Trivial Pursuits

Trivial Pursuits

I’ve heard some pray you’re choking,

suffocating on thick fluff of some groping,

kennel-slum-dog cough carrying,

trash bin trough tarrying,

three legged amputee shabby whippet,

disembowelled during moulting season;

whilst seeking some scabby bitch on heat

in the smogged smelter of high summer.

Cocking its leg on each corner:

no lamppost too high

no gutter too low.

Stacatto coughing, suck in black tongue,

you hump in time to punctured lung.

Not me, though, I’m far too convivial.

I just hope it’s nothing trivial.

They’ll kneel nightly at the altar pleading,

you’re bowled out, skittled in Gibraltar

unwarily smitten; lightly bleeding and bitten,

spat at, malice aforethought, menaced by

three or four bladdered barbary apes

scratching skin for fleas, just for the sake

of spreading their scabied disease;

rabid, covered in boils and sores,

so you’re forced to dash for it:

over the top, cable car zip wiring,

plummet deathwards like a cut price

living daylights James Bond

into the jaws of the briny pond

below. Not me, though, I’m biddable.

I just hope it’s nothing trivial.

Pusillanimous priests ball billowing smoke,

rattle their beads, prepare the rope,

observe your fingernailed digging yellowed toes,

implore foul fungus found there below

to wildfire spread, breed and grow.

Mushrooms deep root in cankered skin.

Serpentine scales, camomile resistant, vile

hoods cover pussed up eyelids, blind trials

fending off truffle trained carnivorous hogs

that long escaped base drooling dogs

who tuck in hearty. Until sated at last,

leave what remains of guts and brains

to wash away down degenerate drains.

Not me, of course, I’m a liberal.

I just hope it’s nothing trivial.

Whispering gathered congregations beseech

in tongues, supplicate, genuflect and reach

out to one, who might divine and teach

you and yours a simple lesson; hear your screech

as your left nipple is pegged then tangled

in the rotary washing line and mangled

when fiercely unexpected northerly winds

whip up a storm that spitefully spins

you in an untempered, tearaway fashion,

revolutions rapid in hate and passion;

hammer toss some limp shell back up that hill

as audiences beneath cheer, point and thrill

in appreciation at the sight of soaring swill.

I’ll not be there, though, I’m immaterial.

I just hope it’s nothing trivial.

Butterflies and Dandelions

Butterflies and Dandelions

Along the winding paths to school,

hand slipping through hand,

we brushed through hedgerows,

plucking dandelion clocks,

with me more or less lost, feather

bent amongst gypsy heathers,

mottled white and scarboro fair.

Insects eavesdrop our childish debates;

which clock has the best tick-tock,

racing the other to blow the seeds

gentle parachuting the summer breeze.

Soon spent with hardly a sneeze,

a huff, and a puff and blown down

by one boy’s effortless smile;

one grown up’s nostalgic frown.

Arrested a red sunset specked ladybird

nested between bramble leaves,

tickles your little fingers as it weaves.

Count seven spots with fledgling pride,

your age is daubed on its back,

amongst a flash of orange dawn,

cracks crimson casing and it’s gone.

Flights of cabbage whites, red striped

admirals, flitter in soft streaked mists

amongst cuckoo spit sun kissed;

you split and dash, trust to guile,

rush the road with brash glance

wayward, rebellious unruly smile,

hands stretched to clutch at chance.

Futile, for they simmer and evaporate,

scatter skywards and separate.

So I walk across and take your hand,

full of righteous ticking off, but calm

chuckle, I’m not yet too old to run.

But I am, you know, I really am.

At the school gates, up heels, butterflying

vanishes, blonde tousle headed grin

amid other seeds that catch the wind.

You Don’t Only Live Twice

You Don’t Only Live Twice

You don’t only live twice,

It’s more delicate than that.

Infinite space is interiored

by the choices you made:

some willing, yet others wolf-cornered

like boxes inside little boxes,

balsa packing cases settled deep

in the cargo ship’s hold:

sabotage compass and chronometer;

fo'c'sle unbound for rolling horizons

absent, stabbed quartermaster flown

without leave or missing bosun’s call,

adrift the silent vessel falls

out of this world and into the other.

Don’t try to keep false lookout

shoreside, hushed callout any sort

of half recalled name;

whisper man overboard,

short haul wheel, starboard degrees

or divide port: it is all the same,

all in vain, he’s long left astern;

slipped quiet through the backdoor.

No cardboard speeches or gifts will do,

no thrown roses from the jetty,

no tremble touching of blue collar:

sad belayed after the fact,

breached and holed, negligence’s rift

sank him way forwards to the back;

twisted fast and far out of time.

Somewhere within memory mist

brief condensation coalesces

on thick tissue-glass portholes,

scour, rub swiftly, wipe it out,

close cover, defend against

the moistured fissures of excuse

on your land’s horizon. To point

your finger at yesterday’s turning tide

or swimming moon

is fat futile at best;

you laid that incarnation to rest,

in unquiet slumber

where now, every new-born waking minute

is hewn from firm decision

at your inconsiderate haste

to drown those seven soft seas to waste.

He is gone now. All of them are.

Plotted off planned predicted course;

that happens you know.

Every ship that sails is star tossed,

every sailor who leaves is lost

to land; must heaven-embrace cosmos

relatively, while you age,

stranded, becalmed, run aground,

left to seed, left to rage,

feeling your bones brittling

beyond all recognition, cursing

that all you safe-killed must live

within your phased mind

return on occasion, smile and forgive.

No.

We don’t only live twice.

Only a criminal would claim that

every gentle murdered sailor’s life

is a sextant fixed positioned mirror.

Look into that fragmented glass,

it is only you who see at last

wild roving seas offset static time;

landlocked, stagnant mind

where the two lives you live

 befit your crime.

Sharper Than a Serpent’s Tooth

Sharper Than a Serpent’s Tooth

I know what eats you.

Tangles your insides into knots,

like venomed serpent skeins

constricts the blood to your veins,

mortars flesh some minted 

pastel green.

Mottles you, throttles your

iced dreamed-frozen heart, 

tears like hail

forked head devouring tail

uncrushed by your own woman seed;

oh, far too late: now to grieve.

Snaking backtracked betrayal. Greed.

Dismayed at all it has achieved

when weighed 

against friendship thieved.

They’ll crucify you for it, 

but you know that of course,

unhappy sits the head that wears the crown.

Those who play most foully often win,

but thereafter crush-shoulder sin

sport puzzled frown upon the brow,

for where is all the laughter now?

It’s dog-eared your face,

easy now, to look and trace

the whiplines there.

Crime slashes deep shrouds, 

cloud blacked eyes from lack of sleep:

and though you wish to smile was free,

you observe but you do not see

that I have lost things too:

And you know what eats me,

the scorpion I swallowed did not suffer,

it lives and feasts in my gut,

strikes his flash venom toxic flame

slowly seeps his poison to the brain,

leisurely now, long time does creep

concrete set crepuscular hours, weep

for friends lost to canker callous,

outstretch palm tree hands

to enemy’s jealous

sharp tacked bloodied nails, flesh to wood

where all that was once true and good

turned by agonies lathe to filthy history.

Now reading your degree 

in misrepresentation

is the mission of the dying nation:

blame all; it is easy to fall into temptation.

Laid traps into which you willing walked,

soundproofed love’s mouths against talk

setting friend on friend,

shape you world records in backstabbery,

lead-clad new lines in smash and grabbery,

dial down children’s hope to sit and gloat

on the pinnace of austerity’s shabbery.

Oh, masterful masturbation 

over seedy decline

legalising murder, 

in the name of crime.

It hurts, that I know what’s eating you,

copyblots my mind but

alas, no Nile of tears will ever flush

both scorpion and snake from that rank,

fetid withered bush.

Looking back, can it ever be enough?

Still, sit you incestuous, recall

you, entitle and pay each the other

what silver bespokes talentless hacks;

no going back from giving heaven the sack

that now the ice inside can never crack.

There Are Worse Things

There Are Worse Things

Are there worse things

than passive smoking

in all probability?

Government public information

warns the unwary and unwise

that excessive sugar

floods food these days;

harmful trailers, on colour television,

spoon-feeding the easily consumed

and Rome burns while

obesity broadens its long arm.

And look here: alcohol is cheap

causing carnage on the streets,

disobedience and unrest.

Benefit scroungers are rife,

pram raiding high street food banks,

kindling deficit and hardship,

soaring costs, rising so fast

that soon it won’t be worth living at all.

They’re not joking.

But passive smoking.

You raise me an eyebrow.

I raise you an epidemic whisper

of contagious cancer.

Certainly, there must be a link,

it makes the world stink,

clings fast to our smoky clothes.

Don’t waste your tears on smokers,

banish them quick from propping up bars,

and dripping ash from idling cars,

flicking simmered cinder on the tar.

A sound investment in healthcare:

blitz all glamour from the card package,

extort tax to limit their damage.

It’s rumoured that perfumed mist

hisses like deadly poison

through forked teeth and pursed lips.

And fond they are of tonguing,

spotlessly clean,

the ashtray’s flecked droppings.

No, there’s not much worse

than inhaling someone’s selfish smoke:

It’s like a cheap cladded structure,

smouldering on cityscape skyline

that incinerates in silent screams

its citizens, aflame in their dreams,

howling long into an eternal night

from which they will never wake,

flounder and grasp each other, 
child, father and mother
crumble, dazed to death 
through choking corridors,

in search of the unbuilt outdoor.

A construct robust as your austere

fag packet, shoved up, thoughtless

perpendicular, burning too high

for fire escape or ladders.

Well heeled and fat,

flaccid Government bean counters

sit florid, in their well won fresh air,

sip cool bottled, 
sugar free highland spring water,

check tick lists, pat pockets 
and trouser profit margins;

feeling toasty with a single malt

condemn us to smoking holes.

The Friendship Zone

The Friendship Zone

Mirror, signal, starboard manoeuvre

smooth, with the wry humour

of battleaxe to cruiser holed in one.

Lay it on with a builder’s trowel:

that cosmetic ornamental smile,

press her, stagger hands

for the desired joint width.

 So, he’s been parallel parked,

without blessing or consent

bricked up with thick cement

in the friendship zone,

is what she blithely assumes

without a care in the world

this girl; only some churl

would scowl as she whistles

her no nonsense song:

Is hydrated lime really necessary?

Bitter lemon better by far

before leaving the safety of the car.

No, nothing’s wrong.

Safe lies he within the painted lines,

tainted, in faded shades of flag white,

soiled by burnt tyre scuffed grit

boxed in and there he silent sits,

reading text and tinder messages

with sardonic smirk: Dobson,

eyeing cars on either side

too close to risk opening doors,

such schemes would surely scratch,

certain dent, prevent, hinder the cause

against cinder loneliness.

Can he sit here forever, though?

Well now, but why even try,

for there she fanciful flies

outward bound

one million measured miles

above and beyond the parking lot,

ears blocking, mind rotting,

creaming she in clotted blood:

for it’s better to travel in hope

than arrive, with permission to land,

then open thighs upon demand.

But boot free the tailgate,

because his wife doesn't understand

probably; their separate room to roam

until ever turning each to home

before the day burns too late,

drench her in smelting silver kissing

goodbyes, already he's gone missing

but left with promises to phone;
she sits in departures alone.

Until, no doubt, she backtracks with key,

and wretched plan to set him free,
unite and keep him company.
For is it you, or is it me?

Already long since flown,

Dobson seldom is heard to moan

at those parked inside the friendship zone.