Noontide Ride

Noontide Ride

 

Now she comes knocking at stable doors,

smells soft scented burnished straws,

cross-stitch scatter cushioned sunbeam floors,

she’s all tacked up, but still wants more,

sometimes backwards forwards facing,

point to point and steeple-chasing,

saddle hunter’s back front and center,

chasing wild thrills that will repent her,

races steaming sun at the speed of joy inside,

breaks sound barriers on a noontide ride.

Now she’ll never repeat a same shirt twice,

although she’s poor, she possesses paradise,

ribbed and veined, well what’s a girl to do?

she didn't know what she was getting on to:

swinging stallion stirrups to come with you,

eyes closed heavenly while thinking psalms,

sugar lumps will melt in outstretched palms,

trot to gallop gripping bare-backed slide,

show jumping, tosses mane with pride,

outstripping records on a noontide ride.

Seaweed Seems

Seaweed Seems

 

Receding tides strand fronded weeds,

like gravy stains on your wedding dress,

ornaments that spark autumn leaves

are far from uncomely, Prince Charming

like hands clutch sand and drowning,

you slip glass slippered from dreams

like seaweed seems your spark or shadow,

dust I forgot to forget but blows somehow,

feel your fronds slip like anchors weigh,

as tides drag tides drag seaweed frayed.

Forgeries (Angel Rising Part 7)

Forgeries (Angel Rising Part 7)

 

 

Forged of ashes, forged from plague,

a plasticine cast who passed for clay,

poor actors flushed in busted play

do keep good company. Everyday

bent-backs, soaked in screen wash

pass piss nit-witless views of loss,

inured to taste, inured to thought,

shrubbed by all that shit they bought.

Bereft of spirit, bereft of grace,

make up pencils forge made up face,

skin-baggers slop in hung-dog's rain,

narcissi May fly pocked and plain,

swear never sweat to shoulder blame,

but lick chapped lips of leprous Fame.

Cease your lament burdened sighs:

for to dream in thinking is to dye

this Albion in green turned grey,

drape her in dusty webs of decay,

drag her wakes, drag her lakes,

shake her head until all heads ache,

thumb fell skies with howling cries,

come promised day of Angel Rise.

 

My God, my God, what have you done?

They’re clapping hands,

they’re grabbing sticks,

beating the shit out of saucepans,

they forage foodbanks,

lick empty cans,

rubber stamping blonde-haired man:

and with a sneer, Jerusalem!

 

Here's to ten years passed

since we breathed our last;

you tipped a mumbled brogue

into my steaming pan to boil,

simmer, seethe, toil,

and though we died, I heard it said

we are still the still undead.

Unsparked flesh wanes into wax,

iced ivy chokes grey graveyard yew,

you speak in stone beyond the pew,

pledge we never draw our final curtain

or take our final bows.

 

By sallow bindweed's choking grip,

I think it fit you never did,

learn words like Brexit or Covid,

they’re drubbing pans,

they’re burning brands,

they’re clubbing cans,

breathing blind faith into blind man,

warming death with freezing hands,

black blisters vote for starving lands.

You, my friend, sing here within,

we will take lessons from pigeons;

with cocked pistol, consider him.

 

Improper poised feathered-flecked

simpering pouts, plump double neck,

twists and shouts: ‘let’s twist again,’

he’s fish-eye lensing, zooming in,

all preen green metallic clatterwing,

throbs deep throat coarse,

thumps notes full hoarse,

and flush with nature gushes forth,

she flutters coy, deigns to peek,

at no time almost beyond his reach,

coquettish smirk tattooed on beak,

bids him mount and fulfill,

thinks leadfoot driver and knee-jerk drill,

pecks idly at those seeds that spill.

He’s sated now and hymns of how

go forth, seeks new humps to plough,

when it’s over, it’s all over again,

no more than empty flitter brain

billing one note adverbs with a wink,

coos all the cliches fit to stink

absolutely, seriously ramping up

your turbo-charged plummy fuck.

Oh, but will she’ll buy it?

Why yes, she’ll vote for more,

force feed bush tucker and devour, 

beat her pan to stick her craw.

 

Shush, my child, at heeding door:

something wicked this way comes

and when it does, it does on dais,

speaks white burdens in tones pious,

flickers his tranquil forked tongue bias,

slips softly onwards in slippered feet,

and, oh, Mephistopheles:

Honey words and hooded eye:

you’ll believe that shit can fly.

As below, so above,

his jellied hand in rubber glove

probing arses, rubbing chins

with slobber-chopped grin; coining in.

His is a salmonella oven ready deal,

your microwave meal for one

is served ready player none for all,

easily bought with little thought,

raise your shovels and fork it.

Does it burn upon your twisted tongue,

corkscrew within invisible radiation?

Last supper of a napalmed nation

glimpsed through cindered glass.

 

Is yours the face that launched a thousand quips?

I see no rank, no right, no leading light,

above lettuceless chest, there are no pips,

just a thick dribbling slab of trifles trite.

Is yours the face that kissed a thousand lips?

Those eyes are cornered obtuse angles,

fraught with fuckery as sentiment drips

in barefaced threads of web entangled.

Is yours the face a waning nation gripped,

held to grieving chest and looked for succor?

Bitch. You robbed the poor to feed the rich;

slithered through life, you lying fucker,

and numberless flies that orbit your head

will fuck you thick in your feculent bed.

 

Vote false Gods, poll false dread,

pour idle out of temple; they assemble

all proud pouting chests, resemble

nothing less than pandemonium made,

troglodytes stooping blade by blade.

Nothing more than hell is come;

if you can, it’s time to burn.

Let those who can’t pick up their sticks,

so glad in joy it makes us sick,

roll rattled pots and shake up pans,

let every woman spoon every man,

let she or he who is without sin make most noise,

cast most stones, break most windows and destroy,

let boys be girls, let girls be boys,

and as above, so below,

thick falls generation made of snow.

 

Poverty. Famine. Knock doors, Plague

herald Angels hark thrice end of days

and warm rich pigs in blankets, give them time

to make hay while the sick shines.

Trough snouts in fat-chequed statistics,

abuse dictionaries, rewrite linguistics,

jerking deep amongst flighting locusts,

drawing all those best forgeries closest.

Waves swept seasick care homes

like new brooms, your children grieved

of something old for graves to thieve,

clover devils fondling stone erections,

wrapped selection boxes for collection,

passed out trash bags for protection,

and to tuck your corpses in at night.

Track camera cross deaf and dumb land,

my God, look, they still whip pans,

like simpering monkeys beating chests,

let’s sod the old, the old can rest,

in sodden sheets they soak the best.

 

They filched mutton to blood-cross doors,

night's cards shuffled to deal out scores

in Lynam's voice, Frank Bough's eyes

and forged faces theme-tuned grim,

bleating lamb sermons with gravy grins:

protect, survive and social distance,

with mint sauce on the side assistants,

thump bogus tubs with fake insistence,

bloodletting grief from all existence,

warping podiums with crooked stench

and with each other’s sputum drench,

winking at cameras, berate the state,

scribble remedies at breakneck pace,

less of Hancock; more Little and Large,

delivering prognosis from wine bars

while downing beers and necking gin,

kicking down doors to break them in,

we'll hand out the hats and hooters.

 

Nobody thought to bring the shooters

as the dust settled. Some of those left

would defend all this with dying breath

if they weren’t dead already. Inquests

were not even worth the wastepaper.

Have a quick one, piss off, see you later,

for now it’s time to liberate the pound,

purge migrants from hallowed ground.

Shackle Albion to history’s tall ships,

all empire within ghost nation’s grip,

cry havoc and let the dogs of dust slip

sly from pantry doors tooth-gripped 

dripping all the meats they could rip

from corpses. Drifted seaward by fixes

plotted on tissue, junior school pictures,

primary colour flags, X marks the spot,

hand’s up, Miss, some cream haired clot

spouts naught for all, and all for naught.

Now all who survive are all who rot,

Silents who plan lost lessons learnt

most of them dance on bridges burnt

without thought at all; art is scrawled

train trucks, piss sprayed closet walls,

drove music so deep within plastic bits

you can scarcely tune out pouting lips,

nothing autotuned sticks, it's ripped,

phone fiddled and faked manuscripts,

they’re talking pictures, filming sex,

posting that their lives are wrecked,

sucking up a debit life from living dreck.

 

With promises to raise you; a vowed

bringing back, returned windswept decks,

we once more could prowl the prow,

driving the swell, surfing the troughs,

but with what it seems, I've been enough,

I reached back for you with mind's hand,

but like seaweed you slipped into sand,

saw time shrouding Jacob's ladder

shrugged off years as years suck sadder,

dreamt in forgeries painted hush grey,

flayed by brushes sprayed day on day,

tasted egg-shelled lips and less to say,

but be damned if you don't regret it, boy,

every vision harboured we can destroy:

Grandmaster's flashpoint all furious five,

and if you think, think skinned alive,

but screw you all, here's an oiled within,

I rowed back where all channels begin.

Care not for grace, care less for sin,

walk on, walk on, faint heart for hope,

feel tracing fingers loose guiding rope,

so worn in labyrinth, so dressed in night,

who scarcely can lift sick fists to fight,

back to where all tunnels were made,

abandon your shadow cast pitched shades,

her empty ventures to reclaim a child,

all futile hands scrubbing shame for guilt.

 

And here that door stands opened wide,

those mass within who glimpse outside,

now free of burning, yet burning still,

search hearts for pity or hearts for kill,

plough blades and gash at sterile Earth,

entomb the old, wombs new to birth

chew revolutions of corkscrew cutter,

scything trap teeth and steely shutter,

we butterflies upon wheels that flutter,

forgotten echoes of pasts that mutter

of all too much; watch thyself at least

and did no one think to fetch a priest?

But in passages long of mist-fall strong

back to places where he once belonged,

he can no longer hear their songs,

things once felt he now feels wrong,

where strangers live in stranger homes,

wear faces that he might have known

in forgeries false. Stands upon very brink,

sloughed time below as time to think,

shed threefold skin to shred disguises,

walks forth enflamed and Angel rises.

Grandad's Bedtime Fables: Dolly the Sheep

 Grandad’s Bedtime Fables: Dolly the Sheep

 

Once there was a Bear who lived with a Swan.

Or was it a Camel?

Oh yes, I think a Camel, a well-trodden one from the East, where the wise deserts swirl, possessed of beautiful dark eyes and lashes black - like on the covers of ‘Vogue’.

It’s a magazine.

Don’t ask me why they lived together, but for most of their lives it had been a pretty good arrangement. Camel was an accommodating sort of beast, quite patient and highly studied.

However, with each passing day, Bear became more and more cranky with Camel.

“You’re always reading,” Bear grumped, huffing off to bed or huffing out of the cave and down the street in a huff.

“Well, I have to pass my exams, Bear,” Camel would respond, tolerantly, flicking the page over with a hoof, or typing something on a laptop - because some camels are pretty good with computers and such, “Don’t get humpy.”

“Huh!” Bear might grunt, ignoring the joke. And often, having huffed petulantly outside, would stand by the fence, staring at the grass that grew beyond.

Once or twice, Camel would follow, clopping steadily behind, and stand beside Bear. “What are you doing, my dear?”

“Nothing. I just like grass, is all.”

“I see,” Camel would reply. And did. See, that is. Camels are notoriously clever; did you know that?

 

 

When tired of gazing at grass, Bear stomped back into the cave, all prickly that Camel hadn’t stayed long enough to witness some top-notch sulking.

Bear wouldn’t admit that, though. Instead, he clomped around as if extremely tired or dissatisfied with life, ignoring Camel in such a way that Camel knew it. It was first rate ignorance, it really was.

“What’s for supper, Camel?” Bear said, banging a spoon on the table, like I’ve often told you not to. “I’m hungry.”

Camel smiled sweetly. “Well, now, we have hummus, some yoghurt and I’ve made a lovely salad. Maybe you’d like a fish?”

“Fish?” snapped Bear, rudely. “I want chops. Chops and sauce.”

“You like fish,” replied Camel, patiently.

“I don’t like fish. They’re stupid flappy things that flap around in the water. I’ve seen them. Flap, flap, flap. They’re no more than birds that got bored with sky.”

“You do like fish.”

“I don’t.” And Bear blew a farty noise then ran around the cave imitating a badly behaved bird. “Flap, flap, flap,” he shouted, “flap, flap, flappity, flap.”

He took a glass of water from the table and tipped it all over his head. “See? You made me DO that, Camel. Fish? Pah.”

Camel tried not to laugh. He did look silly. “Well, Bear, I don’t think we should be eating chops. I don’t think I like what I’ve read about where they come from. That Mr Lupus is a shifty fellow, he really is. I keep reading bad things about his company and colleagues. They seem an unsavory lot at best.”

“Rubbish. He’s a jolly good fellow, that Mr Lupus. And a millionaire. And all we’ve got to show for our troubles is this rotten smelly old cave. You read too much.”

“Well, it’s fish or nothing, Bear. Come on, it will go cold. Chop, chop.”

“I’ll not eat fish.”

Camel sighed. Sometimes there really was no reasoning with Bear.

 

 

Later that night, past bedtime, Camel found it difficult to sleep. It was often the case these days, but she was an easygoing creature, so she turned over, switched on her bedside light and reached for a book.

It was one of those lamps so designed as to cause little or no discomfort to anyone else in the room, casting shade, but just enough light to read by. She frowned, settled her glasses atop her nose and squinted at the words in the page: ‘Chapter 3’ she read, ‘Pandemics and How to Cause Them.’

Then, she realized, the reason she could not sleep was that she was alone. Being a Bactrian camel, of course, it was an effort to shift her humps off the mattress, but she supposed she must. “Bear? Where are you?”

Well, Camel clopped to the cave entrance and peered outside into the murk of the night through her long lashes. No. He wasn’t there.

So, she went to the back of the cave where they kept their clothes behind a pair of drapes. “Bear?” she shouted.

From behind the drapes, she could now hear some quick and frantic shuffling and a yelp of pain as if someone had accidentally hit shin bones against a rocky outcrop. So, she pulled the drapes aside. “Oh.” she said, “There you are. Ah, Bear? What on earth are you doing?”

Bear, for it was indeed him, cleared his throat in a sound that tried for defiance but actually sound more sheepish than daring. “You shouldn’t go creeping around a cave like that, Camel. It really isn’t done.”

Camel could scarce believe her eyes but was far too polite to say what was really on her mind. “Why are you wearing my clothes, Bear?” Not just any clothes, either. It was the garment she often used to support and cover her humps.

“Wearing your clothes? I’m not wearing your clothes, Camel.” Bear blustered, his face turning a deep shade of crimson. “You must be dreaming.”

“Dreaming? Am I?” asked Camel, who supposed that must be it.

“Yes, dreaming,” Bear declared, firmly. “Either that, or this…thing fell from the clothes rail, and I accidentally became tangled up in it.”

Camel smiled in an understanding sort of way and said no more about it except to ask him whether he might come to bed and that she was tired, then she hoofed it back, climbed in and closed her eyes.

Somewhat noisily, Bear joined her. But would he sleep? Dear me, no. Instead, he took out his phone and started to use some sort of messaging app.

“What are you doing now, Bear?” Camel muttered, in a dismayed tone, but still trying not to be irritated.

“Sheep-Tok,” snapped Bear, as if that explained everything.

Camel decided that she didn’t want to know and did her best to sleep by drawing the covers and pillows over her head.

However, this seemed to irritate Bear. “You’re disturbing me, and you’ve taken more than your fair share of the blanket,” he complained, his fingers busy tapping the phone.

“Sorry, Bear.”

He cast a sidelong look at his companion. She didn’t seem to be in the least bit interested and Bear found this irksome. “Sheep-Tok,” he repeated, no doubt hoping to get a response. But there was nothing doing.

Camel was snoring.

He jabbed her in the hump. “Sheep-Tok is where it’s at,” he proclaimed.

Still nothing.

“All the latest music and media influencers,” Bear continued. Then shouted. “Wow. Guess what?”

Another snore. A snore that sounded a bit forced. A studied snore as if Camel was hoping Bear might take the hint and shut up.

Bear put his paw to his snout and guffawed loudly, putting on a suspect American accent. “Well, I nevah. Did you know? Mick Minger has dropped a mash up with Stick Grenade and his homies. Bling city, or what? In the hood, man. Bust a move.”

Camel opened one eye wearily. “I have a lot of studying tomorrow, Bear.”

“Study, study, study. Get down with sheep, man,” Bear jeered, in a mocking tone. “You’re a long time dead, Camel.”

Camel rolled over, put her light back on and picked up her book again. No point trying to rest when Bear was on a mission to educate her old bones, after all. She had once liked music, she remembered, many years ago, when it had sounded pretty reasonable to her ancient ears. What were they called? The Bleatles? Something like that.

“Wow!” Bear shouted, stabbing at his phone, and leaping out of bed. “This is sensational. We have to go.”

“Go to what, Bear?”

“Tomorrow. In this very manor. There’s a Sheep Pride march. Everyone who’s everyone will be there.” And he rushed out of the cave in a state of high agitation and excitement, bellowing at the top of his voice into the night sky.

“Yes, Bear,” sighed Camel, rolling over. Alone at last, she fell to sleep. But, alas, it wasn’t restful. She was disturbed by the most terrifying nightmares. She tossed and turned, quite unable to expel them from her mind.

 

 

Camel had tried her best to show interest in Sheep Pride, but it was difficult to get excited, really. It mainly consisted of three or four wagons full of sheep being driven round and round in circles, by some of Mr Lupus’ cronies, looking a bit like circus ringmasters.

They had one or two bits of ribbon attached, that fluttered gaily in the breeze and a few of the sheep in the wagons jumped up and down, blowing whistles.

But in all honesty, Camel felt it was a bit underwhelming, even when one sheep made a speech in very simple English about banning an old nursery rhyme for being sheepist.

Bear, however, was transfixed, applauding the speech loudly and shouting: “Right on, Sister!”

The wagons circled a few more times as some old Tupper performed a rap from behind the bars which had some plain rhymes and a quite a lot of offensive swearing. Later, Camel tried to remember some of the words when she was writing her diary: ‘Bah bah sheep-sheep, hear us bleat-bleat, bleat-bah, bleat-bah, yo dude, car.’ Or something like that.

Quite frankly, Camel was relieved when the wagons circled for the last time, and they headed towards Mr Lupus’ building at the edge of town which she had never cared for because it belched black smoke throughout the day and smelt horrible.

“Where are they going, Bear?” asked Camel, politely.

“They are off to Parliament to get better rights for sheep and all sheep related lifeforms,” Bear snapped. “Oh, why am I even bothering to tell you? You’ve always been anti-sheep.”

“No, I haven’t,” replied Camel, surprised at his tone.

But she was even more surprised by what happened next.

 

 

The following morning, Camel was preparing breakfast, humming a little Eastern desert tune to herself.

Breakfast wasn’t much, because they weren’t well-off beasts, given that Bear was too stressed to work most of the time, and Camel had to study for exams.

But she made what little money they had go far and usually managed some porridge with honey, yoghurt and fruit. Dates, usually, she was partial to them, and they were cheap but very good for you.

“Bear,” she called, “breakfast.”

Bear was nowhere to be seen. Camel searched the cave, high and low, which did not take long because it was a bit on the small side, being a council cave. She called again, feeling a bit alarmed.

Eventually she heard a response. A rude one. “What?”

It came from outside the cave. Camel pushed her way out towards the origin of voice and could scarcely believe her eyes.

“Don’t stare, Camel,” Bear grunted. “It’s perfectly normal and acceptable.”

Despite the fact it was raining cats and dogs, bitterly cold and a Sunday, Bear was in the field beyond the fence on all fours. He wore a sheep’s’ fleece on his back and he was attempting to eat the grass.

“Go away, Camel. I’m tired of you. I’ve decided I’m a sheep. I’ve always been a sheep and I always will be a sheep. Don’t ever call me Bear again. My name is Dolly. Dolly the Sheep.”

“But I’ve made porridge for two,” replied Camel, feeling very sad and hurt at his words.

“Sheep don’t eat porridge. They certainly don’t eat honey. They prefer the good clean taste of green, green grass.” And Bear deliberately cropped a huge mouthful and began chewing ecstatically. Until, that is, Camel turned her back and went back into the cave, whereupon he promptly spat it out and began coughing.

Then he started to scratch at the fleece stapled to his back. It was a bit itchy, being full of ticks.

Bear heard a cough and he looked up. “Mr Lupus,” he said, somewhat surprised to see him there at the fence, with a grin upon his mouth. “I thought you’d be busy at Parliament?” Then he added, “I hope you are not here being anti-sheep?”

“Not a jot, not a jot,” replied Mr Lupus, licking his lips and slicking back his oily hair. “I am inordinately fond of sheep. Some of my best friends are all manner of sheep,” he added, reassuringly, “it’s just…”

“Just what?” snapped Bear, suspiciously. “It’s not a crime, you know. Being a sheep.”

“Oh, Bear. Your attitude towards me hurts my feelings, it really does. It rankles, my friend.”

“Does it?” asked Bear, curiously, and having another scratch at the fleece.

“Of course. Was it not me and my cronies who passed the equality law we all enjoy this very day?”

Bear grudgingly agreed. “I suppose it was.”

“My dear Bear. You do look very uncomfortable in that fleece. Why not go…er…the whole hog, so to speak?”

“You mean…”

And, with a vulpine grin, Mr Lupus smiled, put an arm around his shoulders, and led Bear away.

 

 

After that, Camel never saw Bear again.

Once she thought she did, however.

Well, maybe it was Bear. It was during yet another Sheep Pride event (they were happening more and more) that she felt she recognized a voice from one of the beribboned wagons.

She looked up to see a rather oversized sheep, jumping up and down frantically, rattling the sides in a fearsome way, trying to make itself heard over the whistles. She wasn’t sure, but at one point she thought it had charged at the bars almost as though it had wanted them to break.

The bars were untroubled however and before she’d had another chance to look or call out, the procession made its way to Mr Lupus’ building on the horizon.

In the afternoon, there had been another huge cloud of black smoke that smelt very pungent indeed. And the next day, batches and batches of chops in trays appeared in the market. Camel wasn’t tempted to buy any however, although many of her friends did. She supposed that after that, they all had a bit of sheep in them.

Maps

 Maps

 

Rested on hardboard, pinned in a frozen attic,

you’d once find one fledgling mind hard at it,

filling newsprint sheets with symbols, lines, gaps,

drawing coasts, joining dots, making maps.

 

Travelling his inside to exterior cat’s cradles,

swoops, loops, linked connections inked gracefully

with care, draft tunneled murky highlands snowing;

chart lowland towns, bypassed and decomposing.

 

Those wiser than him claim travel expands the mind,

scheme themselves wherever there; hope to find

a life’s work is more than just a hop on hop off tram;

functioned forty years in want of foreign lands

 

like Sugarcandy Mountains. Once, he travelled here,

was chased by lour clouds, walked trails of tears

escaped shrunk minds and found dark corners,

in beginnings that could only fathom close quarters.

 

He travelled a strange street, then mapped one more,

was glad when tracking back, to find his port door

where it was left in first steps, more back than forth

looking diffidently in comfort from covered porch.

 

Pushing outwards in maps, pulling inwards in marks,

what once was unknown, coalesced from dark

into clarity, corners full squared, lines into grids

and surety strode poised with brown eyes unturbid.  

 

And it’s not enough. Hominini dragged erect before

some others’ conception, slack jawed in awe,

leaving fleeting footprints soon blown to dust,

move on, move on, from place to place like locusts.

 

While he's mapping fingers from her belly to breasts,

she brushes those grey hairs and rests a febrific head

and he thinks he'll leave it till tomorrow to pack a case,

for it somehow seems such a poor reward to chase.