What Makes You Think You’re the One?

 

What Makes You Think You’re the One?

 

So - when you hit me, you hit hard,

I’m bleeding and I’m battle scarred,

looking long at what you left in me,

Dodged your bullet, now I’m free.

 

Floods that swamped willow's leaves,

your drops that fell, that fell on me,

that once sent shivers down my back,

I searched for what my life did lack.

 

I searched your pain, I searched for cracks,

I saw your face, I saw your tracks,

that came like tanks, to blossom fire,

my broken back, to mount you higher.

 

You rode my hope, you crushed, you grind,

you thought to blood me of my rhymes,

you did not think I’d ever find,

this life so warm, this love divine.

 

You made your choice, you made it wrong,

your juices dripping on these songs,

distraught you grieve for what has passed,

you’ll grieve until you breathe your last.

 

You supposed I only would find sorrow,

for where I led, you did not follow,

but yesterday’s airs must strain tomorrow’s,

search out your soul in lost Time’s hollow.

The Last Toothbrush

 

The Last Toothbrush

 

Not really The Last Starfighter, you’re thinking,

you know, there’s that one with John Boy Walton:

‘Good night, John Boy’. ‘Good night, Mary Lou,

just one last thing I gotta do

and finish this video game.’ Wait, wait, wait,

did they have those back then, or was it Stargate?

Starcrash, maybe, with Caroline Munro,

milky cleavage, teeth and places yet to go,

she’s winking at James Bond from her chopper,

Roger that, Houston, hit the missiles and stop her,

he’s starting out, I’m finishing,

some kind of gatekeeper, threshold guardian even,

mentor maybe, got the bristled up Colgate

ready for action, teeth still sticking to dental plates

just about, ungummed here and there, thinning hair,

rod and staff me comfort still somewhere

and the breath whistling mind the gap, mind the gap.

worn out nylon’s painful picking at cavities,

stabbing into crimson flesh with nervous brutality.

It’s all Mousetrap. Strictly come shuffling, knees bend

knees ache, rah, rah, rah, I’ve got the map

so use me as a guide vocal, use me as a friend,

been this way before, I know the score,

I watched the slick hand of Maradona deified,  

‘But nothing we could do,’ we replied,

singing as they brought the boys back home,

because love had the world in motion.

Now I’ve got a notion, there’s suntan lotion,

in that bag of yours, so play on John Boy, play on,

or, here’s fun – let’s you and me to Boots with rushes

and I’ll show you where I filmed The Last Toothbrush.

Kind of Unkind Fat Controller

 

Kind of Unkind Fat Controller

 

One of those days when bass blames violin,

he’s eyeballing keys; she’s shaming drums,

snarls ‘hit A Minor now’ in wolf tones and sting,

then in through the door - it comes, it comes

and you’re looking the other at a belly rolling

converted but here’s a hijab’s slipped, strayed

hair from folds - she’s licking her lips, strolling

from out her blazing burning fires. They play

songs of if she did anything expedient today

lament lost principles canned and conveyed,

an abaya hides recent pounds piled on hips,

hocking up a hyena’s laugh in shades of sick,

gauze thrown barbecues to displace critics,

here’s rands for any inventive songs from it

in skimpy piles of seed. First get a lump sugar,

sugar, send out your surveys, capturing souls

from the shanty towns where they mistook her

for something sporting tactics in mouse clicks,

hey, Minnie? Fuck your Thursday coffee gratis

a price too great to pay, yet here we practice

on one of those days filled by tricky shifted

signatures hoofed in six eight. I know, I know

it comes only from graft, from fingers twisted,

from time spent learning quick rhythms flow,

for improper dancing in unsuitable clothes,

beneath a kind of unkind fat controller’s nose.

Anywhere But Here

 

Anywhere But Here

 

Shambling formless down the aisle

herded by our shepherdesses,

some gurning flappermouth

with a penchant for sport

or so he claims, this dreadnought

blinks as he cops tight tennis dresses

sported by Naomi or Caroline,

couldn’t check order of play,

didn’t bother, no time,

snatches a snapshot nonetheless,

deposits it in the bank for laters,

backhand whistles down the line

exchanging ground shot for shots,

cross court, lobs, half volleys,

and he cares not a jot,

down under living a living thick clot,

loudly declaims he was off his trolley

some night, last night, the night before,

hell, Tuesday last he had a blast,

since you didn’t ask,

but he’ll tell you anyway, talk’s cheap,

dropping the free programme by his feet,

scours the crowd to meet and greet

anyone that’s sadly here,

anyone he badly knows,

his looks and looks that boldly go

as stampedes towards the exit grow,

pray ground beneath his feet swallows,

and doesn’t bother with the spitting,

until he’s left alone

to check the phone for cricket scores,

a wallabies and springboks bore,

to drive living shit out of any in earshot,

up and under, dropping the ball,

rabbits a good ruck and maul,

an all black in bucket hat

from underneath the scum he crawls,

Azarenka’s angry glare,

a scream of incandescent rage 

lobbed in his direction,

caught him looking at his own reflection

because he really cannot fathom why,

his something mate from Dubai won’t fly,

give coming to watch the tennis a try,

but that bloke's not coming nowhere near,

while he’s anywhere but here.

Arthur Birling

 

Arthur Birling

 

If you ask about Arthurs, I could name you a few,

if that’s what you’re telling me will tickle you:

how about a pissed playboy millionaire, cut off

when his train fell in the bath, some say shocked

John Gielgud was trying to electrocute the twat.

Or that King, married Queenie Watts up some flat,

Arthur Sixpence? ‘Yes, my dear, ‘ave some of that.’

Here’s to Arthur Fowler who nicked the Xmas cash

from some driveling moribund show, made a dash

for notoriety, but ended off far worse than dead,

noddy donkey, rubbing his knees, sick in the head.

But there’s no Arthur more famous than Sir Birling,

who boxed plenty round caskets of pound sterling,

‘take those to the bank, Shalamar,’ he’d often shout,

so it’s told, being right fond of banging disco tunes,

‘’I Love the Nightlife, Disco Round’ of an afternoon,

burning up the floor rather than some girl’s intestine

with bleach, although, as for that, it’s well believed,

she imbibed it herself, while all those John Smiths

were pulling potatoes and the potatoes pulling back.

And as for Sir Birling, he’s happy passing her the sack,

it comes in dead handy for storage, since you asked,

while thousands of teachers boring the tits off kids,

when Supertramp said it better in, ‘Give a Little Bit’

because a ghoul muttered she ‘kept a diary of sorts,’

so, ‘hey kids, here’s fun, why don’t you write one?’

and there’s Stimpson, at the back, stifling a yawn,

the insolent shite. Nearly 80 years ago she passed,

without the decent manners to breathe her last,

and as good a reason as any to clap Arthur in chains

in some time-looped purgatory, and the self-same

self-righteous speech about fire and shock and awe.

Meanwhile gulfs from here, Arthur Brain's stirring,

a thick set, tinpot turd, fifty years past all unlearning,

stoked steam engines boil in his incense burning

and stroking his furnace, washing minds for ore:

thinks fuck your communities while he spoils for war.

Hang You Up Above the Fireplace

 

Hang You Up Above the Fireplace

 

Lift those grey veils and look, you fool,

hot lathe will sculpt and grind with tools

and don’t suppose you’ll end this race,

you won’t - that much is certain.

Keep friends close for the enemies flirt

who’d slap that look from off your face.

You be some Duke of controlling words,

try commands, think looks that murder,

knee-jerk whispers of uprising murmur,

choosing never to stoop or never serve,

but don’t think you can by smiling hide,

he’ll dash those roses from your eyes,

and he will put your curtain by,

part ashes where your hot snakes writhe,

shred your shrewish gaze of sullen silk,

you’re waylaid across the table,

find time to lesson you if he's able,

expose spots of joy for sludge and silt,

with craft your masked distemper trace,

and hang you up above the fireplace.

She is Little, But Fierce

 

She is Little, But Fierce

 

She is little, but fierce, you praise her well,

because she smiles upon those little lies you tell,

and everything, in the end, is balanced.

 

You were small when you learnt to deceive

to avoid panel beatings you often received,

meted out in kind correction; on reflection

it mostly failed, but was always worth a go,

because his punch to the ear, nose or throat

and that way your head seemed to float

in bright sick pea greened lightning flash,

boomed as loud as grand piano lids crash,

swimming the sea, swimming for shore

and how did you find yourself on the floor?

 

Ah, you felt betrayed in leaked liquid,

don't give him any satisfaction; better a smirk,

dust yourself down with a wink and flirt

to that unseen cosmic audience, take a bow,

you’re older, but there’s a little left of that now,

take solace in her knitted turtleneck brow,

you can only get away with what she’ll allow.

 

Oh, it starts here, same as it ever did

in words that beat repeating.

Those little deceits you laugh off as jokes

coiling down yarns and little enough rope

for hanging around her, sporting four poster eyes

and licked lips, unpursing all your sweet little lies,

in words well learned because you’ve earned it

by giving his ancient noose the slip.

 

Pitched it down, slung it over your shoulder,

tore chains from necks and cast-off boulders,

to come dashing away with smoothing iron words,

murmured lovers' best cliches that love ever heard.

 

She is little, but fierce; praise her well,

because she smiles upon those little lies you tell,

and lessons learned by wooden spoons

on slack skinned tom-toms beating tunes,

once played with a grimace of well-honed talent

because everything, in the end, is balanced.