A Blossom of Influence

 

A Blossom of Influence

 

The cherry blossom’s spiked

in Chelsea and Kensington

and so have showers of like-hungry shite

that come to influence it.

 

You wonder where these fuckers come from

or buried their brains

when every year’s the same -

out with the phones, grinning inane

at themselves - then complain

 

when your actual residents paint it black

roll out barbed wire, upturn thumb tacks,

cover drives in broken glass

in the empty hope they might bag

one of these preening peacock airheads.

 

Hot on their heels, your Sky reporter,

BBC, GB News, they’re all alike,

with clueless comment, cliched views

seen lurking about this quarter

filming trails, filming the masses,

shoving microphone and camera

up each other's smart arses,

then, cue fluff - a John Hartson fill

looking pitiful, dispensably miserable -

a juggler of sow’s ears, darning needles,

cheap accessories, baubles, threads

thinks we’re better-off dead:

 

I’m afraid it’s all in vain,

too far down the road to ruin;

around about us, bleeding, strewn,

all those trashed cherry blossomed trees -

your scabies-rash of influencers

transmitting social disease.

A Heartbreak in Every Home

 

A Heartbreak in Every Home

 

More than a pang of pathos,

more like a stab

and the more’s the pity.

 

Your loss is their loss,

feeling a family of two – sitting,

both together alone,

and budding headphones.

 

You cannot read their story in any book,

across the room – a look

possibly euphoria, possibly tragedy,

whatever's absent, a mystery

if anything's absent at all –

a family of two, curled up small.

 

Nothing or something felt

across the room – nothing crimes

committed which cannot be solved,

nothing sins you cannot absolve,

Sherlock was never needed here –

there are no clues to find.

 

Whatever bitterness covers apple rind

can be scrubbed off with toothbrush

washed under the sink; rinsed –

it’s just you who overthinks,

guilty as charged – you seal

what there is nothing to feel,

thieve where there is nothing to steal,

bleed from wounds already healed –

 

don’t send for the doctor,

the police, the prophet:

when you know every home has its closet.

What Need Have I?

 

What Need Have I?

 

I often see you talking to yourself -

no crime there, an overactive mind

crushed just once too many times,

perhaps, telling stories.

Recalling that long winding path

up mountainside, rain or shine,

just a treasured hour’s respite to compose –

songs, stories, complex narratives

before floods hit of shoveled shit.

I cannot reach you in this state,

they came, they went

and most took something with them.

Here’s her iron gate,

your journey’s nearly done and sealed

just round the corner, up the rise

scuff that last bit with reluctant heels

and I can see you from here,

all those years ago.

You don’t care here and now,

things ran their course, she left skid marks

says ‘live, love and life’s too short’

but her words were cheaply bought

and speak of suffering.

I know you miss him, too

wonder if he’s up there watching you,

grinning at how it all panned out.

And if he’s written in the sky,

you look up and wonder if he will reply –

what need have I?

In Your Room

 

In Your Room

 

Here’s your old, old room

and the door’s ajar –

you’ve been here many times before,

more times than you’d care

to recall – and maybe soon

you’ll be using it some more.

Would you like to peer in again?

The tapered staircase,

quarter corkscrewed

is best attempted in solitude

with a candle to light you to bed

and a hush for old men

who bump heads.

Oh, it’s not changed much,

we’ve kept it just the way you like it,

ready for your return –

not much of a homecoming to be sure,

but your fittings and fixtures,

cobwebs, dust, ancient pictures

smothered in the unbrushed dust

of just remembered conquests

are all present and correct -

and there, something intangible

that burns all the same,

something once learned

that remains unlearned.

We give thanks. Take, eat

of Miss Havisham’s wedding cake.

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.