Friday, 29 November 2019

Reset Button

Reset Button

Still it seems, butter melts so, so quickly

in this part of the world. Now, here’s Dobson

stirring her, shakes it in doorstepped glass

bottled bottoms, until curdling, floats to the top,

syrup clingy between his finger and thumb

beckons of will not come, she will not come

push it easy in, Georgie Jack Horner porked pies

to make her cry, brings playing lies joyful sighs.

Spoon out bits, dig in, long licking drippy lid,

figgy fruit fudge pudding, expose it to naked light,

yoghurting down her skintight fishy net salopettes

clinging, clags his nails, gets underneath, trickles

in translucent sweet treacles. Look, she’s leg crossed

sitting, butter melting, no, not in her mouth

it wouldn’t fit in there yet - there’s a world

of sofas and settees and soft, stroked cushions

to cross before he even arrived to make her giggle.

Still, another satin drink and he can lay it on

Macduff, thick, where there never can be enough

beheading in flowered beds. Not quite, she laces,

makes faces, their eyes, hypnotise the other’s

in any kind of kissed lies, making ivy wall’s fall

trellised to his knees, besieged her secret garden,

he lets down her hair to scale him up there,

two hands she push-pushes, open reed rushes

drowns him legs within, rips aside brief candle cloth

scanty shocked by careful chosen brevity,

plucked off for occasion in expedient innocence

from her panty drawer, in case she could score, for

one and one certain makes one in two more,

surfacing, takes the air, push and enter there

in all earthly honesty, cast off all sophistry, silk

glide and honey ride, no friction, soaked in

elevation, ever up joined in tapestry of warp us,

weft us, shuttle-buff us, hip-twine us this day

some far off never-world of oh baby, baby

someday, maybe. Tangled up in dreams of twelve

bar blued shuffle-pull partings, she sighs, wipes

juice from Dobson’s lips, kisses, hiss-wishes

far-futured mornings where it didn’t happen,

can’t happen, won’t happen; hits reset button.

Friday, 15 November 2019

Good Friday

Good Friday

He sometimes writes good, Fridays.

Of a Friday, some faraway Friday

using a half-remembered typewriter

of bedroom red-blue sticky ribboned

clatter-clack snapdragon tangle key

fingers misfiring muddy memories:

green hills, cliffs, rains that quench,

rains that drench, rains of new brent

classrooms, sweet in boiled cabbage

splinter-wood floors, puddles that soak

semolina blood-rose hip syrupy teachers

playing one fingered piano tunes,

while sitting children stir and stir

with spoons the Sheffield stainless steel

red pools into white to conjure cream,

whirlpooling wonder into dream

words onto Basildon Bond paper.

Potent the magic sugar kaylie spell

fizzes on the tongue when young

taught, rote wrote words of caterpillar

flies, every gold buttercup butterflies

from every chrysalis a key change

major major minor, dot, dot, dash

and Jesus, some say, came back.