Slip

 Slip

 

In one of his more lyrical rages

he once muttered about turning pages

and how ripples sail away, away,

never come back – but overlap in fade.

For as long as I can remember,

I know I won’t. Too far from the centre,

with little enough Pritt-Stick left,

no matter how resolutely you press,

you will flutter from my turning leaves,

in dandelion clocks dumb winds seize,

watch the days, the months, the years turn

with little given and nothing learned.

And I should have tried harder,

to fight inside the evils of the father

and how they streak, in thicking blood,

his face in your mirror looking up.

I would have lent you my time,

what little is left, helped you to find

strength that lies unbidden within,

and yet, by the same conceit,

I know your senseless wandering feet

will put distance between ponds

you summoned and the ponds to come,

nothing of me will be left to grow

as your ripples slip and your waters flow.

Expire

 

Expire

 

I could not draw the bane

from her heaving breast,

coax the adder from the nest,

the winding sloth from the tree,

hanging indolently at rest

until she expires a final breath.

and doused the fickle flame.

How I wish I’d let the blood -

a razor’s nick might be enough,

out, out, all will flood

in sluicing seas the venom wash

and bear her far and above;

she might spark winning fires

and all around her to inspire.

But, beside the mirrored lake,

sucking in all that she can take

in thirsts never to be slaked,

solitary how the sunflower spins,

reaching eager for her twin,

certain space around her twists

in whirlpools she cannot resist.

Rejoice

 

Rejoice

 

Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice.

Here’s a lady’s maid, with voice

and all the speed of a tortoise

alack, she lacks alacrity,

started well, but there’s the pity,

she flattered to deceive.

Oh, she cries out, special needs,

Attention deficits,

no OCD no chronic fatigue

and she smiles so prettily -

look, that’s me, unable to see,

hot flushes, cold flushes,

a rash of blushes,

gather rosebuds round me

making blissful fuss,

I’m doubled over in such pain,

I fear I will not be capable

to ever rise from my bed again,

bring me from here

to Thrushcross Grange

and me and me and me and me,

raising spiked drinks,

to my trembling lips,

but didn’t think, as my old father

was pleased to say

as he chewed upon bitter gourds.

But, my dear, we can scarce afford,

exorbitant fees for the petting zoo,

so, what can we do?

Your kids are some neglected,

your books are uncorrected,

your colleagues begin to mutter

that your bread and butter

is only fit for puddings.

Take this ticket that we give you,

take it honey hold it high,

here’s a plane - rejoice and fly,

wave hello, say goodbye.

Boiler

 

Boiler

 

Often you find you find yourself explaining

why here and there is not the same,

dissimilar in many similar respects

to bears of very little brain

who might find themselves stuck

and used as your convenient towel horse.

Deploy the legs - something seldom said

in my house – and you might abhor

her suggestion of a spreader bar

but Cheryl winked that time she was pissed,

and said it was on her bucket list.

And here – well, you need an Air Con,

disseminating something vaguely fresh,

somewhat cool while desert fills your chest,

you’re coughing up sand, which is wrong

and you know it, still you play along.

Over there? The boiler’s broken, last legs,

holds her hand out and begs,

you know you’re down to the very dregs,

but you keep pinning up towels with pegs.

Pearl

 

Pearl

 

Over the sea and far away enough,

there lies a yard upon a hill,

rising above your common swill,

of cloistered walls from fluffy stuff

and bounded by sweet dewberry moats,

where on she sails her paper boats.

And, one day, there came a time

he called to cast pearls before a swine.

Oh, but you are wasting breath,

coos she from within a pigeon breast

and coquette, for I am quite made up,

being but a diminutive of Margaret,

while she puzzled at an oyster, tight shut

and immune to her prizing thumbs.

So, she beckons to him - come, come,

gives him a quaint, entitled look,

of precious, precious, an oyster’s book

quite sealed, dear, and he does surmise

that contentment is too great a price

which he cannot afford and lacks.

No, cries she and happy, we must act,

this world’s is but my stage,

write for me my lines upon your page,

and let me seize the day.

The shell shut fast in mystery,

but she adorns herself among weeds

and something flowers. He leaves

quaysides built of paper on card

upon the hill; within bricked up yard,

cloying moats and algae sieves,

are ropes and ropes to hang her with.

ObiWan

 

ObiWan

 

It’s easy, sang Dudley Moore in 10,

at least, I think it was him,

claiming, one of your better lyrics

to his co-writer, and I didn’t know -

only years later it clicked,

as Bo Derek’s beads clacked on the beach

in something of an awakening.

You know – why he kept him around –

what it was that made him happy,

Dudley followed this up with Arthur;

I remember it being a hit,

a film front-loaded with the best bit,

the rest playing out as didactic shit,

just rich to rags, rags to rich -

except for scenes with John Gielgud

and they killed him off. What next

and how do they bring him back?

Always churning out sequels - the hacks

bemoan it’s him it lacks,

Arthur 2, we’re on the rocks,

you’ve painted us into the corner,

let’s call it Obi Wan Kenobi Syndrome,

and be done with it, move on.

But I don’t come back as a ghost,

I don’t come back at all -

that’s your lot, mate. Books, films, friends,

move downstream and coalesce,

into something a little less

than the sum of their parts.

Setting store by the sun,

checking compass, tying shoes,

and run Forrest, run – towards horizons

that circle back, girdle my waist,

give me the strong taste

of a significance of moment –

but when I look again, I had forgot,

the blur, the speck, the dot.

Watching him from unsprocketed frames,

it's Obiwan and these are not the droids -

as cross valley, Dudley focuses a telescope,

framing nothing, then giving up,

just as she comes into shot,

but, by the time it all will be exposed,

the music plays, the credits roll.

Lobster

 Lobster

 

What once was lobster,

now is shrimp

winkled out with a cocktail stick,

as if from a pot of cockles

that makes breath stink,

or those jellied eels on match day -

a variety of flavours,

all of them fish.

Oh, how you wish

but all’s in vain,

reaching for the blue again,

coming at you like a steam train,

something dirty on the brain

sparks an ember

where once was flame.

Just a little pinprick

can never do the trick -

where's Pink?

Sweating in a dressing room,

leaves you in the afternoons 

feeling wasted, feeling sick,

even if you swallow,

your sensing something hollow,

unblocking the pipes,

and what you got

is not a lot.

Cast your nets, set your pots,

wind neckerchiefs into knots

patiently sit by tower bridge

in hope, waiting on the ships

to reel in Moby Dick

there she blows,

there she slips,

all cantilever and hydraulics.