Roderigo

 

Roderigo

 

Roderigo arrived without fanfare

at the start of some term, he was just there

from Portugal - tall, well-built, no hair.

At first glance, attached, it seemed,

by the hip to the Queen

of Business Studies – no mean feat,

a result, you could say,

feather in his scalp to share the throne,

and some conceded - a great hair day.

Still, he wasn’t well-endowed

or overburdened with teaching skills,

so, they parked him at the back

of classrooms, where what he lacked

he made up for in looks that killed.

After shattering eardrums, being shrill

in meetings and mouthing loud enough

words: love, respect, well-being and stuff,

they acquiesced, gave him a desk

in a room downstairs and mostly left

him to: ‘Assist This!’ And sometimes, he did,

in between studying his phone

and complaining that time the boss insisted

he move a bit, get up and shift

his desk to make room for the band

to set up instruments and rehearse.

It seemed he knew a verse

or two himself – The Cure, mostly -

but they weren’t keen, let him go

and the Queen said, ‘That was a cruel blow.’

Until, one day, he was there no more.

Later she confirmed she’d closed the door

on all that, no commitment, a coup,

and did you know what he could do?

Yes, perhaps. It took a month or so

of nobody searching high or low,

when someone scratched hair and said,

‘Know what? I can’t find that bloody Roderigo.’

 

Must Have Been A Hole Somewhere

 

Must Have Been A Hole Somewhere

 

Leave an overflowing water bucket idle,

and eventually it will dry,

leaving you to reason why –

evaporation or breach?

Now, you could take and hold it up to light;

that damn thing seemed so watertight,

yet what was in it has taken flight.

Keeps you from sleeping nights,

but not always - some days, the butchers

have had their pounds of flesh

and, in the aftermath, rest

comes easy - but you still wake, weary;

interrogate that spent receptacle.

What can it be? Yesterday’s spark

will not fire kindling, smoke straw,

she’s in the kitchen, slams the door

and pours frustration into her sewing machine,

cannot thread, the bobbin’s fled,

and minute stabs draw blood instead.

One look will freeze imprudent wisecracks

on your lips, will draw attacks

instead of grace or favours,

no aromatic libation, no musky scents

will liberate what you must repent –

empty buckets leave us thirsty fools,

somewhere there must have been a hole.

A Sackable Offence

 

A Sackable Offence

 

He insisted on Shaquia –

made me repeat it several times

until satisfied,

his voice a playful punch

to the throat –

on parade in a leather coat

and holes in his nose

where the ring should go.

The tattooed ivy around his neck

grew so thick

I thought he’d choke on it.

‘South London,’ he told me,

so, I ventured, ‘Charlton’,

but no, one of the Manchester teams,

West Ham sometimes

but they’d been relegated.

I’m thinking, ‘wide berth

for this one and what on earth

are they recruiting?’

Shallow of me, I suppose,

but sometimes

you take one look and know -

to your disparate classrooms go.

He’s a hit with the girls

of course, fair enough,

and I’m not averse to a bit of rough

on the odd occasion

being ex-navy and all that

but I didn’t mention it:

boxing rings on the flightdeck

to settle disputes,

three minutes on the undercard,

brief flash, lights out, hit hard,

moving on.

I just waited for rumours to grow.

Which, of course, they did –

gaining traction

from initial contact to form closure

and that heavy blow

just before you hit the deck –

they’ll get you yet,

Shaquia, repeat it, after me -

until our whispers are screamed

loud enough to stopper the larynx.

Come the day, come action:

Tony’s got previous

and is proficient

at keeping those he deems efficient

but axing down dead wood;

it’s said, frustrated, you seized

and shook him by his shirt,

threatened to grind his nose in dirt;

all captured on CCTV

for the delectation of security

and Head of Humanities:

‘That’s him!’ bellows our Tony,

‘Without provocation, and in the library,

too, what are we coming to?’

I do believe if they burnt witches,

there’d be flame about your britches

but they lumped you 

on an outbound plane

never to be seen again.

and all that remains

is - didn’t really know you – shame.

Piqued

 

Piqued

 

The evening had peaked -

walking home, along Al Wakra Street

singing a nothing comedy

to two Filipinas:

‘I’m a Lonely Shepherd’

nonsense like that

and Lear would’ve patted you on the back,

while you allowed

yourself to feel proud,

mashallah –

And prior to this, Sheryl had blown a kiss:

called you Pogi

while stray cats attacked your lap

you’re paw-patted for stray chicken,

fresh from skewered kebabs

delivered straight to the plate -

far too much for three.

You remember pushing the tortoiseshell

off your knee

as you ascended steps to the bar,

intent on two cold beers –

felt you’d earned it, paid for the rooms

too full of food

having left a plateful or more.

But the barman? Shows you the door,

for reasons of law -

you hiss, ‘I will stay here NO more!’.

grit your teeth for effect,

flounce offstage.

Stripped for bed

you caught a glimpse of yourself,

naked, in the mirror’s frame –

felt ashamed.

 

Awake

 

Awake

 

And in the end, 

maybe paper plates -

or the best china that could be mustered?

After all, you claimed no fuss was best,

so, let's lay this all to rest.

 

What woke you, who knows?

Around  pillows and sheets it rolls –

perhaps the cold.

 

Or wretched, uncooked Irish youth

you share this block with - kids

returning from celebrating cracks

beyond compare

and pissed as cock-doodle-doo,

puking rainbow-hued shades of deep purple.

 

Maybe interminable rumbles as Doha

cools, contracts and fractures;

creating infinitesimally small splinters

deep in concrete and sandstone

grumbling about weight and load.

 

Perhaps just the ice that forms

in your night's AC

clattering like bucket-rattlers

digging up twilight's weeds,

tugging grass heads gone to seed.

 

Fatal. Don't look at the clock.

For as soon as you do – the shock

of fears rearing like cobra headlights –

you're stuck in quicksand, the fight

seeps from your skin,

pores opening,

fixed blinking,

clinging onto fragments of dream,

comforting or otherwise.

 

That's it, then. 1am.

Doomed to toss -

a lost sailor in an inflatable rubber boat,

an armored knight unable to float

watching green tentacles of moat

surge, each trough deeper than the last,

oncoming waveforms that overlap

and crack like waves on shores

too distant to reach.

 

She swims into view, funereal,

lines of filled pews,

choked sobs, stifled howls,

her outsize casket makes its stately way

between the hassocks and prayers –

you summoned them incarnate,

then washed them away, wiped the slate

in a paroxysm of guilty shame.

 

Now, find yourself grasping levers

at the points of the trolley problem -

it's a switchback;

you constructed thousands of them

on living room carpets when small,

until vapors of age seized

you -  old man watching grandchildren

shriek delight

at fast-approaching daylight.

 

The future is coming, faster than you'd like,

two years, three at best

to spend with one you love

who fits snugly like textured gloves,

before a prodigal return

to that sulky sullen dame

who will not budge

and obstinately remains.

Masarap

 

Masarap

 

It was just compulsion, call it OCD

if you want – I checked for mixed seeds

and baked bread. Why? Hard to say –

well, maybe to see if it had gone away

or wasn’t totally lost – authenticity,

the idea of creating something of use

after weeks spending wasted time

returning emails, messages, spreadsheets,

like you’re back beyond the baseline

hitting dropshots that always net –

oh, they’ll get you yet, Penelope Pitstop.

Bought yeast from Palengke, where MJ

wanton behind sultry eyes, says –

‘Give me.’ So, after it was risen, I cut

the dough, made two pillows enough

and gave it to her full floured.

More than just a snapshot, she devoured

hunks with her eyes, then later told me:

‘Masarap, Sir. I wash it in my coffee,

eat all up, so nice.’ and with heavy

heart now light of touch, come back to you

peachy in the bedroom – doing as you do

too much – ‘Hurry,’ I said, ‘it’s past nine,’

but with succulent smiles, you reply,

‘I am woman, it takes time,

to make myself a pleasure for your eyes.’

Every Little Thing

 

Every Little Thing

 

If they say they love – you care less

because one person’s wit

is just another person’s shit

and you believe that intelligence

is only a measure of how often

you get to do it your way.

When she comes to you,

her pupils dilated, her face flushed

and words that tumble in a rush;

more often than not you push back -

your chair from the desk, that is,

from where you’re prone –

all you ever wanted was to be alone,

get some work done,

think some.

Every little thing she brings

is apropos of nothing,

some small-scale issue, something wrong

that could be righted

with less effort than it takes

to refloat a toy yacht in the bath.

You say as much, she laughs,

because she knows it, enjoys your tongue

tripping – exasperation, mock sarcasm –

while her eyes become caverns

within which you both could retreat,

lie a little, explore,

roll away the stone from the door,

slip your fumbling fingers in,

unzip, unhitch and knead like dough

until both loaves prove

you each were right.

How easy it would be –

child’s play, you dare say,

enjoyable, fulfilling – as each day

it comes ever nearer by halves,

and thank Christ, for Tennyson –

all those half-a-leagues it took to gain nothing

but the valley of death,

and give us this day our daily bread

buttered by Zeno – all paradox

as open doors stay forever locked.