Living Testament

 

Living Testament

 

 

And Will. There he is,

rubbing shoulders with Gareth Gates.

jewel case to jewel case

with nothing rare or precious

about it – except attitude.

Some remember the blubbering,

and all that stammers

becoming stripped of glamour

that no longer gleams,

but not many of you, it seems -

given the grime that collects

under my fingernails

should I handle these rejects.

Dido, thank you for another one;

there's ships that have gone down

to escape grinding boredom,

and you can get your fucking eye

off that telescope, Tunstall,

you’ve learnt nothing that bears

scrutiny – go and join Hucknall –

where something’s got him stopped.

Behold more Sandi Thom, confused

by all the smiling, pointing, laughing

at the heap of shite that’s lining

dusty boxes – another load dropped

off in the congested Charity Shop;

not much goodwill stored here,

just some struggling space

being pulled under by poor taste -

and let’s not even get started

on Bryn Teflon and the three tenners,

you parted with to purchase

his palm-stroked, pinched face

to signify depth but betray space.

Between the ears? Could be that,

if that’s all there is, if it’s enough -

but the real question sleeping rough

on the streets, begging for scraps

is who the fuck bought all this crap,

and what does it testify to a nation’s

brains, adjusted for inflation?

So, You’re a Carer Now

 

So, You’re a Carer Now

 

 

I heard it on the grapevine

(good opening line),

that you’re spending not a little time

being a carer, now.

Well, grapevines are pretty good –

for grapes, that is – and wine,

but have little to do with messages,

covert or otherwise –

truth is, you told me.

I suppose there’s a symmetry there,

you being a carer, now,

your mother, is it? You bear it,

she bore you, we’re both 60 plus,

more than a touch of rust

upon what’s left that’s vital:

the NHS whipped yours out.

We didn’t use them, though, did we?

Had the opportunity,

I could smell it, so could you –

but, khalas, you’re a carer, now.

Do you ever sometimes deliberate

if some are born to it? Caring?

Decades spent with that wanker

who worked the cemetery, chancer

who put detectives to work,

had you followed, a complete berk -

checking your mail, chasing your tale,

editing any story we could’ve wrote.

Still, as he went up in smoke –

literally - some said, ‘Solid Bloke,’

and now you’re a carer.

Or maybe, it’s Machiavellian,

that’s what your Marxist would say,

give the masses this day

something to mollycoddle, full bathtubs

of coal, pat their heads, good job,

or promise them, when they get old,

they can travel the world -

they’ve always wanted that, after all.

If you give a shit,

you could ask yourself if the world is split

into those who do and those who don’t.

Care, I mean. I won’t.

Still, I wonder,

now I’ve ricked my knees,

if you’d come over here

and care for me?

Zeta Minor

 

Zeta Minor

 

On the very edge of the known universe

where you must learn to thrive

after passing through boundaries

that separate old worlds from new.

 

It is beyond Cygnus A,

a one way trip, and they say

bringing any matter across

is forbidden, will bring down calamity -

you may not rely upon it, no source

of energy here,

you’re tampering with forces

beyond hideously dangerous.

 

As distant again from Ortoro galaxy;

any plausible strategy

becomes nothing but fallacy

propagated by bleeding hearts and artists -

you can no more bring me back there

than I can bring you here,

to even attempt to try is catastrophe.

 

That galaxy, far from the Anterades,

where scar tissues still breed

in our mind’s eye, will multiply –

if you want, go ahead, try:

but see what it did to my limbs,

the outlook’s stagnant to grim,

atrophied muscle from the attempt -

debt’s doubled, summer’s spent.

 

Any mined minerals, any dust churned

from that sullen world

is venom, toxaemia with properties

so mutagenic you lose identity

like I forgot myself, went beyond

and left just memory to hang a peg on.

 

How naïve - to think in ways back,

that formulae may calculate the abstract

into something concrete,

you can no more turn base metals gold,

spark warmth from cold

after planetfall, Zeta Minor broods –

the furthest border, adamantine barrier

between what we left there

and what we brought here.

When Do I Get to Sing My Way?

 

When Do I Get to Sing My Way?

(With thanks to ‘Sparks’ for the title)

 

 

I read ‘The Book of Dave’

and its messages stayed

with me a long time,

couldn’t put it down,

but ‘Great Apes’ left me cold

and I wondered if that was it –

do you only have one good idea

and the rest of them? Shit.

And Will Self was no Mark Lamarr

when Vic and Bob had him

fronting ‘Shooting Stars’,

that much is true. Emma Raducanu,

there’s another one –

stormed the US Open, as you do,

then managed Jack, after that.

You see, not everyone can be Beckham,

Andy Murray – Shakespeare, even –

most of us have to be content

with a life more ordinary.

Take today – having screwed up my

quadriceps well and truly

by missing the one stair; flat foot

landing – that’s all it took –

I was bombing round Sainsbury’s

on one of their electric invalid cars,

thinking, well, hey, I got this far

and look, it’s pretty neat.

Which, I think, proves my point

about onrushing age and buggered joints,

so, perhaps that’s all I’ve got to say

about when I get to sing

‘My Way’.

Ice Cold in Alex

 

Ice Cold in Alex

 

 

Not quite your rags to riches, shame -

it would’ve made a better story

if one were needed, all the gory

details that are fit to print –

like that Kate – whose husband’s late

and has to publicise her new beau,

some poor sod she’s got in tow,

you’ll read it on your bloody phones

while choking back your cornflakes –

say under your breath, FFS,

not her again – what did she ever do

except leave you?

But, look – here’s Alex, ice cold on court

and within her head, one thought -

to win – she’s playing through pain,

clipped ankles, chronic elbow strain,

serve volley, chip and charge,

tension surges on second serves,

hitting winners - cross court backhand

while fans in the Grandstand

raise the roof. In truth, you watch; feel

thrilled - like here’s the real deal

someone with a nation’s expectations

on young shoulders, an anticipation

that she’s flying their flag –

a little jealous you don’t belong,

you’re borrowing someone else’s song

having their time in the sun,

whilst your own proxies are limping along,

haunting locker rooms. Asking for time

to heal, entitled to sick notes

and understanding, your supplicants pray

for that long distant, far away day  -

they’ll generate column inches that say:

‘Legendary mirror of your community.’

Legless

 

Legless

 

Well, that’s torn it.

Both of them, actually –

and while instinct suggests healing,

what’s that pain you’re feeling?

 

There’s just a shadow,

an inkling, barely a pen stroke

that this is not a joke -

possibly indelible

 

like those tattoos you didn’t get -

you feel pity for those

who did – fading like the rose

they were never given:

pull down their cuffs,

keep them hidden

from scornful, unspoken stuff.

 

A summer spoilt by a misstep

and this, my dear, is unjust desserts;

keep telling yourself the hurt

was undeserved – both flat feet

hit the deck, bearing weight

you should’ve lost.

 

And the cost?

Humility and then the boy saw it all,

old enough to know

how these things sometimes go

why there’s a town full of crawlers.

 

Spoilers, darling, spoilers:

‘Were you drunk?’

Well, you had to hear that

at least once –

but, no - oh, how you rue

the impulse to undertake

that dangerous trek

down darkened stairs

to buy yourself some Chinese food.

 

Takeaway, why not?

Well, take this away, my lad,

remember in fondness              

those steps you take to make you learn,

and those you take that burn.

Pushed, Stamped, Debriefed

 

Pushed, Stamped, Debriefed

 

 

On route – the legs worked - the mind? Sharp.

Well, age makes some portions spongy-soft,

and sentiment can wrap its curds in cheese cloth,

expose to air what passes muster as heart.

The flight that took you above the clouds

still brought you down to earth somehow

until the mere act of brewing coffee is ground.

You’re resigned, feel you’ve left something behind,

but won’t be pushed, filed, stamped – it’s kind,

after all, but still glittering grey and who will pay?

You repeat yourself, unsure what lies behind –

were there spectacles? Ah, you cannot say,

cannot swear to it. There’s story here, fable,

but any allusions were but leavings on the table –

you read about that, how it descends from feast

to famine – a licking of bone, a handful of crumbs,

indexed, briefed, debriefed and numbered.

You confessed to nightmares that plague slumber,

shrugged them off – what is and ever was,

and during the unwinding of the river’s course

wondered how many million millions were lost –

you are not alone, your life is your own.

But somehow - and you know not how –

the mirror crack’d from side to side, the curse

is come upon you, the legs, once so true,

buckled beneath, failed, and found you impaled

on a clerk’s spike fashioned from Victorian nails.