Friday, 12 February 2021

From Now On

 

From Now On

 

 

I’ll pick and choose,

who I love and who I lose.

And some of my choices,

might surprise even me.

Nobody will be fireproof

from gentle bloodless coup

of spirit: it might be her,

if so, then ask yourself,

should it be even you?

This old heart grows jaded,

weary, set upon the rack

might fold its empty hand,

if it suffers further attack,

soft broken back beats

fade out and faded.

If you are chosen,

be assured of warmth,

occasional provocative smile

dark glints from dark heart.

I’ll gift you love’s words,

you’ll guide my hands,

we few will, back to back,

forever and together stand

against jealous time.

If not, well, no crime

was ever committed,

just get on with the living,

forgiven and forgiving,

the herd is mostly immune,

to any kindness shown:

decisions taken, dues paid,

I’ll turn my unfeeling eye,

on life’s blind passing by.

Nothing left to see here,

from now on, believe me,

and so please move along;

you did nothing wrong.



Tuesday, 9 February 2021

What You Saw I See

 

What You Saw I See

 

 

What you see, I saw:

a devil would come knocking

at a cupboard door.

Demanding more in rent,

than ever could be spent,

in this lifetime – or the next.

 

Oh, it knocks them off their feet,

thrown out onto Winter street

with a long list of final demands,

imperatives,

conditionals,

commands,

every thumping heartbeat drumming;

surges in crashed panic; attacks and cheats

by mugging everything dear,

just as all was becoming clear;

crushed all gentle winds busy sweeping fog,

snapped limb from limb by jealous dogs.

So here comes the chopper

to chop off their heads,

snuff out the candle that lights them to bed.

 

Well, imagine; dream if you will,

Libra’s scales, balanced high in heaven,

great chains holding giant pans beneath

weighing strong cheer against clouded grief.

Can you see it? True, my lover,

I guess a plank would do as well,

where one is up, and the other down,

flotsam drifting dreams from the past,

assembled in the mind, glued together

by simple acts of being kind, push gently,

swing one off the other, sharing tunes

aching with nostalgic melody, croon

together, back and forth, with spooned lips,

guard both carefully against careless slips,

where one dips, the other rises,

offers love, and look, a life of surprises.

Two Angels, in approximate symmetry,

suspended in psyche’s honeyed amber,

dark on white on dark,

forming perfect sonnets from couplets rhymed,

just a few stolen moments, all could be well,

just a little way above their heads,

observing both the maw of hell.

 

Furies now attack in many agonied shapes,

grunting guttural, howling wounded blame,

oh, it splits strong plank in twain,

chopping,

slashing,

sawing,

shredding driftwood with buzzsaw dust-teeth,

daemon axe felling, spitting feral and ferocious,

horrid hurling knives flung from ultimatum eyes,

it’s churning up the very earth

and burning, burning all before it.

If one must fall, see the other plunge,

down tumble both, twisting wild,

tail-spinning, pitch out of control, lunge

into oncoming - both corkscrew:

it cannot hold, one soulmate will never do

what must be achieved by even two.

 

Still, peace now, the worst is over,

storms pass, move further off,

dull all once pounding blood.

Feel beneath feet safe deadening rug,

puts her thin arms around herself,

folds her surplus wings inwards, weep and hug,

howl bitter, clutches, holds herself hard,

pulls thick blankets back over blank eyes,

think beige grey skies; all tomorrow's sunrise.

 

A path winds forwards, long behind them now;

both might reflect in time that between them here

was committed no crime, warm words shared

will one day embrace thoughts, bring smiles,

and they will snatch at fragment memories

every once in a while. Watch crystalline  

shadows look back from inside mirrors,

grasp for something that forever shimmers.

 

They climbed too high too soon,

and peaking, looked up;

rested, back to back, drank from loving cups,

then saw Libra, somewhere far overhead:

She’s glittering over graves of life’s wasted dead

decaying together both killers and killed,

restless in slumber all dreams unfulfilled.

 

One day we might reach out our hands,

clench love’s firm grasp; beach on dry lands,

dream far off undiscovered countries, be free.

Oh, it is not as it should be,

and what you saw I still see:

in this life you could complete me.


Saturday, 23 January 2021

Poundland

 

Poundland

 

 

All spark snuffed out, all dreams must die,

all grounded people shall never fly,

the land and Queen no longer one,

spread conflagration through Albion.

 

Flame bitter memories on burning tongue,

scar acid deep pale face once young,

whet bloody knives of stained Sheffield steel,

cauterise nerves to no longer feel,

tan tough epidermis into leather hide,

taped weeping ducts hold tears inside,

come demon, come ogre, offer sacrifices,

take arms on the day that Angel rises.

 

And when you died,

so did I,

for Angels become afraid

to fly.

 

You held my hand

and with your dying breath,

that very last air you had left

fluting in black cancered lungs,

a spent twister of tormented smile

spoke of love, gripping feeling

as you slipped from substance:

too late to take up smoking now,

my dear drifted friend,

for you flume from chimneys,

steeped in seconds, lost in time,

dark in plumage while I, in anger fume,

remember tunes we played,

that you held him briefly,

ruffled his soft blonde hair

and asked of Michael, how was this fair?

 

I once believed in that boy

who put his thumb in a dyke

to save the world.

They tried to steal it, beat it from me,

but failed: only much older and later

did I finally admit,

stories like these were mostly shit.

 

Many now roll eyes and grin

at the boy that pushed his fingers in,

virtuously label it as sin.

He’s up to his limp wrist in skin.

This water, leaking doubt,

looks wild-eyed, mad and thereabouts,

raising voice in startled shout:

‘these walls of Jericho cannot hold out’. 

                                                      

‘How many blows can you take, boy?’

they might’ve said, in between heavy panting,

scalping him, wrenching a skein of hair

with templed fist, pull naked shivering soul from bed:

‘How many steel capped goose steps to the head,

toe rag, until dreams inside are finally dead?’

Curling inwards, like wood lice under stone,

presenting back, arms shielding face and chest,

while she, shrieking gleeful, heaving breasts,

turns and turns the wheel, spins the room,

cackling spittle until he swoons.

 

Shovelling Winter shit with bare plague hands,

mincing young bones to fertilise his land,

as they voted for this without regret,

will defend it with their dying breath.

 

And the contamination had long begun:

for if they had halos, dear friend,

as her winking Westminster suggested,

then they hailed from Poundland,

coming right at you like austerity Angels,

or bottom feeding penny pinchers,

sporting cheap crumpled prison issue suits

and even cheaper clipboards

in repurposed crap cardboard,

so this year, so recycled, so responsibly sourced.

 

Their pens made from hardened bottles

and eco-friendly, waste pushing waste.

They sell them there, down the aisle,

along with streamers of tinsel fancy dress,

rub shoulders with other knock offs,

cheap cuts, concealing salmonella expiry dates

with dog eared stickers glued in hangnail blood,

picked at with scab finger, all blackhead leavings

daubed in dried quick-blade flicked snot.

 

Who watches the watchers? We’d failed,

lost before the game even kicked off,

pushed far back, way behind the baseline,

too far ever to return aces, drop-shots, lobs,

and they sneering, tampering, scratching balls,

inspecting reverse swing and out-fielders,

fiddling the kids while spouting burnt Rome policy,

squat toad-wet in can’t be arsed armchairs,

swivelling on rubber tipped pencils until relieved,

opened their buttocks to ejaculate data,

farting about how you failed, see you later.

 

Go softly on, tear down the next and the next,

breezing through Cornwall like the plague.

Fear nought, they’re coming, these ends of days,

you’d turn in your grave, my friend,

all lives wrecked in tall ships crushed.

St Piran sailed his stone in vain,

as the raping crews from London came,

Look! Here he is, Inspector Tits,

cometh the hour, cometh the man,

crafty tossing off into crisp hotel sheets

claims of huge expenses, with new brooms

new bought from Poundland

to sweep away these coasting coastals.

 

Reaping whirlwinds reaped,

the starving and the dispossessed,

those without warm beds to rest,

now seizing concrete, seizing slate,

burning Albion with granite hate,

booting foot through shop glass plate,

then fleet foot scarper with latest trainers,

latest phones, freeform looting – just do it:

sticky hot fingered, hot shoe footed,

clench our bleeding fists into bullets.

 

Shooken heads as Poundland detonates

in a rush and a push and the land

deploys all special counter measures,

stripping to lay bare in chaff cloud receipts,

knuckle under austerity data sheets,

seize the schools, seize the dole,

shatter into pieces what was whole,

whilst the boy who once was free,

sucks his pulled wet thumb and waits to see.

 

After she was finished,

after she was spent,

we dreamt - in rolling waves calling,

for none were saved, breakers falling,

we’re breathing out, breathing in,

grinding thoughts with imaginations grim,

and pounding visions to dust in Angels trust.

Gabriel scopes out to sea, desert imploring

cold spaces sought, wrecked in our tumbling

here askance, vortex-holed and listing aground.

A million palmed grains per pound

in a long dead friend’s ashes found.

 

It ended there, my friend, so we thought,

no pardon enough that could be bought,

a death knell to sink oh come all ye faithful,

yet cometh the hour, cometh the Angel.

 

We will be free of it, if you will look,

dream with me, grip pen and book,

forlorn false dawns of falsehood break,

fore scarred Cornish cliffs we do retake.

She walked among us with luring scent,

our shattered lands did she frequent

with gladness. Holds your heavenly hand

in hers, here binds fast to mine on land.

And we will shed tears of black compromises,

come the grievous day that Angel rises.






Friday, 22 January 2021

The Cupboard

 The Cupboard.

 

A room to escape

Solace

Peace

Laughter.

 

Friends finding comfort with idle chat

Music

Sport

Misery.

 

Her scent stirs his desire she is

Oblivious

Unknowing

Smells good.

 

She can’t read the man of many words

Confusion

Stomach churning

wanting.

 

Months pass and a tension builds

Fire

Passion

Yearning.

 

A cupboard stands dark in the corner of the room

Pencils

Paper

Tools of imagination.

 

As she leaves she passes the cupboard

His eyes burn her, her desire floods her

She turns

He’s there

Trapped.

 

Can they hear each other’s hearts beat?

BOOMING!

POUNDING!

BOOMING!

 

She’s pinned against the cupboard

Tools of imagination scatter

His body presses against hers

Heat warms her scent

Hot breath on skin

Thrill of being caught.

 

Lips gently touch

Hands cradle face

Bodies touch from breast to toe

Dark cupboard fills will loves glow.

 

The same time each day

Lovers light the darkness of the cupboard

Passion stolen

Sated.

 

Cupboard’s doors open like arms

Pulling in the lovers

Enjoying the forbidden love

Heat

Passion.

 

He’s gone.

 

 

Cupboards doors stay closed

No more love

No more glow

No more

No more.

 

 

The room of escape is now more

It is a room of heart ache

Broken dreams

No more laughter

No more idle chat

No more stolen kisses

No more

No more

 

 

The cupboard houses still,

Tools of imagination

But stands forever dark

Holding onto the secret of forbidden lovers

When they once lit it’s darkness.





Friday, 15 January 2021

All Tomorrow’s Meetings

 

All Tomorrow’s Meetings

 

 

Not too many months from now, we will meet.

An inexorable oncoming storm

crackling static, electric nature’s heat,

forged dreams collide in passion reborn.

 

We could retreat. Sit silent, side by side,

avoid eyes, frigid watch as ebbing tide

rakes over our ancient mud, flat deny

swollen sunrise, peck cheek, shy smiled goodbyes,

 

or embrace. Heave breasts, bodies throbbing beg

wanton lips to kiss hair, forehead, neck, thighs,

full feast, bury heads, teasing tongues part legs,

hot tangled Gorgon’s knot, shuddering ride.

 

Reason chaste thought, speak only coward’s verse,

but no earthly power halts nature’s course.