When Did You Last Have the Pleasure of Smelling a Flower?

 

When Did You Last Have the Pleasure of Smelling a Flower?

 

There’s been a row, something small,

scarcely a raised voice, not much at all

of little enough, really. Something about sleep,

well, the lack of it

and a visit to Al Safa Polyclinic

with a  tiresome three hour wait as a result.

The afterburners lingered like they do,

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you

of all people, do I? Tension. Slammed door.

Absence of messages at work the next day

an ardor of apathy

that’s struggling to fill

a packed vacuum

of emptiness stuffing the room -

wonder who’s first to cave in, break bread,

offer olives, send doves?

But I guess you’d take a little time to understand

that when her offered hand

is taken, rather than brushed aside or shrugged off,

there’s a shared delight instead

of those small trifles you do together -

something in nothing whatever,

that adds up to the pleasure of love.

Cogitation

 

Cogitation

 

She’s off sick again - irritating

and Alex says he’d seen her wandering

Barwa’s parks. Puts wheels in motion

doesn’t it? Cogitations.

 

Like - consider the machine,

not the lilies, not the fields, not again

because it’s what she’d expect -

offer flowers to an untouched sick bed

of cool, crisp, unvisited sheets

along with chocolates, Lucozade, other treats

like a side of overripe ham

because she was that girl from Birmingham

walking the clap-boards

with a bit of pity poor Tom,

do us some charity.

 

Let’s send out for clarity –

What system insists that it only exists

to lodge components into housings -

machines built for the comfort of the cog?

 

These bits have teeth,

we’ve seen them bite,

they settle into second gears,

draw other fittings and fixtures near

to them – almost form a unit, hermetic

self-contained, and prophetic

spooling loops of doom

spinning counterclockwise to the room.

 

Almost. Because all that energy spent

means inner workings are found absent

more often than not –

have spiraled in uncontrolled control

to light up consoles to console.

 

And to be fair, it’s more than machine ghosts

that threaten sleek running -

a stream of smooth operators, always coming

with drained batteries of malfunctioning

promise – to work better than the last –

but expelled all oily unctuous effacement

to search for another displacement.

Your Account Does Not Have Two-Factor Authentication Enabled

 

Your Account Does Not Have Two-Factor Authentication Enabled

 

Well, thank God for that,

because one of these days -

he’s all alone

cover’s blown,

fumbles his phone,

password’s shown,

but - how can I remember that

he sighs -

looks up, takes a bullet 

and dies,

fuck your two factor he cries.

Leaking Tradecraft

 

Leaking Tradecraft

 

Why, it’s been six months,

maybe more,

the postman knocked the door

or would’ve done –

but those days are gone,

just emails marked spam -

he was once wont to knock twice,

you know?

You scowl at the bill,

call them in

to have a meter fitted -

it’s original sin

to be wasteful

in their green utopia, for sure.

So, they came,

poked about with your pipes a bit

gave it the full five minutes,

cocked an ear,

with utmost solemnity declared

shock, horror –

there’s leaks round here.

17 bloody litres a day,

making their way

into your scorched Earth -

well, something’s having a party,

you’d maybe think,

water, water everywhere,

let’s have a bit to drink.

But where?

Where do you think it be?

Matey takes his divining rod,

licks a gritty finger,

points with certainty

at your kitchen floor,

under ceramic tiles,

beneath them warped boards,

with confidence declares

that he’s heard a noise.

And that’s it.

Months pass, until at last

here’s your leaden plumber

of weighty matters,

all creosote coveralls

and putty splatters,

a-gurning and a-frowning,

blowtorch to hand

and in his other

a vicious receipt he plans

to lay upon you

come that happy day,

but – scowls and says –

Oh dear, no leak here,

they’re plumb wrong –

think it’s up your top path,

they're having a laugh

them other lads -

we’ll be back next month,

thereabouts, it's lunch.

No one round here’s grinning

at all those drawstrings

snipped by ruthless cutpurses

and you’d fucking swear

but it does no good to curse –

it’s the UK, fear the worse.

Topological

 

Topological

 

Wait—you mean topical, don’t you?

There’s nothing topical about the M50,

an under-engineered relic connecting

nowhere to nothing much,

targets Wales, misses by miles

and barely offers a hard shoulder to cry on—

 

but look - on account of her—you’re forced

to use it using you or be damned -

I battled their logic for so long,

cursed when I was forced to buy one,

screamed 'turn round, go back, you're wrong',

but was shot for a flushed grouse's song.

 

So, pull from your pocket. Check. Enough.

Mine’s got fluff

that, God willing, might choke the bastard.

 

There are tributaries of messages

feeding estuaries of conrotatory seas—

a confusion of contradictions

you’re made to answer,

each and every one for everyone.

 

Don’t think to block, leave groups,

or invoke the fifth—

that only stirs a hornet’s nest

beneath her beehive:

sent on impulse, on every whim,

on every ill-formed

spark across synapses, thumb-fired,

six or seven already today to every soul.

 

All around her it grows. Forms

from a flick of the wrist, a stab at glass,

an eternal fluid rictus-stream

so thick she’s landscaping it now—

hod-carrying brick by brick,

each post rammed and replies laid in place,

a landscape littered with dour faces,

mutinous whispers, daggered smiles

and putting out a thousand miles.

We’re getting seasick of it,

queasy mariners gripping the gunwales,

sucked off into lost tunnels

as it slowly reshapes itself—imperceptible

cracks become caves, stacks, stumps,

remolding whatever was as once it was.

All around her hat, the debris

of her mind’s eye from her mind flies.

And they—

cartographers of the surveyed—

issue grim diktats, dire warnings,

grey apocalypses from breast-pocket laptops,

scarring terrains, carving their names

into twisted metal, blasted concrete

trod under dust and rubble.

 

Clawed earth while she screamed violated rage,

warned you—but it’s already too late -

all that's left is a psychoscape.

Pronounced Ah-Teh

 

Pronounced Ah-Teh

 

The uneasy silence of ceasefire

and an unseasonal rain of domino spots

swabs the alley’s brick tessellations.

You’re walking with purpose

for lemons – clean out today –

in the shop, four pitted specimens,

no boat docked, so, yesterday’s

and MJ mugs and says, ‘Where Ate?’

while you’re offering to pay.

In bed. Lately, sleep’s hard to grab -

alarms, national alerts, distant booms

that infiltrate bedrooms –

but MJ pouts and rolls her eyes,

‘Bring milk, put egg, put bread,

wake Ate and say, table is ready.’

You nod. It seems reasonable advice,

smile thanks and leave, dodging raindrops.

That evening, Ate puts the grip

on you, over pizza and a bit to drink,

‘If you let me sleep, I’ll bring the stick,’

she promises with a languid wink.

Ipis

 

Ipis

 

I wonder if your cockroach

finds enlightenment

in being – where being is spent,

scuttling from boot to boot,

born to be trod - if it has, indeed

any concept of birth,

death, in-between – often seen

coiled up, crushed, back broke,

prostrate on brick, peddling sky

kerb-crawling corners to die.

Even labels signal fate

in Oceanic spat consonance

or Eastasian soft sibilance -

something filthy shadowed

coming at night, shunning light,

quartered in your cortex.

Here’s a Tom from idle reflex

batting a stray from paw to paw

to pass an otherwise dull hour -

now, imagine, Winston, if you will,

his orange eyes, full of fever

and his boot, stamping forever.