Tuesday 28 December 2021

F Hole

 

F Hole

 

 

There’s an F shaped hole in the Christmas tree,

a guitar shaped hole where some love should be,

and if he squints, he can see it right through,

not that peering is anything he’d normally do:

tantamount to careless, as in lacking care,

scrutinising something that clearly isn’t there.

Oh, it’s balanced, a give and take, yin and yang,

a dualism in sheathed swords, woman to man,

where years of strife led to tacit understanding,

rehearsed reasons, the season of Angels landing,

a pax, like grandson’s soft blanket, cheek high,

look up not back, here’s snowfall from the sky.

Has something fucked up this Christmas card?

Should be laughing out loud; it’s biting too hard,

if it wasn’t so commonly tragic, so depressing,

sucks out magic through straw-men blessings,

and look, here’s hampers for Ken, cards for Jack,

piled under the tree, the presents are racked.

And he would pluck that promised bass and extol

second comings, if it wasn’t for that fucking hole.



Monday 27 December 2021

Monkey Puzzles Shed Leaves

 

Monkey Puzzles Shed Leaves

 

 

Perhaps it’s true who knows?

Iced frost will settle on fire

in cramps. Of warning dire,

it’s all powdered hoare

of thick suffocating snuff

but of cindered heat

there is still little enough.

 

Maybe you’ll read of

worlds blasé to story endings

writhing, its pediculus rending

a stumbled slipped disc,

in deep burgundy basilisk

which still briefly flares

between this and this.

 

Up there could you witness

backdrops of Stygian black,

twisted necks looking back

at plague, heat, flood?

A trifecta of nothing good,

but impulse persistence

continues coexistence.

 

Overhead; still beneath,

iron fissions in toxic cast, flint

space above, below and glint,

in germs of hobnail potential

squatting silent, existential.

Send decay, mistrust, strife

gifting us a half of half life.

 

Hubble bubbly, unlovely

cauldrons boil, gargling oil,

in etiquettes of filthy spoil:

trawl for toxic bouillabaisse,

toothpicking plastic waste,

choker beads, joker’s cough,

will not riffle sackcloth.

 

Slipping away ticks time,

watching an apocalypse dawning

hands over mouth yawning,

a people all over snaps itself;

publications for the top shelf,

weeping semi-healed scabs,

tik-tok, grab-bag, hard stabs

for last post aching fame

rolling riot; penultimate trains

puff out of second last stations,

Olympic record of stagnation,

pastel pants a shallow nation.

 

Frosted ice might snuff fire,

until in grit, another is lit,

and there’s the perfect fit.

 It’s true, all things do pass,

it’s hour come around at last,

through thick clotted trees

monkey puzzles shed leaves.



Sunday 19 December 2021

Slight Return

 

Slight Return

 

 

And why are you the one to suffer?

Do they call you a man,

then be woman enough to leave her

if just for a short while?

In yearning children lies a choice,

for see how she misses my voice,

she nightly fingers memories moist,

charting mazes where it all started,

strokes our likeness, hopeful hearted,

quick snapped just before we parted,

and weeps, only for a short while.

 

Back tracked overland, where

I ticked off oceans across stormy sky,

came hard about. Seamen tangled her hair,

sucking at salt that was lately there

in sticky ropey coils lain on her deck.

Jack Tar inspecting high crow’s nest,

she closed her eyes, to test and test,

and scarce can draw another breath

upon his return, she will be blessed,

and only in a short while.

 

You, with your brass wedding band,

your left hand down a bit driving ban,

your woolly blanket communications ban,

your banish everything you can ban,

your cancel you cancel me culture,

your pleased to say hello to my vulture,

who tears and tears daily at your flesh,

until still later, after all these years,

where the only dying done is death:

but just for a short while.

 

We’re both of us getting distant older,

look over shoulders at horizons colder,

but, then again, to few to mention,

passing each other to melt the tension,

without flicking your lids just once.

What’s that kicking at your can,

recalls in you that you had a plan?

Dust that's brushed beyond the pan,

flecks you of what you once believed,

that it’s not enough to talk of grief,

so feel it for a short while.

 

And why am I the one to return?

Do they call me a man,

with woman enough to need her:

if just for a short while?

Do I seek and tell you what I learned

or stand upon Cornish cliffs and burn

like Angel? To play you like this guitar,

pick ancient tunes that speak our scars,

scream we must be free or not to be,

gales disperse my words indifferently,

and the only one standing here is me,

perhaps just for a short while.



Friday 3 December 2021

The Years that Divide us Must be Undone

 

The Years that Divide us Must be Undone

 

 

Our season is on us, and welcome she comes,

speaks years that divide us must be undone,

for we do not prosper, but in twilight live,

so unbreak my staff, my books to me give.

From shipwreck hard-shackled below salt brine,

salt lids slow crack open to protest crimes

never yours nor mine, broke yet unbroken,

split lips mutter truths that can never be spoken.

While full fathom five, your love fast does lie,

slumbers years down there, it beats still alive,

bathes in my memories, seeking to thrive,

in yearning looks up towards far heaven's eyes,

probe cloudy fingers through grey opaque waters,

combs fate’s fallen son, you plunged daughter.

Within thickened weed, time’s predators lurk,

corral orbed shoals, who turn wheels of murk,

spin tales of betrayal, doctor yarns of deceit,

skinders prattle of hurt; mastheads of defeat.

This season becomes us, awake love, awake,

stretch far your mind’s touch, my open hand take,

bestir you, bestir, from long untouched depths,

you’ll rise up from entangling seabeds yet,

Prospero’s Tempest blows hard passions strong,

and those years that divide us will be undone.




Friday 26 November 2021

Block Me, Block Yer Blues

 

Block Me, Block Yer Blues

 


You block me and I’ll block you,

a just and proper thing to do,

the way our lives have got to be,

is I’ll block you and you block me.

 

All platforms end with lovers dead,

foul open legs, like turkeys spread,

you’ll gobble up my words of dread,

and stuff them up your handbag.

 

Once open screen spit bilious spleen,

no more on chat rooms to convene,

binned trashcans built of broken dreams,

make silk thoughts into dishrags.

 

Photos snapped in goodness sent,

scratch with nails and hate ferment,

what once was fire we now resent,

poured on those boiling oils.

 

Sodden sod-offs we won’t lament,

sour lullabies sing me your torment,

what’s left of love I right repent,

to the losers send the spoils.

 

Now laminate your hate with care,

in fury do our soft eyes stare,

what once was fair is now unfair,

in blood that’s set to thicken.

 

The pulses in your neck have slown,

red spots upon your brow have grown,

search the symptoms on your phone,

my breath does make you sicken.

 

I’ll block you and you block me,

free fingered digital amputees,

shoot spiteful shivers thru and thru,

as you block me and I block you.



Friday 12 November 2021

Got The Ticket

 

Got The Ticket

 

 

Shoved through a few turnstiles in my time

that chew shirts off backs; fingernailed grime

as I'm back-pushed forwards by impatient crowd

drawn panting low down, heard screaming loud.

Bitten by interlocking teeth painted rusting red,

as steel maws tongue your ground brown bread.

You must shoulder arms against meshing cogs

after they rip off your ticket, giving you dog’s,

that punter behind you, nipping your heels,

asking plaintiff-like, 'well would you feel'?

I’ve climbed stone stairs and found cold seat,

in concrete concourse planted hopeful feet,

wolf howled until both teams are well beat,

chucked out, half hoarse, on pickled streets.

I bought that ticket, see? Watched the flick, too.

Well versed. So, understand me, following you,

that sometimes I will feel it. I’ll still be around

to watch them kicking dogs that are down.

You standing there, all sorry and frowning,

but I’m over with clinging couples drowning,

like any football team who promise plenty,

you'll go through full but leave half empty.






Saturday 30 October 2021

Petals

 

Petals

 

Soft ochre on light brown, like blushed toast

buttered gold in sweeting yellow.

Concealed minute beneath gaudy blooms,

vain dilettante butterfly flitters by,

toiling honeybee, might stop and see,

linger here awhile to pull at petals.

Not plain at all, but for want of rain,

dry coy curled, she unfurls with touch

of tasting tongue, from old to young,

gathers juices probed in senses swim

this flower moves and shimmering.

Hot breezes sugar brown bushes blown,

shell petals do seem to sigh and groan,

poplars tall push wide pink parting sky

growing strong beside her filling lake.

She’s flowering there, full opened bare,

bloomed shivering in new summers fair.


Saturday 9 October 2021

The Return of Peter Pan

 

The Return of Peter Pan

 

 

Wendy, your Peter has returned to see

bedroom window shut. Barred against me,

its curtains, in sallow pink, flap open wide,

call more welcome crooks to peek inside,

while the frigid clasps, for want of use,

are fixed in stubborn hardness fused:

yet here I fly all milk tooth pearly grin,

casting cast off fairy spells to let me in.


Why do you draw back? Ah. Pain.

Now, printed here on paper plain

for readers’ gaze, the horror. Years strained

to drag down face, penned sagging rhymes

in drooping loops on that page’s aged lines;

Did you grow old, Wendy, promise broken,

exchanged true love for something token?

 

I can’t part with any change, shan't

pay to look, won't turn back pages of your book,

read lips’ gold thimbles were cheaply sold,

that hot pyres of longing burned only cold.

 

We should've used soap to fix dark shadows,

she might fly away when warm breezes blow,

her stitched on smiles unpick themselves,

in unread fables that fall from shelves.

 

Do you still believe in fairies

like you did when you were young?

But you’ve come and come and come

so many times, that songs we might have sung

melted like gold thimbles and are all gone.

 

You grew old Wendy, in promises broken,

forgot how to fly and Time has spoken,

like candles snuffed, all dreams have flit,

in cloud of moth, dun and thick, to fires lit

who tinderbox, burn and burn and burn,

melt lost tin soldiers, to gutter and yearn.

Roll all love’s imagination into one ball,

pitched into darkness where devils call.

 

And there she sits. Hides her beastly shape

in plain view for all, but you. Ah, it’s fate?

It lies not in the stars to steer our course,

but in ourselves, we must pick which crew,

like all lost boys, which ship to join, or lose.

 

Oh, she’s every pirate rolled into one,

her hook sticks deep and twists in death,

like cuckoo plants eggs in your nest,

stabs your flesh, cuts short your breath,

hangs off with teeth your sagging breasts,

like lead weights now they plumb new depths,

you partnered something you detest.

You wanted monsters? Her crocodile clock,

her tick tock stopped, her jaws are locked,

chain-stitched her shadow on your back,

her vulture smile snaps clackety-clack:

Oh Wendy, see what you have become,

you grew old before you grew young.

 

Please, my Wendy, look not so sad at me.

Take back those outstretched hands,

you’ll weep enough tears to blossom sands;

and they hang so heavy on my heart.

Would you conjure some ancient art,

try alchemy to turn free spirit to lead,

mould it into anchor, fix to sea bed

then watch us drown? Maybe you can

turn boy to man, but see your Peter Pan.

I gave you books of brilliant things,

but I cannot give you back lost wings,

Wendy, poor Peter returns your regrets,

and calls you to forget, forget, forget...

 

Forget.




Friday 1 October 2021

Shrinking Violet’s Chopped Cucumbers

 

Shrinking Violet’s Chopped Cucumbers

 

 

Friday afternoon. Late-ish.

Even from his bedroom, he could hear them. And his bedroom was far, far from the front door. There was a longish L shaped corridor from there to here.

You see, the truth is, that Stuart lived on the ground floor.

What’s so bloody truthful about that, you might ask, given the import of the previous declaration; what’s the deal? I mean it seems a small thing to point out, doesn’t it?

Well, nothing really. It’s just that being on the ground floor of the block meant it was near to elevators for all the others.

Floors.

Ungenerously, the architect had provided only two such.

Yes, stairs, of course, but they were a tad narrow and uninviting. With those push bar to open fire things.

And, during the busy hours, there were…people.

Impatient neckbottled people, awaiting transport.

Friday afternoons between four and six o clock were particularly messy, due to it being the end of brunches, whereupon those hotels so welcoming at midday became weary of four hours of tiresome drunkenness and gluttony. They applied velvet gloved iron hands, nailed boots and chucked out hordes of pissheads onto the hot, Kata streets.

Most of these were young, most of them Irish and all of them wankered.

How they clamoured for taxis, how they cursed as wiser drivers passed them by, wary of damp patch jeans and slippery strapless mini-dresses on their pristine seats.

The yoof of today made their way back to the apartment building in dribbles, some quite literally, then, by the elevators, and reunited once more, sang boldly of their adventures. Mainly football chants they had heard on the telly – well because most were too young to have actually been to a game.

Listening to them, Stuart scowled. The girls were extremely shrill and noisy.

He blocked his ears with pillows as they pierced his brain, devising ever more brutal traps to slaughter them, then reflecting that it would all be over in another hour until mid-morning Saturday, when, upon waking, they’d discover who’d shagged who, questioned why and, under clouds of hangovers, tears and tantrums would start to fight each other.

Bloody teachers.

Stuart looked at his phone again and tried to read the message. His sight was nowhere near as good as it had once been and the screen was small, of course. Unwisely he had taken to spraying Covid disinfectant over his glasses until a student pointed out he was probably ruining the varifocal lenses.

Now he had to tip his head back slightly to read – or push the bottom of the frames upwards.

Her words swam into view. He strained harder and his headache worsened.

‘I failed you in hunky panky,’ he thought he read, ‘I am feeding up play sensitive games. You are serious to me with no dramas.’ he scrolled up slightly. ‘but before hunky panky, I need your intentions. We should go on to conquer the world. I raised my son and daughter with God’s grace, but sadly ruined my lovelife.’

Stupid God, stupid grace.

Stuart sighed. Rolled over. Listened once more to the hedonistic clamour outside. Some of that shrieking sounded positively impure.

 

 

Mid-morning Friday, outside the Blue Salon, adjacent to C Ring Road.

It being Friday, the road was quiet. There was literally no traffic, save for a sad-face Filipino riding his bicycle. It was one of those with a wicker basket in front which contained a large bottle of water – probably five gallons – to be upended into a cooler.

Do they even have gallons in Kata?

As the bicycle made its melancholy way past him, creaking slightly with age or abuse, Stuart was reminded of a film. He knew not which. But a line came into his head. ‘It is time to keep your appointment with the wicker man’.

Stuart glanced at his watch, then back at C Ring. Where was she? Twenty minutes and no sign of her car. And the sun was baleful, burning his neck and shoulders viciously.

Fishing in his pocket for the phone, he opened it and reread her morning messages.

‘You feed me yoghurt with a spoon?’

‘Yes, of course. Cool yoghurt on your hot tongue.’

‘I excited.’

‘I should think you are.’

‘I come to ur apartment.’

‘Now? Or tomorrow?’ Stuart had wanted to go swimming; if she came now, his plans would be in disarray.

‘I already in car.’

Blast. ‘OK. I’ll wait by Blue Salon, C Ring.’

It was spooky, C Ring being so empty of life. At any other given moment it was a gridlocked soundscape of angry horning from frustrated drivers, weaving lanes. The intertwining was extremely irksome, bonnets thrust aggressively across white lines, causing obstructions beyond the wit of humanity to solve.

A tangled skein of quick step and side kick woolly momentum. Judging just how far to push out, how much to retract, mishearing the traffic signals which had a habit of shouting stop, just when you’d put your engine into first.

Stuart licked his lips with thirst. Waiting for her.

But she’d already arrived. He could see her small figure in the distance, waving. Obviously she’d come by another route. Her diminutive Filipina boobs bounced as she strutted towards him with a smile.

Stuart was unsure whether to be pleased or afraid. Above him the signals changed colour again.

 

 

To get to his apartment, just a stone’s throw from Blue Salon, involved a great deal of huffing, puffing and blowing the house down. There were tricksy manoeuvres involving her car, u turns and parking.

“No, turn right here. You should remember this, Sweet Violet, surely?”

Then the lobby and security had to be negotiated. It was a good ten steps from the entrance to his door.

“Will Anis see me? What about Tessa? I could be recognised.”

“Well, wear dark glasses and a hijab next time.”

“Next time?”

Finally, he fumbled and dropped the key, noticing a gecko scuttle away.

“What was that?”

“A gecko.”

“Is it your pet?”

“No.”

“Do you have a pet?”

“No.”

“I have a turtle.”

Once they had entered that L shaped corridor, Stuart embraced her like a lover would. He regretted that choice of clause, due to it being a lyric from ‘Louise’ by Human League – a break up song.

Upon hearing intruders, Mr Stabs was making a lot of racket in the spare room. Shrieks, squarks and telephone ringtones.

“What’s that?”

“Mr Stabs. A parrot.”

“I think you have no pets?”

“I’m minding him for a friend. She left me with him. Only temporary. She said. Six months ago.”

“Mr Stabs is strange name.”

“If I go near him, he bites me.”

“Really? Can I see?”

Reluctantly, Stuart plucked a grape off the bunch sitting on his dining table in the bowl and walked along the small corridor which separated the living area from the two bedrooms. Violet padded behind him, all four foot of her, blinking through thick, pebbly glasses and panting in excitement.

Mr Stabs regarded Stuart and the proffered grape malignantly as both approached his cage. He was silent – a silence that presaged only doom and torture. True to form, as Stuart’s fingers got nearer, he stabbed at them, seizing the grape and drawing blood in exultation. Then he tossed the grape aside in amused contempt.

Violet was delighted.

As Stuart winced, sucking his forefinger, she hopped up and down to see, then her face creased with concern. “You need band-aid.”

“Yes.”

“You have?”

“No, not really. Sorry.”

Now both of them sat on his sofa, a cushion’s distance apart, as Stuart waited for the bleeding to subside. He was unsure how to proceed on this second date, having hoped for a coffee and cake at the mall, or something. Neutral ground. Difficult sophomore album syndrome.

Should he put his arm around her? Go in for a snog? What did she actually expect? Maybe get the yoghurt and a spoon?

Reading minds is so difficult.

Violet wasn’t being very helpful.

So, he showed her round the apartment, to kill five minutes, and dispel an awkwardness that hung between them.

“This is my study.”

“What through door?”

“A toilet.”

“Bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“Ah-ah. Who that?”

“Who?”

Violet was indicating a printed picture that Stuart had pinned to his bookshelf a while ago. “That is Angel.”

“Angel? That a man?”

“Is it?” Stuart squinted. It was definitely Angel she was pointing at, not his son. “No. It a woman.”

“Woman?” Violet giggled. “Not woman.”

“It is woman.” To be fair, it was an unflattering snap.

“Who Angel?”

“A woman. I keep it there to remind me not to have any more. She helps me write.”

They continued the door. “This kitchen.”

“Ah-ah.”

“This spare bedroom.”

“Ah-ah.”

“This my bedroom. I put clean sheets today. I always put clean sheets on Friday.”

“What through door?”

“A toilet.”

“Bathroom?”

“Yes.”

They padded back to the sofa and sat apart once again.

Stuart inched his arm along the back minutely, so as not cause alarm. Mr Stabs would have approved. His hand was on her shoulder, then at her T shirt. He casually shifted his fingers slightly so that they moved underneath the short sleeve and he had the top of her bra strap. Result.

Violet flinched, pulling away, freeing the erroneous digit from elastic, then roughly pushed his back. “I massage you.”

Get in.

She pulled up the back of his shirt from where the belt secured his waist, then prodded her fingers into bare flesh. His spine cracked under her touch and he winced.

She giggled. “You tense, Mister.”

“Yes. A bit. I injured my back in a tug-of-war competition, one sports day.” Which was true. As nearly all of this is.

“You have oils? Scented oils work good.”

“No. I only have Ajax.”

“What Ajax?”

“Toilet cleaner.”

Her fingers worked him, like a dilettantish keyboard player who spots one in a church hall and tries chopsticks. After the first bum note, a wan smile and finish, hallas.

She pulled his shirt back down with the finality of a closing piano lid.

“What for lunch?”

“Lunch?”

 

 

Stuart ushered Violet the three or four steps from his sofa to the dining table.

“Wow.”

Like she was seeing it for the first time? Hadn’t he given her the tour?

Still, living alone, he took a little pride in his table which was quite well apportioned for one person. Maybe he was fairly unusual in that he cooked his own meals when he had time, rather than ordering out for shawarma, pizza, chicken or beef-burgers.

Another favourite pastime of the block dwellers.

When not pissed they ordered lakes of fizzy pop and mountains of processed meat, delivered by unhappy looking, small men on scooters, pretty much around the clock.

Just last week, Stuart had seen one of them tottering across C Ring from MacDonald’s carrying a small mug of diet coke and a tray of fries in 45 degree heat.

He, however, kept table. Fruit in a bowl. Six bottles of condiments, an electric salt and pepper grinder. That sort of thing. He also scattered ashtrays around the apartment – like many men his age, he enjoyed a quiet smoke.

Violet’s round face was smiling. She wriggled her bum in the IKEA chair.

He fussed her, bringing salad, hummus, crackers, cheese. The sort of thing he liked, well obviously, because it was lying around and in the fridge.

Lunch?

Well, okay, so they munched on the cold collation and chatted idly. It wasn’t long before love reared its ugly head, because, Stuart supposed, that was where this was heading.

He wondered if he could still perform.

At least the sheets were unstained. Always changed them Friday’s. He was a stickler for that.

“My husband cheat on me. I leave him. I waiting for annulment one day soon. So I bring up two children. They grown now.”

“Are they here in Kata?”

“No, Mister Stuart, they in Manila.”

“Ah, I expect you miss them.”

“Sometimes I miss but I bring then up with God’s grace.”

Stuart knew bits of this story from the first date where he’d plied her with bottled water and she’d struggled to eat five or six mouthfuls some chicken pasta arrabiata in a very expensive Italian she had chosen.

They should’ve shared a pizza, really.

Maybe it had been four of five weeks ago.

Last day of summer term, he’d wandered into the school library to see Violet, checking books in. Those dumped by life’s stragglers.

“Have a happy summer, Violet.”

“You travel, Mr Stuart?”

“No, no. What with Covid, endless PCR tests and the UK on the Red List in perpetuity, it seems...” (he rolled the ‘r’ of perpetuity, enjoying the feel on his tongue and the dramatic flair it lent) “…there seems no point. I shall stay in my apartment.”

“Me too, Mr Stuart. I sad. My flatmate leave and I alone.”

Which had led to him messaging her, having drunk too much watching England beat Germany in the Euros.

That can happen.

He returned to his table, listened and watched as she pecked at a Ryvita. Mr Stabs would put her to shame. No wonder she was small, with such an appetite.

He seized the initiative.

“Do you miss it? The hanky panky, I mean?”

“Hunky panky?”

Flickering his eyebrows, five rounds rapid, in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture, he grinned. It had worked for Wayne in ‘Auf Wiedersehen, Pet’.

“You know.”

She understood. Chewed thoughtfully on the corner of the Ryvita. Smiled. Answered.

“Ah. That is hunky panky. I not hunky panky for 10 years.”

“Really. That’s a long time to go without.”

Stuart knew this because his wife had frozen on him some eight years ago and he’d moved firstly to the spare room, then later to another country.

It was now or never. Hook or me this time.

 

 

By no means a Machiavelli, Stuart hit upon a plan as they cleared away the table together, drifting in and out of the kitchen like two clouds of summer butterflies.

He could see the bed waiting, waiting, each time he returned to the table and she, humming a tune pleasantly under her breath, washing the few dishes carefully; stroking, rinsing.

It so happened that Stuart’s Egyptian doctor, a lady of undetermined beauty, due to sunshades and a hijab, but of a kind, loving nature, had dropped into his apartment kilos and kilos of fresh fruit and salad, two days ago.

Until now, he had not the slightest idea would should be done. How would they not waste?

Now, he had it.

“We must cook.”

“Cook?”

Violet replaced a tea towel she had been drying plates with and Stuart put them in the top cupboard. He thought about lifting her, but he was somewhat aroused and did not want her to feel it against her back.

Instead, he reached into the bottom drawer of the fridge, taking out a huge bag of cucumbers that had been cooling, along with the huge tub of plain, Arabic yoghurt.

He pointed at an adjacent cupboard beneath the sink. Violet looked inside and had no trouble kneeling down, to take a large glass bowl.

With a flourish, Stuart produced a knife and board.

“You chop.”

He tumbled out all the cucumbers onto the kitchen surface and stood alongside her.

Comically, they began to jostle into each other. Why? Violet was insisting on rinsing each and every stiff vegetable under the cold water.

“No need.”

“Covid.”

He nodded, jostled her once again, feeling her small breasts press into his elbow accidentally, and took the cucumbers. Now as he rinsed each one slowly, he passed them to the left and watched as she deftly chopped each down to size.

Chop, chop, chop.

The juices oozed out, onto the surface.

Chop. chop. chop.

Each piece decimated, becoming smaller, then smaller still.

Chop, chop, chop.

She licked her fingers; rubbed the wet onto her chest.

Chop, chop, chop.

Wincing slightly, and yet still somehow drawn as the moon draws water, Stuart poured yoghurt into the bowl, mixing in the mint and stirring the pot.

Now she tipped in the cucumber. A sparrow could not have filled his beak with one piece, so diminutive were those cucumber morsels, yet together they were plenty.

He took her hand and joined it to his so that they stirred together, watching the white stuff as it tinted green.

Stirring, stirring.

He took the spoon, scooped some of the ice cool mixture and placed it to her lips. With eyes closed, she drank.

Now their hands slipped deep into the yogurt and they began to squeeze.

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. For minutes they squeezed until they were almost melting into it, in a strange dual insanity, until they were squeezing each other’s hands, mistaking them for the gentle milk. Squeezing the yogurt, squeezing the yoghurt.

Annie get your gun.

Somewhere deep in the sweaty mixture, two hands were clasped in a promise, and way above the slippery lip, two pairs of eyes met.

Then, catastrophe.

The bowl moved, somehow animated for a brief moment, self aware, malignant, and in those few seconds of consciousness, chose death.

It fell those four terrible feet to the kitchen floor and smashed into a thousand splinters.

Yoghurt spread.

What had once been firm, was formless.

It was a lake. No worse, it was a white whale, vengeful and terrible, covering every surface in a tacky, pale cucumber and mint slime.

Stuart swore vengeance almost immediately.

‘I was going to eat that!’

‘Mess. It everywhere.’

‘My cucumbers, see what you did to my cucumbers.’

‘All on wall, on floor.’

‘My yoghurt, my yoghurt’

‘My hand hurt.’

‘What through there?’

‘A toilet.’

She disappeared. Stuart knelt in the spreading, dispersing whale flesh, seized glassy, spermy liquid in both hands mesmerised, raised them above his head and watched in horror as it oozed in glaciers down his arms and covered his shirt.

Then, realising this was a stupid act, he sighed, and filled a bucket. It was to be a long afternoon.

He barely heard the door as she let herself out.

 

 

Friday afternoon. Later-ish.

If anything, the shrieking was getting worse out there. Stuart wondered if they were copulating in order to pass the time as the elevator passed between floors.

He smelt his fingers, wishing the scent was something other than sour milk sea and mint, remembering afternoons when perfumes where altogether more…tangy.

Squinting again, he read some more. Somehow, the words seemed pathetic; sorrowful…and old.

‘I fail in hunky panky. I will take time. We will find our intentions. I enjoy lunch with you. Thank you. Next time.’

No.

No time.

Time is for tortoises.

Time was a spreading white whale of turning milk inviting swimmers to shun diving in and risk what lies beneath. Cuts? He'd had a few.

Bollocks to it.

Stuart rolled off his bed, padded down the corridor, grabbed a bottle of gin and unlocked his door.

He balled his right fist. Unsure what he intended to do, of that much he was certain.




Friday 17 September 2021

Life in 280 Characters Including the Title.

 

Life in 280 Characters Including the Title.

 

Sometimes

poetry read

on here

could be

described

as hopeful

at best

 

Some indulge

and pile up

simple plucked

simple words

that relieve

sad pain

of quivering chests

 

Playing at

Jenga

all random

blocks until

breast’s

deep sorrows

tumble to rust

 

Send


Saturday 11 September 2021

Stolen Moments

 

Stolen Moments

 

It squats like a bank vault.

White sandstone and concrete, with eyes to see,

framed with pepper-pot crotchety brows,

whose tellers chant long tales of vows,

slender beacon fingers thieves who steal,

calls faithful husbands within to kneel.

 

An argument boiled the night before.

Incarcerated: a five or six stretch but here’s a turnkey.

By text, how else? Some gorgon knot,

a huge dispute over not a lot,

all deceiving feelings, twosome reelings,

slashing veins by way of healing.

 

Gifts hot smuggled under her dress,

under her breath, well hid where he could see, fake ID,

on parking lot and up her sleeve:

pink satin sheets, for sure, almost fresh,

soaked in wet woman’s scented press,

jeans for him, so very tight, stiff crotched,

silk shirts, dressed with her heart’s lock,

newly uncorked, her perfumes run wild to soothe his

nightly rhythms of stroked scent wristed sin.

 

Unrumbled plans, tumbled half phrases,

daring heists, from under his nose, escaping scot free;

they hold their future in unheld hands,

his heart beats gold, hers all diamonds

and rubicons, they soak his mind,

to slip the dogs and cross the line.

 

Of course, there was a line.

Tantalise in teasing looks and she’s most likely to flee,

border crossed lips press cheeks most chaste,

handcuffing both, just the merest taste,

she slips off shades like hands from glove

her naked eyes moan trembled love.

 

Words were passed between the two

like parcels, or adamantine pearls hardening by degrees,

treasures form over callus and wound,

his lyrics to quite make her swoon,

fainting soul is locked within her breasts,

both swell imprisoned beneath her dress.

 

These moments are stolen, she says.

He understands, grips hand, because passion or destiny,

speaks loud; beats in better times than these,

where touch will wander where it please

in hot sweet torture, the will enfolds her,

he rests her head upon his shoulder.

Never spilling secrets, their lips find peace,

desires hot drench deserts of the East:

where it watches squat, the husbands kneeling,

her swollen belly spread with stealing.