Standoff

 Standoff

 

Anyone can be a teacher,

she loudly proclaimed, o'er land and sea.

That settled it with a jot of sneer,

dashed Tabasco smear for an upper lip, dear,

and he’s reflected in a shattered mirror

as fragments of Arabia.

 

Backing up a little here -

that morning he’s back

from running charitable chores,

behind the wheel, uninsured,

pulls up the handbrake, a pause,

scowls paper-darts running 100 metre sprints,

eyes narrow-gauged, blink –

this tradesman’s van, fronts him in bluff

and Mexican stand off.

 

I recognized it instantly.

putting weight on the adverb –

some bearded cretin

come to measure up your new kitchen.

 

Now, nether vehicle is into giving an inch,

the canary that cavorts with the finch

and the barkeep slides another drink

down the formica top,

that’s impersonating Cornish rock.

 

Mugs framed in thumb-smear windshields,

neither of these is going to yield,

that face opposing his, taut as wire

in burning bush of the most implacable fire,

raises his hands to signal exasperation,

whilst grim perspiration,

seeps and pours in icicle drops of fixation.

 

And then – Mr Van - tired of the rally,

longest of the match yet, sagged nonverbally

hit a forehand into the net,

swerved past, disappeared from view,

left the parking spaces, withdrew,

medical timeout, it seems - but he’ll best you yet,

this is only the second set.

 

They meet upon the stairs,

a man who sold the world, a man who taught -

syllables in both throats catch pharyngitis,

a dose of flu or coronavirus,

and if octobass could talk it would sound like this.

 

Still, he’s measured up, she’s made a choice,

gives years of hesitation a voice,

agrees to a consultation, his place

at three and will you come with me?

His negative response - predictable as ever,

Doctor - because he never

takes any interest in important decisions,

treats kitchen fitters with derision

and, after all, anybody can be a teacher.

 

He might have taught her

the history of Arabia,

epilogues of a mirror’s shattered shards

bringing it all back home

to deserts sands, where life inspired

men to master their own fate,

and the fault lies not in the stars.

 

Three hours later, that student returns,

red raw with burning

steaming through the portal like crushed glass

up the neck with appliances,

acute angles, obtuse domestic sciences

unpacking learning from her phone,

to sit in dream kitchens alone.

Birds

 Birds

 

Hey, Ma, do birds feel the rain?

Because here it comes again

like arrows right through me,

all these clothes I’m wearing,

cling in a soupy second skin,

hassling my wandering -

I’ve taken to wearing bustles.

No, I think they float above it

undiluted - it drips in quills

that write illegible things

on these cobble manuscripts.

Here’s one now, flicking fish,

up to its webbed feet in river,

intent on lunch, doesn’t quiver,

look Ma, the neck is full of fins,

gills, scales and other things.

 

No, wretched, obdurate child,

it’s the sky is full of stars,

you saw in that overlong flick,

auteured by Stanley Kubrick,

an ice-cream scoop starship,

why, Johann Strauss scored it,

plucked his fiddle, sawed hard,

and we shoved you in our car,

along with your two mutts,

ostentatious four wheeled truck

a cool-box full of cold cuts,

stopped for a quick one at Spar,

cotton buds and a pack of four.

We’re migrating like swallows,

easy riders, duelling banjos,

to trudge towns under cloud.

Why we bother, I cannot grasp,

your father swearing in my ear,

went to soak himself in beer,

pissing rain that’s going to last

all day - and your mutt has shit

the pavement - don’t step in it,

ignore them and just walk away -

pray tomorrow is on holiday.

Scoop

 Scoop

 

The woods. A turd dumped, by signage
announcing ‘dog owners
please remove your waste’ –
an artistic statement
not to everybody’s taste
this much is sure.

A spinster blocking the pharmacy door
with a scoop.
You? Waiting in line, shuffling feet –
she’s spinning mystique
not in, but on a loop.

Tinnitus is a sound of roaring mumbo
bouncing between drums
like thumbs pressing fast-forward on cassette
decks out of sync – a man crossing deserts
without a drop to drink
no time to process
or think.

Your actual labrador
drops too much furniture hair
yes yes don’t it get everywhere
don’t have to tell me well don’t
better your labradoodle’s coat
fixed there like my imbecilic grin
he’s a fresh brown paint drying
and always there when you get in.

Now - flashback to the woods
a dog worrying a river stone
some small version, a man alone
watches his mutt hunch hindquarters -
something’s dumped in water

and you’re spotted
so he's asking where your dog is
did you leave him home?
No, no you’re out for exercise
walking paths - clearing lungs
keeps you fit - keeps you young.

He replies something about going under
being swamped – he doesn’t wonder
there’s too many,
too many

and with irony - not a hint -
people wandering streets skint
gasping for air amongst doghair
that plugs the very fabric.

In town they’re toting two or three
twisted leads under feet -
you’re playing dodge dog
keeping mincers peeled for logs
or those little green bags –
a public looking furtive on urban streets
stumbling past
something claggy in their cleats,

it’s a real drag
and they’re pulling here
there and everywhere
but mostly wrapped around your fingers,
under your heels,
tangled in her pushchair’s wheels.

Obstinate yapping cretin,
the owner forgot to let it in
or there’s something disturbing
on the far side of the garden gate
letting it rip
as you’re aiming for sleep

and some say these are they
who clasp bosoms and pray
for peace to fall in the east
an end to famine, bring the feast,
vote Brexit, cut all ties
reading scoops, believing lies,
declare an end of days is imminent
while waving signs at immigrants.

Critic

 Critic

 

Dylan, he is not -

better suited to sorting

dead man’s socks

in the window

of the charity shop,

where no-one

in their right mind

would ever look,

seek to find or know no more.

 

Perpetually

in the buyer’s way,

winsome, willowy and fey,

or so he would like to think,

always teetering

on the brink,

of some huge discovery

like the correct way

to solder

porcelain to cutlery,

he jumps out

from behind the racks

of used pants, velvet hats

and gentlemen’s braces,

pulling faces

tripping the light fantastic,

with all the grace

of snapped elastic.

 

You’re wavering -

In amongst

the stacks of unsavoury

grubby fingered

cracked plastic casing

bigging up Young and Gates,

that nasty compilation

of S Club 8 –

a diamond in rough,

a sandwich filling,

 

Blonde on Blonde by Bob Dylan.

 

It’s in your hand,

at £2.99 today,

but £1 more

than usually

you’re prepared to pay.

 

He leaps out; chewing your ear

like a leopard wouldn’t

while chasing a Serengeti deer,

in a Dickie Atenboro’

flick screaming – Blonde on Blonde,

great album, great tracks –

he’s at your back,

and claws.

 

You want to attack,

punch his lights out,

a doughboy on his snout,

grind his goggles

beneath your feet,

let the bastard count sheep,

string an ivory necklace

with his tarnished teeth.

 

One for the masses,

us collecting classes,

whose opinions count,

who know our stuff –

 

he’s never had intellect enough

to even play this LP

repeats and bleats

what he’s heard others say,

but how many women

on how many rainy days

or sad eyed ladies

of the lowlands

could he even count?

 

Not stuck inside of mobile,

you content yourself

with a contemptuous stare

replacing the CD back where

it was like do I give a toss?

Piss off, your loss.

Gull

 

Gull

 

With a fire in its eye about to expire,

a broken wing, a bicycle tyre,

you wonder if it knew the sky was lost.

There will come a gnawing frost,

clenched hunger, gut crush, faded gloss,

while the waste skip waits open jawed

for a casual toss.

The cyclist doesn’t look back,

disappears around the corner, rucksacked,

hearing those brittle bones crack,

a caped crusader with no crusade,

no cape, another’s trauma to be replayed,

burned forever onto the mind's DVD.

Now, haunted by fate like Spallner,

and too late, it watches Bradbury’s Crowd

gather, some hushed, others loud,

who gawp and point out its distress,

taking bets, jaw,  jabber, second guessing

how long it will be, then, finally move on

given that they were not the ones.

Ask

 Ask

 

Since you ask, I didn’t.

 

Ask.

 

To fill out your screed,

about a nosebag full of prefab feed

and what satisfaction canst thou have tonight

just because I was seized

by a compulsion for Italian. 

Well, I can't get me none.

 

Oh, you'll kick down curtains

with both feet,

wrench open the windows

grin and greet

a brand new morning

until, with no warning,

she shoves an odyssey of chores

into the back flap of your drawers,

cumulonimbus rising

like knitted sacks,

yakkety yak – don’t talk back.

 

Or in your case, do.

What did I think? Here’s a clue.

 

A bussed in ambience

from Whipsnade Zoo,

with primitives on table two,

released from primordial warrens,

trying to unravel the knife and fork,

and all you do to me is talk, talk -

talk, talk, talk, talk.

 

A tooth mug your waiter’s brought

of cheap lemon squash,

a pipette drop

was not enough to wash

them down - stuck in my craw,

boot them in the out doors,

nobble them in the knackers

while I knock back the teaspoonful

which won’t show on the bill –

his looks say it all:

I should be grateful for the gratis.

 

Know now, thou villain,

and despair thy charm -

those breadsticks were untimely ripped

from their plastic packet,

thrust untidy in a vase

like sunflower stalks post menopause,

wilted and dry in salad beds.

 

Even Doctor Munigant would think twice,

balk at the price,

shake his bony flute in dread

and go for the warmed up crisps

with cheese on top instead.

 

Why not try our Olive Spread?

Freshly bought from Tesco,

chucked into a curated bowl,

with all the panache of scuttled coal.

 

That Dover sole

hauled itself onto dry land to get here,

limped up the M2, gimped down the A30,

bedraggled and dirty,

it rusts in peace, scarcely a feast,

tossed on top of linguine,

but it would be unseemly

to send it back, given the effort it took

to get itself off the hook

and make its way to my table.

 

Putting his phone down,

if he’s able,

your pustuled waiter

is less than glad,

to wipe down the table with his rag,

passes a serrated paper ripped off

his pad –

 

I can count,

it’s a whopping amount,

a Fort Knox of an invoice -

it demands, in childish hand,

something equivalent to the national debt,

but wait, wait, there’s more yet;

can I give him a tip?

 

Yes.

 

Since you ask.

 

That deep freeze home-thawed tart citron

was the final straw,

I’ll pay your bill, you’ll get no more,

and if you wish to gaze upon another day

don’t send me a bloody survey.

Bruce

Bruce

It is not nice to see you,
and I don’t think it ever was,
looking back.

You’re heavy,
like those coal sacks
that fell from favour—
they’re put out on strike
under Labour.

You’re not my sister,
not my brother.
I’d be as blind as Blofeld
to take you as a lover—
and boy, I’ve carried that weight
a long time.

You never give me your money.
You’d rather spend your time
making hovercraft out of waiters,
patting fat pockets,
farting about when the bill’s due—
you’ve not got your wallet with you—
so get the next one.

May many suns
set before the next one comes.
It all adds up, doesn’t it?

And somehow, you’re successful.
There’s this air that everything you earned
was earned fair—
and blonde heads were turned.
All who came your way
were lost, had strayed,
lured by a piper’s piped music
on wind-up clockwork radios you’d play.

They whisper, don’t they?
He’s the one who landscaped his own
back garden—couple of acres—
hefted a spade,
nicked through loam and clay,
installed his own fountain,
if you please.

But no amount
of hollow water features moves me,
or reconstituted trees—
and that includes your wife:
her pretentious literature group,
how she keeps in the loop
by offering home-grown counselling
from wisdom culled
off Swedish matchbox lids.

And your god-awful kids,
grown up now, entitled.
But I had to be there,
pulling out teeth, pulling my hair.
Isn’t one of them in advertising?

Your wife unearthed red onions,
discovered couscous,
used Original Source body wash—
always first amongst us,
quick to accuse, cause a fuss.
Weeks on weeks of passive-aggressive,
and I’m sitting here, stabbing warts.

Look, I don’t want to talk.
I’d let it all fade away.
But you insist on driving here,
coming to stay,
using up time I’d coveted,
husbanded, cupboarded.
I don’t want to drive you to the beach,
drink tea, talk about what used to be,
anything to do with me,
or what you got up to in ’73.
I’ve heard it all.
It was boring then,
it’s boring now.

Let me drum on your face bongos,
offer you my hand—
lend me your eyes and I’ll kick some sand,
wipe away that look of surprise:

To see you is not nice.