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.

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.

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.