Ticks

 Tick

 

Do you remember a story where –

there was a bloke, steel glasses, grey hair,

who awoke?

 

To find – and I’m not making this up –

the world’s population vanished,

and everything that irritated him was banished

to some twilight zone – he’s alone,

shuffles outside to have a look:

time enough at last to read some books.

 

So, he’s off to the library haste post haste,

eager to burrow into books and taste

whatever he might find there –

but his glasses broke.

 

I don’t remember if there was another bit

where a tick was burying in,

he checks, picks at this thing

embedded in his skin,

notes, too late, its upright sac was bloated.

 

I could write that, pick up my pen,

but it’s holiday season again -

either the sun’s shining or the rain’s falling,

no matter - here’s the unwashed come calling

in an endless stream to wash them in,

and where’s John the Baptist when you need him?

 

You’ll find yourself sitting in morning mist,

absently ripping scabs off your epidermis,

at decaying tables outside run-down cafes,

purveyors of overpriced weak coffee,

that’s neither over-hot or cold enough

to call itself iced.

 

There’s overhead flies

in orbit around your skull,

his chitchat forecast is set cloudy to dull,

and sickly salted caramel ice,

meanders without thought

in between the buttons of your shorts.

 

Do you remember a story where –

there was a bloke, grey glasses, steel hair,

who choked?

 

He’s on a train – I’m sure this is truthful –

there’s a station, it stops, nobody ever gets off.

Sees a platform cloaked in frost,

and everyday, the same thing occurs,

while the machinery of his mind whirrs,

until he is moved, one day, to check it out.

He opens the doors – as one, the passengers shout:

and - while I might have composed this last bit -

they turn over a corpse

only to find it smothered in ticks.

 

Might have, you understand,

scribbled it in my own hand -

if ever, at last, I am given time.

Armchair

 Armchair

That armchair is bigger than it has any right to be.
It was comely once, had a polished sheen,
wiped down with your damp rag—how it gleamed.
And I recall how you deliberately picked it out
when the previous one split its seams,
became a bouquet of drab hanging rags,
tatty and shapeless, a bundle of old bags,
a parade of children’s discarded flags
after the Queen’s limousine had long swept past,
hidden from sight, shoved under the stairs,
like a tap dripping lunatic, straitjacketed -
but consider it not so deeply—it will drive you mad,
for though always ungainly, you didn’t mind
it taking up too much space in the living room.
That was then. This is now—
Remember how they struggled to get it in somehow,
anyhow—and how will they ever manage?
One of a set of three. Even if the springs are gone,
look—they’re taking the windows from their very frames,
like discarded photos you thought you'd retain,
but now old memories gnaw like a nagging pain,
surplus to need, setting your teeth on edge,
and somewhere distant, the love has fled,
because you’ve hidden another one under the bed.
They heaved it through, set it down with care,
leaving imprints in the shag pile—and it just sits there.
How many years? Probably too many.
But you’ve not the heart, nor guts, to move it on.
If you sit on it, it sags, gives no comfort,
and how long it’s been—you’ve forgotten,
or at least, you pretend you have,
while secretly thinking back to that very last time.
It’s disappointing, depressing—you feel cast down.
It should’ve lasted. They said it was sound.
But like shoes worn too long, the leather’s faded,
cracked and scuffed in a dozen places,
while the grass keeps growing under your feet
and the years of neglect sit heavy and deep—
scuffed boots that never keep water from seeping in,
or your simulated stuffing from leaking.

Attic

 Attic

 

Up there? A black square,

well, more a rectangle

for the pedants amongst you –

more than a few,

I dare say. Dare.

 

Which brings me to the crux, the thrust

if you will.

The room watches, holds its breath,

and the air’s still.

 

I mean -

there’s enough room for passage,

but you need to limber up, disco down,

no matter how much you scowl,

there comes a point

when your ailing joints,

and your physique isn’t up to snuff

so all that stuff,

clutter and shmutter

you desperately need to shove up there,

remains stubborn on the ground.

 

You were found of chin ups

before age and decay,

the will’s there

but ancient muscle wasted away -

you sorely need Bounder of Adventure,

or those missing portable steps,

that you always kept

for a contingency such as this.

 

Still, here’s hope.

Comes in the shape of my blonde hero,

tousle haired, dishevelled and 13

and you know we’re quite a team,

me and him,

but he’s shaking his head with a grin.

 

So, I’m urging:

telling him to jump up there

shove aside the snug fitting, painted board,

I’ll pass my hoard

of treasures brent new frae Doha,

which I’ve racked up from those far

desert lands –

all it takes is a bit of grit,

some bottle and we’ll get through it.

 

And yet,

the room watches, holds its breath,

and the air’s still -

as he reaches upwards with clenched fists.

 

But here comes our first obstacle,

a tumbling spider, lost it’s thread,

he panics,

I clap my hands, - dead -

but they say it’s bad luck,

like the mirror crack’d,

although he’s pushed the board aside by now,

he’s looking back.

 

That black square

less inviting than ever it was, if ever it was,

I’m too patient to get cross –

I love him, you know,

can’t blame him if he won’t dare to go

where Angels fear to tread,

all the light has fled,

and I can hear that same dread,

can touch it, hold it in my hand,

now it’s time for little boy to be a man –

and in all these sorry years I’ve lived,

I never did forgive.

 

Never found it in my heart

until this one was gifted to me,

I’ll help him down, ruffle hair and say

let’s leave it for another day.

Ago

 

Ago

 

And she says to him:

why I did not meet you

thirty years ago?

 

He scratches his chin,

or would do, if that were the sort of thing

he was likely to.

 

Her daily complaints

are only smiles in rain

her time span varies but the conceit remains –

you’ll often see them,

gossiping, window shopping,

holding hands,

she says this, he understands

and it’s all quite natural -

they’re shocked

to discover they still can laugh a lot.

 

Later, he’s left, perplexed,

with a box housing Schrödinger’s cat,

or something like that,

amused in half frustration

at her many world’s interpretation,

remembers a low budget film,

to do with tube trains

slicing her worlds in two

where the one left stranded is you,

feeling the tugging of cosmic strings,

on his heart.

 

Of course, they’re apart -

this happens you know?

And some say that absence makes blood flow,

watering feelings that grow

like feathered nests of stinging nettles,

blooming into thorny thickets

that are hard to disentangle from her hair:

the burrs detach and stick there.

 

Her short steps often aching

to keep up with his longer limbs,

a frog’s chorus shamed by sweet songs she sings,

and how she plucks at his bass strings,

puts puckered lips on hobbled things,

to cook with all the thick syrup it brings,

from sweet bananas grown in Philippines,

and she tells him that it sucks -

 

Because, if Time could bear

her nips and tucks,

He would have set this bearing years ago,

and gazed upon her compass rose

to note how it might have fruited –

instead of grooming trees for shedded leaves

and drilling loam with barren seeds.

 

Still, she says, let’s smile:

Bless in gratitude each rising sun

that through each universe has spun,

and bless those days

that are yet to come.

Ascent

 

Ascent

 

Lingering somewhere at the back of the mind

is the thought that you arose

from primeval slime,

dragged up combing algae from your hair -

it’s not a pretty one, I suppose.

I’ve heard it’s locked in your genetic code

and that it was something of a struggle

for single celled organisms

ascending from soup to get a bigger bang

out of one night stands -

you’d be queuing for nine hours of more.

That’s you at the door – a groundling

and if you want your supper

you’d better sing - only allowed to bring

two cans, one for her, one for him.

You say you like the taste of Pimms,

but I’m not buying it.

All that’s swimming in prebiotic broth

left you knackered, puffed out,

but you’ll tackle the climb gamely.

They flirted with calling it Murray’s Mount,

but reverted to type

when they saw that flick about a Welsh hill

with ideas above its station.

A representative of your nation,

intent on planting a flag

before some Norwegians get there first,

better band together, form a group,

Tim’s in the studio, soundbites on a loop -

and Lennon could’ve sampled that -

maybe rain tomorrow, you never know,

herded in through the gates and off you go

with a whistle and a quick blow.

Find a likely spot, cock a leg, spray,

here’s twin screens showing play,

so affect some interest

and if the camera picks you out - wave,

look at me, ma, top of the world,

And with every shout your breaths do mingle –

munching on the last picnic at hanging rock,

stench of strawberry stout, lager top,

egg and cress, potted salmon paste

and all about you, there’s waste -

a cluttered collection of birthday wrap,

making for such jocund company

that flutters and dances in the breeze

tangled amongst daffodils, snagged in trees,

time, gentlemen and new balls, please.

That slime that coalesced into thought

is just a muffled scream from a distant court,

full of sound, fury, 12 man jury,

all stifled roars, muted claps,

and your line judge sports his old black cap -

calls it, bringing play to an end,

left wondering why you bothered to ascend.

Ants

 

Ants

 

By the top of a muck grey concrete post

that supports his tasteless five foot fence

erected some time ago to mark borders

perch a pitch of blackbirds.

 

Others must have heard.

 

Whatever it is that blackbirds sing,

that tune was not backwards in bringing

more of the blighters here,

plummeting from the summer sky

and cocking a jealous eye

at those with pole position.

 

Next door’s oblivious, of course.

I’ve seen his like, they’re everywhere,

shuffling slippers, cultivating weeds,

hanging out his spread sheets to bleed

after a lifetime spent ticking boxes.

 

Me? Well, I’m curious, so I take a butcher’s.

 

Upstairs, watching this avian show

having a dekko, as you do,

so that’s me making stairs creak

and, in the living room, half asleep,

that’s her - watching an annual pop festival.

Crowds, like ants, shot from above,

gobbing off about peace and love,

while in the adjacent fields – more sheep.

 

So, I’m close enough to take a peep -

there’s a stream of black - translucent wings

and for miles around blackbirds sing

about a kind of ant that flies and stings,

shovelling millions into ravenous beaks

whilst you see ants still struggling upwards

to the top from the bottom of their hill –

dry your tears, dears - only a few will fly.

 

And I’m thinking - you live, you die.

 

Whilst right now, going out live,

120 miles north as the blackbird flies,

there’s some similar hue and cry

when performers take to the stage,

nothing friendly in fading light,

waving flags, spouting hip hop politics - 

my family and other shite

and they don’t understand most of it.

 

Lapping it up, more actual ants,

who struggled here from their camps,

toting champagne in handcarts,

and latter filling those bottles with piss

to dispose of with a sustainable kiss -

paid a small fortune in catharsis.

 

And maybe some might climb the Tor.

 

Not a sort of audience to shirk,

tomorrow they’ll turn up for work

tick boxes, fill spreadsheets,

something totem, climbing poles -

podcast footage took on mint cellphones,

because in a flock you’re not alone:

so let’s have our water cooler moment.

 

Cheers.

 

Here’s to taking flight from monuments.

Boxes

 

Grandad Patches’ Bedtime Fables:

Boxes.

 

Once upon a time, children, there was – in the deepest, darkest Western valleys – a box factory.

Actually, my dears, I told a lie. My poor, aging brain d’you see?

There were, in fact, two box factories, side by side and next to the ancient, tumble-down mill by the River Pykulstyff.

Oh – and both factories were very proud of their products. In fact, they were so proud that they did not talk to each other, even though they were both owned by the same person.

But, I hear you ask, how can that be? After all, box factories do not talk. They are not sentient, are they?

Did you? Did you ask?

Well, I’ll tell you anyway - to be on the safe side, my dears.

It was not that the box factories did not talk to each other – dear me, no. The problem was with the management. It was they who did not talk. To each other. Obviously, they talked. It would be a strange being indeed who did not talk, after all.

During the sixties, when I used to work in a factory that made Walter’s Puffed Wheat, I actually had a manager who did not talk. His name was Doctor Spock from Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet.

What do you mean you haven’t heard of Walter’s Puffed Wheat?

Why, everybody back then would shout: ‘Walter’s Puffs – They’ll make the biggest puffs in your bowl today!’ Then does a most extraordinary celebration jig.

No – not that sort of bowl.

Anyway, I asked why that manager, Doctor Spock, did not speak. Do you know what he said? He said that he hadn’t got the puff.

Anyway, as I was saying, they were enormously proud of their boxes.

And news of this product soon began to travel far and wide across the valleys. Why, it managed to get over the Llanlumpybrwnscym Mountains, down the River Bylsheet to Aberfynny and onwards Eastwards, past Pontypyss until it reached the ears and whiskers of old Mr. Lupus.

And they soon pricked up, believe me.

“Young Mr. Lupus,” he growled. “Send forth our very best box inspectors to the valleys. There are two uppity box factories there. Verify and assess the following: quality of boxfulness, behaviour and attitudes of boxinacity, personal development of boxes and, finally, the leadership and management of those responsible for right angles.”

“What about wrong angles?”

“What? Don’t try to put nothing over on me!” Old Mr. Lupus tapped the desk with one of his less blunted claws pointedly.

“And should I instruct the Boxspect Inspectors bring back some boxes?”

“Well, where’s the harm?” And old Mr. Lupus licked his fangs with the tip of his vulpine tongue, stroking his whiskers with his claws.

Well, my dears, upon hearing of this, there was hue and cry in the valleys. But, did the two factories talk to each other? They did not. They preferred instead to become very secretive indeed – just in case one box factory had an advantage over the other box factory.

I suppose that each factory wanted to be better than the other. Now, you might think that was rather foolish, given that they both were owned by the same person. But who are we to question the wisdom of the powers that make boxes?

Now, the day of the inspection dawned.

Young Mr. Lupus and his inspection team did not inform the factories that they were coming – instead they hid in the hedges lining the dirt tracks that climbed past the old mill and led to both institutions – this was approved practice, you see? So, the factories could be caught with their pants down and any foul practices exposed.

However, being wolves, they weren’t very good at hiding.

As the grubs who worked in the factories ambled past, munching on their snap, they would toss the odd bone into the hedgerow, causing great excitement amongst the pack.

By the time the whistle blew, the whistle had been blown, as it were.

Mr. Jockie Llewelyn, the chief earwig in charge of ‘Valley International Boxes’ spent the morning looking anxiously through his window at his rivals ‘Valley Boxes International’. The team had snapped and growled its way in through those gates a couple of hours ago, but so far nothing.

Then, movement.

The pack of wolves jostled and chundered back through the gates, followed by Young Mr. Lupus who was beaming genially and shaking the claw of Mrs. Blodwyn McKelpie vigorously. It looked as though the inspection had gone without a hitch.

Gulping a little nervously, Jockie scuttled down the stairs to the gates, carrying a briefcase full of papers that he had compiled.

There, waiting for him, was young Mr. Lupus.

“Good morning,” Jockie stammered.

“Shut up. What’s that?” Mr. Lupus snapped, indicating the pile of papers that Jockie was, somewhat nervously, offering him. “Fly, my hounds of hell!” He cried. Within minutes, the young pack of wolves had snarled and shredded their way through the whole kit and kaboodle. Now it was only fit for a paper chase through the mountains.

Jockie protested. “But that…that was my evidence.”

“Evidence? Pish and posh. I am only interested in your values and value added.”

“Well, what on earth is that?”

Young Mr. Lupus prodded him in the chest. “Next door they believe in ‘Integrity, Boxcellence, and Innovation in All Things Rectangular.’ They have it displayed all over the factory. You, Mr. Llewelyn are sadly lacking in vision and values.”

“I am? But our boxes are second to none.”

“Pah. You don’t even differentiate your corners.”

Poor Jockie looked a bit crestfallen because he had to admit that these were things he had never thought about. For him, a box was just a box. But it seemed he had become old fashioned and outdated.

“Sorry. Can I have another chance?”

“Certainly, you may not. I will return to Old Mr. Lupus with my recommendations.”

“And they are?”

“That you are sacked henceforth.”

“Oh.”

“And I’ll be back next month to check any recommendations are deployed and all actions are initiated.”

And so it was, dear children, that Llewelyn the Box packed his bags and left for his retirement cottage somewhere near The Mumbles, not far from Lemming’s Leap.

Well, now.

You might have thought there would be hue and cry amongst all the other the grubs that staffed our box factory…but not a bit of it.

Of course, there was the usual bit of staffroom gossip for a time – along the lines of ‘well, I told you so’, and ‘came as no surprise to this centipede, my dears’, but that was about it.

In fact, there wasn’t even a whip round.

Nor did anyone nip down to Poundland and buy one of those tatty bits of transparent plastic jigsaw pieces proclaiming ‘You are the missing link, goodbye!’ that are often passed out at the end of the year, to save a few pounds on a decent present – like a box of Milk Tray or something.

Instead, Myfanwy Evans, the termite – who was once his second in command - was seen to be staring wistfully at the door of his vacant office. Almost as though she was in love. Could it be that she missed his daily banter?

How she would howl with laughter at his premier division wit. “Why, Myfanwy,” he had been known to say, of a morning, “I feel quite boxed in, today!” or “Any more meetings like that and I’ll take up boxing!” or “Please. Keep a lid on it!” or “Why was the box a perfect match? Because it was a matchbox!” or…well, I’m sure you get the picture.

After a few days of such misty-eyed musings, Myfanwy seized her microphone. Her voice crackled over the intercom system that was used to make announcements. “No more box related jokes,” she snapped, harshly. “It is counterproductive to the productivity of boxes.”

So, no, it couldn’t have been that.

Myfanwy helped herself to a large slice of the chocolate cake she had ordered that morning. She was partial to a large slice of cake. In fact, since Llewelyn had sloped off, it was noticed that she was putting on rather a lot of weight.

For a termite.

And, as she chewed, she thought - Who would be the next chief?

She could think of no better candidate than herself.

With that decided, Myfanwy picked up the phone and summoned the deputy deputy chief - a caterpillar from a cabbage patch just past old Farmer Taff Turnip’s farm called Tykleback. And she asked about the room at the top – who should be the next chief?

Well, what do you know?

Styklebak could think of no one better than Myfanwy.

“You really think so?”

“Look you, yes, boyo.”

“Do you think we should have some surveys?”

“Why yes. We should definitely have some surveys.”

And so it was. The surveys went out by email to all the employees.

Now, some might argue, my dears, that such things should be anonymous. Poppycock. If surveys are anonymous, how will we ever know who filled them in?

And, also, some lesser minded grubs might put forward some concerns.

Concerns, you see, should always be dealt with – so long as they are constructive concerns.

Myfanny made sure that she also sent out the remains of her chocolate cake to the workforce, before she ordered herself another one.

Now, to your surprise, it seemed that the workforce were more than happy to return Myfanwy to the top of the totem pole, and, once in position, she had the difficult task of – well – picking herself a deputy.

“Can I be your deputy?” asked Styklebak, who felt she had the relevant experience.

“Well, there’ll have to be a survey.”

“OK, dear.”

And so another survey was forwarded, more cake, and, a couple of hours later – happy days – Styklebak was soon moving herself into Myfanwy’s old office.

“But who will be the deputy, deputy chief, Myfanwy?”

Myfanwy scratched her chin. “Well,” mused she, “I do believe that Bunton the Slater might be an ideal candidate.”

“Yes, yes. Bunton the Slater. Why, you mean the deputy deputy deputy chief in charge of card control?”

“Even she.”

“Another survey?”

“Oh, yes. Another survey if you please.”

Well, when all that was sorted – as well as several filling several other roles – a few weeks had passed by, as you might imagine. The poor old grubs in the factory didn’t really know if they were coming or going, you see?

They’d taken so much time filling in surveys and eating cake that there hadn’t been much time to make any boxes or read several long peremptory messages that had come from Mr. Lupus.

And so, one morning, Myfanwy reluctantly hauled herself out bed, crossed the shag pile and stared out of her luxury mound. In the background she could see the two box factories, sitting side by side and the sun rising over the chimney pots.

Her chauffeur, on time as usual and happy – she knew because he’d filled in a survey – drove her the short distance and through the gates.

Two other grubs, of nondescript shape due to cake consumption, helped her into an electric cart that, with the flick of her limb, would convey her to her office. “Are you experiencing workplace well-being?” she asked, absently – mainly because she always asked this. “Do you need more cake or surveys?”

“No, Madame.”

“Maybe some more time in the well-being centre?”

Shaking their heads hastily, the two grubs backed off to allow her forward passage.

Well, she was a bit suspicious of back passage, as you know.

Now, she was about to press the button marked ‘GO’, when she stiffened – spying a large misshapen object lying in her path.

She pointed at it with her…well, do you know, I’m not sure what she pointed with. Do termites actually have fingers?

It’s possible I can’t see because Myfanwy has, to be honest, become rather bloated by this point in the story. But, on the other hand, fingers can be a bit tricky to spot on a termite.

No, honestly.

Back in the 60s, I knew one once. A bloated termite. He was called ‘Tricky Fingers’ and played honky-tonk piano in the band at Robert Brother’s Flea Circus – pounding away at the ivories with gay abandon, oh, he was renowned in those parts.

But, eventually, old Tricky had to retire when they fell off. One day, he flexed his hands into the shape of an orange and watched in dismay as each of his digits, one by one, decided they’d had enough and plopped onto the ground, scuttling away into the undergrowth.

They were wandering fingers, you see?

Anyway, Myfanwy pointed, as I believe I mentioned. “What on earth is that?” she cried, in a tremulous and somewhat shocked voice.

The object she was indicating was large, blobby, brown and damp.

“It’s a box.”

“A box? A box?” Myfanwy screamed, shocked – because she’d seem some boxes in her time and they’d looked nothing like this.

“Why, yes,” explained one of the indeterminate grubs, proudly. “It’s the first one we’ve made in quite some time, and, in point of fact, the shop floor foreman is very proud of it.”

“But boxes don’t look like that, do they?”

“Well, nobody knows any more. We all filled out some surveys on the matter and this was our best guess.”

“What’s the brown stuff all over it?”

“Cake, Madame.”

“Oh, crumbs,” muttered Myfanwy.

“Exactly.”

There was no time to lose. She pressed the turbo button on her electric cart and lurched forwards towards the building with all haste.

Now, Myfanwy had moved her office onto the bottom floor by this time – finding the stairs arduous. In fact she was thinking of having a lift installed and had issued a survey to see if anyone objected.

But, once she had got through the office door, another unpleasant surprise awaited.

It was none other than Young Mr. Lupus. And he looked none too pleased.

“Why, Young Mr. Lupus, what a pleasant surprise,” Myfanwy stammered, in a voice that suggested the opposite was true.

“Is it?” he growled.

“Would you like some cake?”

“Wolves don’t eat cake.”

“They don’t? What do they eat?”

Young Mr. Lupus stared at Myfanwy’s bloated shape and licked his chops. But, that could wait.

“Since taking over from your unfortunate predecessor, without the permission of Mr. Lupus, I might add...box production at this factory has halved by 100%,” Young Mr. Lupus snapped. “ I know. I checked with the owner.”

“Ah, well, there’s a good reason, you see…”

“Shut up.”

Myfanwy wasn’t used to being spoken to like that. The last grub that had done such a thing had been given a very severe survey indeed, no cake and ten hours in the well-being centre. She’d personally supervised it. “Shut up? How dare you?”

“It seems to me that your workforce has been paid for a whole month for eating cake and filling out surveys.”

“But surveys are important. We need to know opinions before we can move forward. They reveal important data – once compiled.”

Young Mr. Lupus glared at her. “I’ll tell you what they revealed. They revealed that they you are allergic to work, that’s what.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes you are. I’m closing this factory down. As from today ‘Valley Boxes International’ will take over from your shoddy operation. We’re having a merger.”

“Having a merger? We’ll see about that.”

But, alas, my dears, before she could see anything much of anything. Myfanwy was gone. Where she was gone, I will leave up to your own imagination. But Young Mr. Lupus was certainly more than satisfied with the result and didn’t order out for lunch. All that cake, you see?

But, let’s not finish on a sad note.

The rest of the grubs were more than happy to move next door where there were less surveys to fill out.

All except for Styklebak.

She, poor soul, was told there was no position open to her or office available. She’d have to join the other grubs, constructing boxes, it seemed.

Because, as you know, there’s always room at the bottom - of the box.

Beachcombing

 

Beachcombing

 

A freak wave smashed the gunnels,

swamped Tokio’s funnels

broadside on,

scuppering containers that sat upon

the deck — all were lost.

 

Well — a bit of hyperbole

to whet a knife-edge of the mind,

cut the purse, slit the throat,

because as you know,

that ship stayed afloat,

but scattered five million plastic pieces

over the farthest reaches

of the ocean floor.

You want more?

 

In Cornwall, far from deserts

of the Middle East,

find children combing the sandy beach,

among the fronds of weed —

all bladderwrack and dabberlock,

destructive swash

that grinds the rock —

to seek and locate that rarest block:

a black and dappled octopus.

 

And you may think this strange —

to so highly prize

a beast deranged,

who secretes about him toxic ink,

obfuscates, and brings to the brink

of his salted beak,

his seasoned maw,

any raw flesh his eight tentacles

can lay their sticky suckers on,

reaching far and long.

 

Think on, my braves:

what dangers lurk in caverns black?

What terrors fly across dun skies?

 

The precision those fireworks lack

doesn't mean they won't let fly —

and in fever-dreams will you not see

tickertape parades of lost debris,

floating at last upon the sea —

a jumbled mass that claims to be

the cut-offs of some baggage claim.

 

So that’s it, really.

Speak not of blame,

or hearts to rest with Caesar there.

Just run your comb through the hair

of our sandy beaches,

to find the glass beads

that served as eyes of teddy bears.

Carrie

 Carrie

If it is the manner of your leaving,

if nothing in your life becomes you more,

then Carrie doesn’t live here anymore.

 

Across the water, jets strafe land,

inky fingers smear subterranean plans,

while keys are turned by iron hands.

 

Another skyward salvo wheels its weary way —

shall we live another day

if the watching world goes ballistic?

 

Yet if you ripped skulls apart

to find her thumbprints on the heart

of this torn world,

then Carrie doesn’t live here anymore.

 

Because it is the same for us all.

In bunkers, we see exits, crawl

with hands out for pocket change,

then shrug, claim

we chose the moment, set the terms —

but Carrie’s insides burn.

 

Now, her podium come round at last,

she slouches certain for the steps,

bilious-hearted, no regrets,

her sharpened teeth on edge.

She commands the Christian congregation

with words deaf to other nations,

voices departure, closed doors,

for Carrie doesn’t live here anymore.

 

She speaks of a slighted spouse,

how he had to leave the house —

a scandal with Jesus’ sandals,

skateboards, and the sin of wrath.

 

With tremulous voice she denies sloth,

how hard it is to raise a child,

how hard to raise a smile

nursing a stabbed back, while all the while

missiles fall like hail and farewell.

 

So now, you see, it’s plain to tell

that Carrie doesn’t live here anymore -

and if she left a forwarding address,

would they even raise a breath?

Bag

 Bag

 

That brown paper bag

tossed off street side,

late of leftover lunches

looks like a dog sitting on its haunches.

What’s that? Its back legs.

It’d jump up and beg

for something in your hands

if it wasn’t a sack with handles.

But it’s not vanishing,

like Hopkirk - when Randall

tells him to hop it, buzz off, take a hike

or when that Tory git said

get on your bike -

was it Tebbit or Lamont?

Well, bike is it? I’ll give you bike:

You probably don’t have one

and wonder why

wine stains don’t vanish

when you apply something magic,

patented, guaranteed to cure,

more a helper than an evil doer,

she pressed her iron

to the armpit - and wrinkles her nose

in disgust at the smell of labour -

it smacks of common sense

you’re sat on a fence that’s walking away.

Do that dog a favour,

before it’s blowing in the wind

to the sound of a Kevin Spacey voiceover -

look - she’s all moist,

dabs the liquid from her eye

with a Kleenex she just licked

then, with a rueful flick

of the wrist is rid of it.

Bomb the bastards someone said,

maybe Kenny Everett

maybe Brother Lee Love

and do it in the best possible taste,

the dirty work, that is.

Don’t make me laugh, nuclear waste?

That brown paper bag looks like a dog.

If you throw him a stick.

He will not fetch it.

Moment

 Moment

 

It could be of moment,

allies snarl, become opponents

anyway, anyhow, anywhere.

Red touch paper, ignite blue —

who’s done more

than his fair week’s share —

slams door, wages war,

tosses cope, throws shade,

resentment grew, fuse blew,

well, what’s a boy to do?

 

He considers primary colours

in England’s wild hedgerow,

how vast her gardens grew,

profuse in green and yellow.

Pauses; considers lilies in the field,

who toil not, of little yield

and only spin tall tales,

send screeds about sick days,

holidays, awaydays, cut pay,

and slashed seats or fares.

 

If red tosses hand grenades,

find him down the esplanade

Blue shrugs — outplayed,

spreads waters with palm oils

while covertly his insides boil.

Papermate

 

Papermate

 

A bleak midwinter’s day in June

icy winds descend the flume,

sweep the soot throughout the room

and the usual tunes

recycle through your head, don’t they?

Ah, something from A Hard Day’s Night, perhaps,

You Can’t Do That, If I Fell,

You Should’ve Known Better

and what’s that smell?

 

Yes, from the range, steam,

what a choker,

neck twisted, expertly broke,

there’ll be a feast

for here’s a potful of grease,

a slaughtered goose cooked -

and wasn’t there a game called that

one Christmas?

 

You’d balance plastic figures,

multicoloured - long before

that was even a thing

on a fake saucepan lid,

watch it pivoting,

shivering - imagine waters boiling

before plunging in,

and what’s sauce for the goose,

is sauce - well, you know.

 

Now you remember

that sheaf of paper

thrust into your hands,

like an afterthought before a forethought,

or barely any thought at all -

maybe it was half a ream;

late paper for paper's mate.

 

You’d been feeling sick -

a rare day off school,

swinging the lead, they’d say,

on your birthday -

pigheaded, thick-eared,

depressed heat oppressed brain,

still, mustn't complain

about feeling the strain,

tired of watching your back,

in this war of attrition

of constant attack

and the forces ranged against you?

Unequal in the extreme.

 

Such Masters of Risk,

rattling beads, rattling cups,

throwing six, throwing up,

positioned up mountains, marching plains,

searching subterranean homesick drains

to winkle you out

with a cocktail stick.

Gaddafi’s final chukka.

 

Run through, pricked,

adorning half a grapefruit -

a sandwiched chump

skewered beneath a pineapple chunk

and somewhere up north from cheese,

make it Edam, please,

something synthetic.

 

The table’s set,

under flickers of candelabra

that never quite banished

Herman’s creeping dark,

five places, six faces -

it’s all vanished

won’t come back, now,

within your fog - lost,

buried beneath ice and frost.

 

But on peeling paper, by the door,

if you peer hard enough,

it can still be seen -

sticky brown residual trickles,

where a grenade

of homemade pickles,

was hurled and smashed

above his head,

shattered into smithereens, it’s said.

 

Careful, now, here’s sentiment,

pinpricks the hairs on skin,

rising forensically to dust glasses

for onion peelings,

ripped up grasses,

rippling the drink

to swim in the water within.

 

Still, your turn for a good one.

Strange words, these, off-hand

like a refusal to commit,

delivered in steel and grit

through teeth, not lips,

and you’re left holding

these 250 sheets approximately,

like Queen Jane.

 

The paper’s plain

but ready to be typed upon

receive an imprint.

I can still see you

holding that pale, blue lidded

Smith Corona in something like light,

as though you’d just learnt to write.

 

And later, in the relative

safety of the trenches, delight,

mapping plans for flight -

while you never could win this fight,

there’s always tomorrow.

 

A strategic withdrawal,

you could claim,

although, to be more mundane,

truth is, there’s never choice,

only later, when you found a voice,

you expressed sorrow.

 

As for what happened next,

well, it served its time,

saw action, fought campaigns:

those keys were well-worn

by the time all doors were knocked

latches lifted and unlocked -

going with you as you travelled.

 

Before my ink ribbons unravel

or are replaced,

just this - you told them

about the typewriter -

and they asked you with a sneer at school,

was it a Petite?

 

But, looking back,

it was anything but that.