Millhouses

 

Millhouses

 

In a place as palpable as knives unsheathed

she caught baying squalls. Hollow hooded shrieks

by stepped stream, dropsticks float from tangled trees,

you children who exist in her watery memories

as tousled twigs that clambered banks and pushed

away from picnic blankets spread on summer grass

until these shoots who seized their chance at last.

 

Her modest cascades that then tumbled taller,

topped tall slides that in time came smaller.

Look. There amongst her fallen willow leaves,

that float and drift downstream on breeze,

and clag rusty grates, fair windward passage block,

breasted upstream waterfalls and braved the locks,

until snagged sunshine in her eye burned hot.

 

She could not have known on reaching spring,

how scald those watersheds in scolding bring

reedy steel blade lips that pressed hard and thin;

now only think on sin. Underfoot, the smooth tiled floors

of the lower bleaches were traded in for muddy worms,

looking back downstream over years that burned,

until old trees drop leaves in lessons learned.

Double Oh Seven Oh

 Double Oh Seven Oh

 

Last night you asked if Bond knew Shatterhand

was his last good face while his stick stirred ants

by a beach. Fifties France, spying on girls afloat

upon blood orange paths of a near drowsing sun,

flicking extinguished stub with dissatisfied hiss

remembering how hot lovers’ flames are doused.

Winding up ants, black on red with bitched bile,

remembered uplifted heavy grey rocks as a child;

black frantic things scuttling all compass points

and quickly we bleached our shocked nails of filth,

moved back black pieces from crushed lace edges

of her half cultivated garden to run from skirts.

Somewhere Bond forgot to fight, lost it somehow,

she looked back at him with ill-concealed regret,

all witchcraft, magic 44. Mount playground slides

like giants, caged on top of towers tasking skies,

tall Jacob’s ladders and we scurried aloft like ants,

young burnt faces overtopping lead painted chutes

to spill in descent. But nobody gets to live twice:

in time, Bond knew not when, his malady comes

in one spreadsheet more with more million cells,

his melancholic eyes burn, oozing sweeping ills,

discharging a languorous burden of sleep no more,

until that day come knocking on crossed backdoor.

4 Why 2 Run?

 

4 Why 2 Run?

 

2 tiny pigeons on 2 treadmills trudge

with feathers of fledge, 4 2 shall strut

side by side, push 2 puffy rouged chests,

pour 2 simple ditties in 4 middling breasts,

where 1 pigeon coos, the other 1 goes,

put 2 square pegs in 4 round plastic lobes,

4 sweat into rivers is 2 seldom flowing

and 4 tiny titties in apathy keep growing,

plod tread 4 hours, 4 running won't do,

would cut down on time for 2 sexting 2,

while watches add up 2 winking seconds,

4 counters are pulsing, judging 2, reckon

clocked calories racking are given 2 lying,

2 tiny pigeons coo-coo that they’re trying

but work becomes 4 someone else not 2,

so 2 puff chests out 4 here’s 2 fuck you.

Quick-step 2 check-phone self-self 2 pout,

better 2 flock within than 2 hang without.

Jock Strap

 

Jock Strap

 

Jock Strap sits in staffrooms, his cell phone set on mirror,

loving looking. Voice shot like arrows, his throat’s a quiver,

shouting boys who are making much of classroom clatter,

long lost dressing room hollers of: ‘listen, mates’; flatters

but deceived, they ignore him now. Do precisely as they will,

pick up phones, putting down books, if his looks would kill.

Jock Strap reasons another dog day’s needed on the sick, soon,

manuring heaps of unmarking will make his soft cock swoon,

where’s that tarpaulin? Best it's left hidden in the classroom,

closed eyes, let’s fly, clicking his heels three times and home.