He's All Right, Jack

 

He's All Right, Jack

 

You will probably sneeze over your laptop

more times than you can imagine

in its lifetime. Who knows?

Maybe someone out there is spraying pepper

with reckless abandon. ‘Go on, let ‘em’,

I say. At least they thought they needed to,

which is more than I can say for me.

Anyway, see that spittled screen?

Takes a good scotchbrite scrubber to come clean,

but even then, there’ll be a cracked screen

and everything’s shrouded.

Now, I can see your face’s grown clouded,

well, fine, so I could ask, ‘What gives?

How is it with you? What is it you do?’

You could yawn, fart, scratch your ass,

if you were on Mastermind, say ‘Pass,’

and my specialist subject is ‘Murder, She Wrote.’

Well, even George Harrison released stinkers

in his time, but I quite like ‘Extra Texture’;

read all about those grey cloudy lies

and if you could attempt to rise,

peel that sticky backed mattress off your thighs,

you might yet get to see another sunrise.

Still, this is all filler you’ll never read, dear,

you’re over there and I’m over here –

I’m pleased with how you fill your days;

laud your attempts to tend fat old Jack,

a penny pinching, sticky fingered, alcoholic

with a liver you could twist and wring;

well, he’s all right, then, isn’t he?

How long has it been? You getting his shopping

to fill your idle half hours,

bring some meaning, speaking reasons

as the seasons roll out yet more seasons,

but I must ask you before I forget,

‘Why isn’t that bastard dead, yet?’

Everything Now

 

Everything Now

 

Somebody’s mother you recall

in your downtime when hours are small,

called goosegrass ‘stick to my love’

and probably took a buttercup

and held it under someone’s chin,

whereupon it performed next to nothing –

so take bindweed, proliferating

unwanted, unplanted and choking

the fence erected after last winter’s grasp

had wrung the very last gasp

from stanchions of its elder sibling

taking living daylights and throttling.

How you wish you could remove burrs

more easily – it took hours plucking straws

from the knitted sweaters Grandmother

had poured heart and mind over

so washing machines were kept freed up

and acquitted of the day’s detritus –

and now, with Christmas approaching,

beseech them – ‘buy me nothing,

as there’s nothing that I need’,

still look beneath that tree in remorse,

witness tinseled packages there of course

but something of you wants divorce

from everything now. Feel guilt

when you refuse family affairs and refute -

cite belly ache, a football fixture,

midnight mass, ancient scripture,

nothing they can put a confident finger on,

you can’t be bothered to play along.

Sticking plasters cover your face anyhow

on the days you’ve got everything now.

Their Breaths Embraced Together

 

Their Breaths Embraced Together

 

And her husband is a decent man,

you salute him, greet him when you can

in a voice that’s almost too pleased -

strong, too, those shirts deceive,

hide a well-toned and muscular physique

but right modest with it, too.

Still, she, near-innocent, comes to you

to talk music: choirs, majors, minors,

Lydian modes and yes, she looks so fine,

oftentimes her left arm will find

your shoulders, pull them closer, nearer,

whisper something velvet in your ear

that your hairs will erect themselves

independent of wish, speak and tell;

betray secret things you wish kept hidden.

Now impudent breasts force your shoulder

and, though dismissed, it returns bolder

and sings more loudly than before.

And irresistant, you will find some reason

to visit often and scent her seasoning,

follow behind and close those doors

that must be kept open for safety’s sake –

ah, she tells you something Portuguese,

a phrase of wants, of needs, of teasing

greed that tantalizes both before it leaves

and is in want of no translation.

And what it is, sings some sensation

of feather-light guilt but soft as heather

as your breaths embraced together.

Shake Off Death's Counterfeit

 

Shake Off Death's Counterfeit

 

A wretched, recalcitrant boy

exercising a calculated ploy

to skip loathed French –

and you’d grind your dentures

if you had them, but still possess

a few of the yellowed originals,

calcified from too much smoking,

evidence of a misspent youth –

appears at your office door

looking like the very picture of a sore

loser – migrant, arrogant, unfazed,

stares through the window, glazed,

and gazing at you disengaged,

unwanted – like latent afterscents

of a parent wearing too much oud,

at the fag end of the evening’s queue

to speak his patent rubbish to you

when the homeward bus

is about to take its leave.

Smacking your pen against the desk

and sucking breath

between your teeth,

you disregard his insolent pleas

for understanding, clemency,

drag him by figurative temple hair

back to the classroom, where

you’d throw him to the lions.

You’re tired. This work forms concrete

where cells once were, your feet

heavy that once tripped light fantastic,

in bed you’re lying unasleep,

think to shake off death’s counterfeit,

yet always hear yourself beseech:

there’s merit still in what I teach,

proffer begging bowls just within their reach,

pour words of canker into ears

and negotiate for only one more year.

Bubble

 

Bubble

 

She pushes 2 strips of Nicorette

across the counter, didn’t forget

how you always toss packaging;

refuse the plastic. You examine

dark eyes, banded by face mask

and hijab, they’re hot; it lasts -

her burning brand drawing fire

that rises from straw - you mount

the escalator and tamp it out.

Sit, take coffee, glance around

thinking about how you found

a place here. Yesterday, in bed,

giving her lunch, resting heads

afterwards, hearing her shrieks

as Ginebra, letting points leak,

missing baskets, lack control,

could not put balls in the hole.

Reminiscing how you’d cupped

flesh and all that sifted air sucked

through teeth, hoops blown soft

provoke froth, shoot bubbles aloft,

that hang in gilded precious bursts,

can for an instant satisfy thirst,

then fall in liquids to the earth -

that conceit can kill your phone

and long for being left alone.

 

 

Al Sadd

 

Al Sadd

 

You took a selfie sitting on the steps

of ‘Brands For Less’ -

there are two,

one at the other end, abutting the Metro,

where an unwary motorist

is honoured with medals for illegal parking –

Alex messaged: ‘Where’s that?’

You typed ‘Al Sadd’ while a stray cat,

tortoiseshell, and therefore female,

made a play for your lap;

gave your thigh a friendly pat.

The cars are a nuisance,

backing into careless pedestrians,

blasting hot air at dripping legs,

as cloistered commuters point at fools,

sipping karak in the cool.

Change direction at random

to avoid pits in the pavement,

exposed bricks, quick drying cement

that can outstrip the arcing sun,

and in grey, clogging rivers run,

form cooled outcrops that crest

levelled hardscaped flagstones.

You generally stride out solo,

pass familiar landmarks

– you’ve known them years –

Chtoura, Marmara, La Paz,

with Filipinas who will cast and stab

at any chance to engage and hook.

Catch eyes with private looks

of promised pleasures, straighten backs,

pushing upwards, in pairs or threes

lipping rumours to capture and tease

while disregarding feckless husbands

left in Mindanao far behind.

Still sat down, Let’s tackle her message

incuriously, received spuriously,

you’d best guess -

from Kenya, Nigeria, somewhere

anywhere, words that want care

and come with attachments,

something harmful, somewhat libel,

and she’s slung her hook

5 years ago. You look.

‘We should catch up, keep in touch.’

You wonder why

it stirs nothing much.

Dear Old Friend

 

Dear Old Friend

 

The only time I sniggered

watching ‘Steptoe and Son Ride Again’

was during the funeral scene –

specifically, Yootha Joyce’s mocked up pain

while crooning: ‘Dear old friend,’

on top of a clapped-out horse and cart.

Good acting, that.

You would've disapproved, I know,

cited the latest Tarantino

but you never saw ‘Hateful 8’

or ‘Once Upon a Time in Hollywood’.

I like the latter and the way History

was bent out of shape and twisted

to bequeath a happy ending.

But, I left it all far behind – still amazed

you never put the black on Brexit 

or faced plague –

but I think of you most days,

wonder if you'd have beaten pans with sticks

like the rest of them

while watching YouTube, streaming The Beatles,

in a distant world so removed

from anything two of us knew

in our lifetimes -

Sunday driving, not arriving, on our way,

looking back at us from far overseas

while she comes to me

all bass runs and Shangri La

in falling towels dripping showers

oriental and perfumed flowers.

My dear old friend,

it goes without saying

there was no comedy at yours

when they closed those committal doors,

it was curtains -

I wondered how life could continue.

But now, with different songs to sing

she’s crossed her fingers, wondering

what our next 5 years will bring.