his eye,
summer sun burnished gentle skies
as solo wheels in flashing magpies.


Raises one eyebrow in ironic salute,
at dusky fogging mirror.
Strip tosses his laundry into drum,
chipped china between finger and thumb
sipping static warm twilight’s tea
contemplates the rolling sleepless city.
Autumn mornings, the dew still rises
somewhere - and what of you?
Hot grabbed his throat by silken tie,
she had even yet still to buy
and rubbed his fingers up her thigh.
Bind her wrists with gauzy scarves,
breast open paths of trembling leaves,
and take her wide beneath canopied trees.
Can all this love possibly be wrong
if he makes it up as they go along?
Yet time comes to sing another song,
well, buckle up and move quickly on.






Thursday, 28 March 2019

Crazy Mama


Crazy Mama

And will we ever forget?
No, I don’t suppose we each ever will,
as flimsy paper thick shred serviette
wipes marmalade mouth clean of kill
some sweet bits stick fast to lips
always did and always will.
Somewhere we lost our smiles
misremembered dirty bass lines
that cha-cha chunked and grooved
to well-worn dance choons and used.


Now that it’s all over?
Yes, true, there are no more words left in me
that rage hard, no black ink to spill,
no feather ever will balance the quill,
or pillow peace and still, be still.
Somewhere we lost in love language,
tore ourselves apart in anguish.
Skip. Comes in time to flip your record,
take the needle off our run out track,
always look forward, no looking back,
it’s just in the way you kiss what you lack.


And we will ever meet again?
Well now fool, crazy mama,
don’t doubt it, the sin is only not to shout it.
Some setting sun structures will always rise
again catch wink twinkle gold of our eyes,
well, sure it can’t be what once was,
it can’t be - because, because, because
two squared eternities spent in learning to fly
shouldn’t mean you can’t ever try -
so forward go
when I dare you to
raise sultry eyebrows to goodbye.





Saturday, 16 March 2019

Fool To Cry


Fool To Cry


When we do reach back;
telling them the fairy stories of our lives,
 now looking so much older,
the weight of time slips from the shoulder.
We’ll skip over any committed crime
for I will bear yours, 
and you will wear mine;
forgiveness one effortless word:
given, received.
There, said it. 
That was simple.
Shake hands, grin, 
mouth easy platitude,
touch fingertips together 
in late evening gratitude.
Lies and blame are no longer said or heard.
Why? 
Well, the reasons have all fled.
Now seven oceans 
have flowed underneath,
we’ve forgotten even 
who cast that rainbow bridge,
or where it overlooked, or what it did –
if there really, forever, was a crock of gold.
So we’ll speak of compassion today instead.
Yet something troubling 
afflicts and reddens
our eyes, it stings, we blink
in salty waters we can never hide or deaden.
And, oh, their questions 
in innocence deep.
‘Grandad, 
why do you sit and sometimes weep?’
‘Grandma, 
where were those voices in your sleep?’
Perhaps a snatch of song we will remember,
fleeting bewitched glimpse or chance encounter,
wisp of dream 
we struggle hard to recall
of ancient giants, 
who once hoped so very small,
but plummet from beanstalks 
like rain washing, 
vain scrubbing at witches’ stain.
Those long years spent 
spinning gold into straw,
and deadlock bolting every opened door
against the gentle beast.
That time when Prince Charming 
crossed the floor;
his glass slipper fit every soul 
but yours.
Your green kissed frogs remained just frogs,
no matter how much often undertaken,
Rapunzel’s hair always too short to reach
on tiptoed love, abandoned and forsaken
like Red Riding Hood before the feast.
‘Grandma, 
what plain, ordinary eyes you have;
do contact lenses help you see it clearer?'
'Grandad, 
those tarred, rattling teeth are false, aren’t they? 
Did you lose what you loved most dear?’
Ah well: The End. 
Nearly come round at last.
But forgive and unmurder.
Shake firm, peck cheek, 
like long lost sister and brother
who lacked the breadcrumbs; 
smile at one another
from old times, 
when wishes worked in wistful sigh,
before the years had dry drained by,
and remember you're a fool to cry.





Thursday, 7 March 2019

Melody


Melody



First, well, there was because,
and just of course,
they’re both here in dumb ass double trust
fuck minus give a toss all adds up to loss,
because, because, look out, it’s Christmas: 
He’s on holiday, honey roasting nuts,
she’s bare chested and hasn’t got the guts,
to lie two-faced on frigid hotel bed,
crisp three sheeted to the wind:
solitary, hell raiser, strip jack naked, 
snap back, snap chat,
and just where in hell have you been?
The booze flies through
his toxic cancered brain,
tweet text sweet messengers
dash, dot-dot-dot, dash again,
sending him your one-syllable harbingers
and, oh, emoticon, alibis, alibis,
my husband and his nest of spies,
is next of skin to open crotch panty lies,
‘he’s tracking my every move’, she cries,
then dies and he flaccid sighs,
letting Ishmael
hammer another nail 
into the great white whale.



Next came peace, where all is well,
just before a 12th round, seconds out bell,
any fuckwit might have pounded ass
well of course, because it’s just rehashtagging trash;
he should’ve counted out a one fingered guess:
one times minus wrong adds up to more or less.
Summer falls upon the estate
and he’s home to rest,
she peaceful watching Mary Mary,
see how the garden’s growing
much smoking grass bladed by the DHSS
 to raise a finger would be unwise at best,
when she’s on the make you sick,
walking the streets with one stick,
semi dressed stripper, posting bare breast
arrangements to meet on the never never,
both thinking the other is some clever.
But, oh, here’s another cartoon grin
my husband and the state he’s in,
wanky leg, my spine and your weak chin,
‘will collapse the house of cards’, she cries
then croaks when he comes then dies,
letting Ishmael
hammer another nail 
into the great white whale.



Lastly, and because well it’s, after all, a good fit,
she’s wishing or hoping to end the shit,
or even a message to Michael, let’s face it
if it be that, his slack brow furrowed get-a-grip
on the slippery wet tongued situation,
convinced of some simple explanation
as to what this might be all about?
‘Good God’, she said, ‘Give him a shout’:
At the end of days, some desert hazed
silence loud on his mind plays,
but she’s satchel packed back to cruel
snail pacing, the way to carboard cut-out school.
The hill is steep, the path was long,
from there to here and all is wrong,
she needs to still her sticky tongue.
Sickly text will perform the trick,
transform him into pervert prick
and ‘this isn’t me’, she cried:
But, oh, here’s one last farewell tag,
ashes to ashes, Bowie sporting drag
the missus being young and skilled
in noughts, it is over, all is killed,
broken beyond hope. She has spoken
exchanged one for one and one more token.
His nose is on her trail,
Move over, darling, 
move over Ishmael,
he might, one day, hammer his own nail
into the great white whale.






Friday, 22 February 2019

Hey Negrita


Hey Negrita



I say: let's shoot Katara, beautiful face.
You say, roll it Katara, set dress this place.
Heat it hits us, break beat tattoo,
heat back slaps us, swoon in tune.

Jump cut removes us, from certain ruin
to touch and greet us, on desert dune
sand that salts us, cross cuts your back
and what we don’t lack, we can never lack.

Pepper tilts us, hot tongued goodbyes,
then oh Katara, wild months they fly.
Winds they reel us, memories smack,
winds they whip us, face front wink back

kites we flutter, shimmer tasteless tack
tatter tassels and sticky tinted matte.
Fig peel your plunder, oh no mañana,
close up suck banana, oh yes, Katara.

Surf it swells us, glissando aftermath
full shot it guessed us and telegraphed.
Reel and swooned us, posed photographs
dance loud and joyous, ecstatic in laugh.

Ever green yet darken us, never can we break,
every night we parley, we talk too late,
singsong together, parting petaled flowers
swish pan whisk, freeze-frame strip showers.

Text slow emotion, table top insertion,
unscripted murmurs, of some sex desertion,
still we send us, our pictures frappe,
but clapper-board cut and fade to latte.








Thursday, 14 February 2019

Memory Motel


Memory Motel


I hit the ocean’s bottom yet there’s still so far to fall
hear your sighing voice so sweet and silver call
 walk down gone spaces that are hardly there at all
talk of places within lost moments that enthrall
tread passages and channels of our other world
smile backpack sashay soft handsome gorgeous girl
 word-whisper in my ear from times that now are past
fingernailing love's brick graffiti wall couldn't always last
 falling faster but there’s still some ways to know
your love handclasps firm grip and never now let go
ivy clings to choke where love grew and ever lives
in air to kiss our lips then turn coat tumbling gives


picking at your heart-stringed bass guitar
that used to mean so much to me
strum some other low slung bass guitar
that maybe brings it back to me


your waning smile shimmers and I pray you use it well
use it well
to stop waxing angel come forth and break the spell
break the spell
block gusty desert winds to save us both from hell
who can tell


We must leave when our time is come and gone
chance to chant some words in grief is surely wrong
touch the places in my mind where once we both gave
wander through love’s living spirits late and sad unsaved
my cupid fingers brushing everyone I once kissed
blessed them in blisses we swore each night we never miss


oh darling, my spirit crystal drifts through empty classrooms long
breathes ghost waking memories of faded swimming sun
and now I can no longer touch I leave you with my song