Signature

Signature

 

These are the days

a moment can take you flash sideways,

in the hanging space between

this tick and that,

summed up by a minor sentence,

suspended

in preparation and resolution.

 

A word struck, a thought stuck —

my imitation, his indignation,

then stagnation:

‘You stole that from me.’

And I had.

 

I’d copped the rolling R,

the way it soared and swooped,

the A, the P,

intricate and linked,

fountaining ink —

knew I was due one on the knuckles

and ducked.

 

‘You didn’t think,’ he’d thunder —

this Augustus, muscles flexed,

maybe seize me by the neck,

boot arse for good measure,

then yomp up small mountains.

 

My signature was a pale impersonation,

a Mike Yarwood, a Little and Large;

he'd grab chainsaw, sledgehammer, axe,

feel put upon to have me at his back —

but I suppose I served.

 

These are the days

to remember a father’s cursive scrawl —

it strode ahead, stood tall —

but now it’s hardly there at all,

iced air that dispersed hot breath,

only an impression is left.

Fold

 

Fold

 

You’ve got to know when to fold them,

which, to be fair,  don't feel hard to play

in a four beats to the bar kind of way.

But here's weeks unfolding into months,

you’ll always find them out to lunch

because witches are in season again.

That, or could be Keith Richards’ fingers

are sprained beyond repair - can’t linger,

left guitars on the train, forgotten picks,

and your teeth are itching that little bit,

watching these walking wounded sprains.

You buy them a diamond ring my friend

if they’d not turned up with slings,

can’t play a note, can’t pluck strings,

them guitars are rotting in their cases,

you’d take that look from off their faces,

but they sagged off racing for the weekend.

So, shrug, pack, let's switch off that amp,

down sticks, admit your style’s cramped:

you can't get me no satisfaction

so, just got to know when to fold them.

Haste

 

Haste

 

What is it in us that makes us leave?

What is it makes us believe

that far sunsets will ease our grief,

touch grass, search long for lost fences

beyond green, beyond buried gems

in distant marshes, lakes and fens,

where treasure is believed to lie?

It is age, all thresholds crossed,

waymarks that once relieved the lost

are on the stones that grow the moss

and the guardians there have fled.

You claimed to have felt palipations

and the pull of distant nations,

that once claimed you as their own,

set sail a weary head for home

and there prepared your sleep.

But it’s a long, long time lying

and we in envy, keep up trying,

grind our bones to make our bread,

tilling soil, sweat and toil, in stress

pound hard hearts, supping breath

from wells that draw from watersheds.

Passage

 

Passage

 

It was on a train

coming back from football,

Dobson forgets the game:

the Addicks or maybe Wolves

howling - shredding night skies

with wants, needs, compulsions.

 

In the aisle, he’s standing,

staring in revulsion,

barring passage with bullets for eyes

as if to say, no right of way.

 

But Dobson doesn’t want to play

having already seen a game,

too many, in fact – they end the same.

Doesn’t want to throw a punch,

not today, anyway,

but wonders what this one has to say.

 

He sets tinned beer on the table,

backs down, sees the frown

that crossed his face

like he’s marked absent in the register.

 

This antagonist speaks,

slight, trembling; he reaches

for those words he must’ve rehearsed

or scripted over the years.

 

A voice like the shaking train

and the cans rattle like snakes.

You barred my way so many times,

so now at last, I’m barring yours,

she’s mine – I took her.

 

So it goes. No jab in the chest,

just a quivering breath -

he’s Lene Lovich’s Lucky Number

all falsetto and fear.

 

Ah, it must be her: Rachel.

They’d been players together

trod boards, ridden stages,

recited lines, flicked pages.

And once or twice

she’d held him

sticky in her hands,

wiping the mess from her belly

with clean, white tissues.

 

Later: something dark and self-harm,

approximately raised black alarms,

whipped storms, swapped out calm

for all the drama you could watch.

 

Now he’s the lookout

and a boy stands on a burning deck.

It can’t endure, it falls apart,

and this man having played his part

stands aside:

leaving Dobson to finish his ride.

Coffee

 

Coffee

 

Came here for the peace and the price,

visited more than once or twice:

coffee’s cheap, tabled with a smile,

wondering if they’re real or servile

or something else entirely - after all,

we’re aware they’re paid a pittance;

dripped cream swirls in toffee whirls,

like sweet but sticky thoughts unfurl.

As for quiet – well - none to be had,

you’re getting old, Grandad, past it,

and noise pollution of conditioned air,

piped music, kids’ shrieks of unfair

in Arabic, forbade something sweet;

sets off alarms by malicious security.

Your looks across green plastic tables

betray something, nothing, raise fables,

sketch hexaflexagons of hidden fears

toll the bells of tinnitus in your ears,

for which you know no cure exists

a persistent pitch of splitting trysts,

a guilt that shadows all you’ve kept

like dust beneath bright carpets swept.

Spoil

 

Spoil

 

A heap of spoil, tipped, like coffee grounds

from a cafetière clags ceramic and surrounds

your sink, refuse that clings stubbornly:

no matter how hard you rinse or wash

some detritus sticks it to you; ruins cloth.

Or flies that orbit newly washed hair,

what is it that attracts them there

and how do they know? Such piles of waste

are legion here, despoiling landscapes,

even when you protest to me it is reclaimed,

seeded, grassed, managed.

Here is just your walking pile of damage,

haunting doors, peering into classrooms

with the look of spoil - indulged and entitled.

Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,

so scurry off to those who can,

and instigate another letter writing campaign,

fall, faint, get yourself a new coat of paint,

have a multitude of forests that bind soil

planted by those who sweat; those who toil,

disguising your clinker and slag.

And while it's edifying for excavators

who clawed you from the earth, 

exploited anything good, gave birth,

for anybody left it's just a drag.

This heap of spoil, this exploited, ruined mound,

for ever after will be found

polluting the periphery of more fertile grounds

without substance and unblushing:

demanding want, but still wanting nothing.

Epochellipse

 Epochellipse

 

Out of time, with little understanding

or belief in our United Kingdom

we who had rioted for the freedom

to bag that extra air mile,

loot the latest shoes, phones, styles

showed you we can do what we want,

conflagrate and smash up shop fronts,

and drag our arses over here.

We Jive Bunnies and Mastermixers,

because that’s what we like:

to swing the mood, party hard,

tug around convoys of hand trucks,

although, in truth, we’d prefer pit ponies,

if only they weren’t put out to pasture.

Acquisitive beasts, we’re territorial,

staking out our plots of land,

pegging down towels by hand,

planting sun loungers by the clump,

in the hope they’ll propagate and grow.

Sometimes sally forth, plant the flag,

walk up and down the drag

looking back on happy smash and grabs,

cheap souvenirs of places we didn’t visit.

You onlookers who grind and grind teeth,

top us up with reconstituted meat,

sell us tacky fridge magnets,

sickly galettes, cheap gifts,

shelter from the oncoming Epochellipse.

Caillou

 Caillou

 

I came across a sea washed rock,

lying in a pit, on the sand of Les Mouettes.

just a jot of water in its crater, it was chock

full of holes, pitted like an olive

but without pimento. So, a memento

and I stuffed it in the pocket of my shorts.

A meteorite, probably, I thought,

as damp breached cloth wet my thigh.

I didn’t chuck it back into the Atlantic,

but bought it home; it lies on my desk.

Of course they scoffed. No one witnessed

my find, they called me out for being drab,

a bland plodder, clodhopper, stone robber,

and even my cherished dog, Crab,

who only exists in a play I once read

but was fond of his frolics on the beach

sniffed at it once and walked away.

Back at the camp site, the living pray,

queue for gates to open, pools to fill,

sun to rise, clutching handfuls of toweling,

bellies pointed to the sky and growling.

Later that night, I’m making puzzles,

with panoramas ripped off jigsaw box-tops,

and the band plays; the bar rocks.

Muscles

 

Muscles

 

In England, outlook’s bleak,

black rats thriving on streets

amongst black bags of claggy trash,

in a noble bid to extort more cash

from councils. Can’t pay going rates,

gathering taxes with the sort of rakes

you’ve seen croupiers use in casinos

in rose tinted 60s spy films.

 

Did he see it coming? Took flight?

Heathrow’s carpetbaggers out on strike:

where’s James when you need him,

scorpions on those aching limbs?

 

He wasn’t born with slippery feet,

a husband and wife who never speak,

except in terms of economics,

and words that butter no parsnips.

 

Her muscles debilitate, knees are weak,

so perhaps he’ll work forever,

purchase one of those neat wheelchairs

with a motor when the hills are steep.

 

In a country far from basking rats,

on every corner, your stray cats

who are more than friendly for all that;

the pay comes tax free.

 

She comes to him, in the gym,

wearing a miniskirt and a grin,

all tight ass and five foot two,

speaking these words: Yes, dear,

you should keep fit, keep coming here,

my advice, try weights, build muscles.

 

With a bum that bustles

she’s gone, makes porridge, slices mango

from lands where the heavy fruit grows,

branches groan, plentiful, free

and thinks he’ll have them both for tea.

Plunge

 

Plunge

 

Up before sunrise, bleary eyed,

watch them sweep poolside,

put cushions, wiping tables

clean of desert dust that settled

overnight, born on the backs

of dry, arid, stinging winds.

Bottled water boils in heat,

tabled by nimble feet; they greet,

in only degrees of separation:

different faces, different nations,

because passports carry power.

Today we are four driving south

to Sealine, leaving our houses

late afternoon, for sea, dunes

that become a desert gateway.

Free for all, this a rare holiday;

all are welcome, all will come,

bread and fishes served with sun,

watch her plunge into the sea.

Now I see – he’s looking at me

and my three Filipinas, taunting,

moisture tripping from tongue

after swimming, all have come.

We’re brothers, spirit levelled,

tatty clothes, shorts disheveled,

my one woman stands, strips,

flips in, the cool water grips

shirt tight to her chest – bound.

As she swims, it clings, he grins

he waves me, he’s beckoning,

insists I do likewise; follow in.

Response in kind, indicate shirt

that’s so far dry, free of sand, dirt,

of any menaces that lie lurking

beneath crumbling grainy sand.

But gestures with twisting hands

suggest that I could easily wring

out sopping cloth, take a plunge.

We shared something: I lunged,

tried to grasp what had passed

between us, and when, at last

I thought I had it in my hands,

it slips in drips on foreign lands.

Lennon

Lennon

Maybe he was always going to come,
shooting love bullets
from the love-gun,
imagined drama cameras focusing on
his detaching shadows
before CCTV was even a thing.

His face made stone,
a petrified mouth, hissing: phoney,
beaten-up Catcher in the Rye,
an autographed Double Fantasy
gripped tight to his lead-lined chest.

But the facts are these:
for some time,
all four of them had been in decline,
records in the bargain bins
of Woolworths, Boots, and Smiths.
Supplanted, some would say,
by Anarchy in the UK,
London Calling, The Police, and Sting—
which is not a bad thing.

Aged 18, shook awake
from a distant dream,
of muddy fields in Matlock, Derbyshire—
they’re well past flintlocks,
bespattered men from Sheffield,
his father smelling of cordite,
cartridges, and shot.

A thick ear if you forgot
to carry your shotgun uncocked,
or walked ahead of the beaters.
Baying dogs flushing pheasants to flight—
here’s a left, and a right, goodnight.

Sticky, syrupy beer
in plate-glass tankards for afters,
pipes, cigarettes, and laughter,
the thick smoke clinging to rafters.

Then, a rude awakening:
"He’s dead, he’s dead,
they shot the fucker,
in the chest, he won’t live."

The day drags in a daze,
while the DJ plays
what had, until today,
been some forgotten curiosities.

And in that moment, you know
you won’t forgive.

It flashes forever before your eyes—
the arguments growing up,
good from bad,
did drugs really open the mind?
If you experimented,
what would you find?
Surely love is really all you need.

Planting Johnny Appleseeds.

Maybe he was always going to come
and watch a father oiling his gun.

McCartney

 McCartney

 

Not a chance meeting –

they sat across a table

arranged by his son

who forgot his I D,

had to run, did one,

left his father and his boss

to their lager, reminiscing.

 

Two old dads,

bonding over this soft lad

in a shared love of McCartney.

And soon, the top song?

The best LP? Band on the Run,

or maybe Venus and Mars,

strange to think

how years had passed

since they first toured London Town,

flipped Wings at the Speed of Sound.

Spin it on. Don’t stop.

 

The boss, wistful, grins –

because, he’s seeing things,

a father who took his son

to watch the maestro play.

 

Knew one who mullocked heroes,

mocked Lineker, Robson,

scoffed and sneered

at Gazza’s tears.

No time for long haired queers.

 

So, is it wrong

to feel for someone, never met?

Or trust the words of one

you wish you could forget?

Pick

Pick

 

Grandma often told me, ‘Don’t pick.’

‘If you knit your brows and scowl,

those lines will mark you, not now

but later and forever.’ She was right.

But I’d still pick. Bites, lumps, ticks,

between toes, up the nose,

pulled strong hairs that flourish there

and uprooted with a sharp stab.

She’d always say, ‘Be a good lad,

don’t scratch because it’ll never heal,

I know those scars will mark you.’

For life it seems. Rash, you might say,

always picking the wrong things.

Of course, I miss her terribly - you do,

all her wisdom that turned out true.