To See the Truth then Kiss Goodbye

 To See the Truth then Kiss Goodbye

 

She's trussed you to steel railway tracks,

pinned both weak arms behind your back,

you’re vulnerable to all attack;

whilst she's cackling like a maniac

 

you see the truth, but kissed goodbye,

your heaving breasts, your desperate cry,

in vain you struggle, flesh shreds on chain,

twist your horror of onrushing train,

 

indifferently do they peek through lens,

coy pose for pictures snapped by friends,

puff out pursed lips and puckered eyes,

your Midwich Cuckoos wave goodbye,

 

but what of Angel, will he hear,

those hopeless cries and sobs of fear

entranced of spikes and plunging roof,

to kiss goodbye and see the truth,

 

she's tossed you in a pit of snakes,

their venom fangs won’t hesitate;

erect cobras will soon soft flesh taste,

she licks her lips at death’s embrace,

 

you see the truth but called it sin,

your crawling flesh, your flinching limbs,

in terror grind your teeth and sob,

as swelling veins with poison throb

 

they hope of fame and fickle bliss,

in pixelated life persist,

stuck by mirrors, framed in screens,

your Midwich Cuckoos master dreams,

 

and where of Angel, does he flit,

reach hands to save you from the pit,

enthralled of pendulum that drops,

to kiss goodbye and split on rocks,

 

she's strung you up with chafing rope,

staked out your body to watch you choke,

nailed bloody hands to burning stake,

delights in piteous shrieks you make,

 

you see the truth, but will endure,

in supplication beg a cure,

grim horror witness shock and awe,

black shadows of the closing door,

 

such sighing as they suspirate,

self-beauty do they contemplate,

for life's a pouting fitful flirt:

Midwich Cuckoos pick slacks or skirts,

 

can Angel mount a rescue brave,

or stand with you beside our grave,

and both will ever mourn the sky,

we saw the truth, then kissed goodbye.

Dazzle

 

Dazzle

 

On a March morning, it’s almost warm,

with a dazzling sun to tint my glasses,

which is pretty useful, I suppose,

because iced moisture bothers my nose

until I serve an offhand, backhand swipe,

and, look, he’s full of tennis.

It was his first lesson yesterday,

so, Grandad, have I heard of ghosting?

He won, he calls, no sense of boasting,

tosses it at me, just puts up a lob,

only can I watch, next time I’m home?

That dripping nose again. You feel alone.

 

Still, I grab his shoulders in a manly tussle,

and wrestling wild, he pushes back,

next generation but one’s soft attack

of friendly fire, all skirmish and scuffles.

He’s older, against frost tightly zipped

in a bright orange thick quilted anorak.

Buoyant in this life preserver, yes,

just like Marty McFly in last night’s flick:

He said he liked it, weathered it at least,

stray eye on phone like a guilty thief.

His coat is ripped and his mum warned

don’t dare wear it tomorrow, it’s torn,

but he has it on now, outside school.

 

I hug him longer than is super cool

when you’re nearly ten, ruffle his head,

remember all those words we’ve said

on this day. He’s tie-dyed, grey, streaked,

because, you know, it’s mad-hair day,

and, of course, why wouldn’t it be?

I listen to those last words he speaks,

throttle syllables about not being ages

until Summer turns Spring’s pages

and there’ll be a new bike, at any rate.

He leaps like a salmon after his mates

swift as a swallow, sprints up the hill;

my sun dazzled glasses tint further yet,

which is pretty damn useful:

I can’t blame rain if my cheeks get wet.

Tomorrow’s Coming

 Tomorrow’s Coming

 

 

Tomorrow’s always just coming,

takes Present and Past in her stride,

opens one leg, then the other wide,

like two towers that face each other,

bridge decks across spanning curves,

where each must the other serve,

suspended above Her rushing rivers,

tremble in long sympathetic shivers,

fishnet girders that twist in waves,

what one shoots the other saves.

Present’s always Past’s pictures,

ghosting lovers with closed captions

frozen, frigid freeze framed inaction

replays loops of reruns insubstantial,

strained eyes on pause burn glacial.

She could spark brief memories gone,

speak to you of lives gone wrong,

forgotten faces that faintly flash,

morse three dots but She must dash,

our Present soon becomes our Past,

gaped silent mouths call voices vain.

Tomorrow’s coming, a runaway train

steams; thundering through cuttings,

pounds hammer onto anvil blooding,

pistol pistons push pulling, stripping

off weak lace struggles, and ripping

She cannot be denied, burns inside,

douses deep fires that She provides,

must toss and throw across her knee

those shredded garments, stands free

Her calm becomes the storm’s eye,

kneels and swallows gales in cries.

Tomorrow’s kisses are endless known,

they cure the flesh, reset the bone,

looking bold at sadness overthrown,

back where Present’s Past has flown.

Backpacked

Backpacked

 

I picked up a present in Doha,

cost me an arm and a trailing leg,

because the knees, let’s face it,

aren’t what they once were.

Shelling out fistfuls of riyals,

for a last turkey on the shelf:

of course, it’s haram there, you see?

But he’s quite the connoisseur

of all this Harry Potter hocus pocus

magic spells, all’s well, nonsense.

A rucksack in burgundy blood red,

roomy enough to hold his stuff,

and he was super pleased:

his words, not mine. It’s tough,

I ought to tell him for his own sake

and point out that it will break.

And true to life, things fall apart.

Forced zips will snag on threads,

canvas will fray, straps shred,

something loved will break his heart.

I swerved all these life lessons

because he was made up,

that first time he shouldered it,

on the way to school this morning.

Stopped at that corner shop

for a sneaky tube of wine gums,

Grandads are softer than mums.

All straps and flaps, hidden pockets,

runs me ragged, sets off like a rocket,

treasures to hide, bursting with pride,

dragging me in his joyful wake,

coughing through the frosty mists

limping gamely, my knees ache,

his blood crimson distance persists.

I used to be able to stride ahead,

then keep abreast at least –

but stronger now, he overtakes,

sprinting forward, leaves me for dead.

Think of a day I burden his shoulder;

things fall apart when you get older.

The Day it Rained Forever

 The Day it Rained Forever

 

They crushed her. Cool rivers of blood

flow hot in heads that should know better

if they cared to dream; had principles,

knew how. Just a small life, a minor thing,

brought all the force they could bear to bring,

surrounded her red faced in the ring,

she tossed the towels for them to fling. 

 

Displaced, to flee a war not hers,

unaware it had ever been declared

by those who hunt and trophy furs

to catwalk blithe amongst us, invincible

but blinkered, immune to slung mud,

splintering love into matchstick kindling,

kindness given drawn back and dwindling,

lighting choking fires underneath

their own smouldering feet.

 

This crushed life, how easy was it?

One shock of spite, and her spirit beat,

a Gordian knot of thick deceit,

the next time they bother to look,

see truths in vanity's babbling brooks,

where faces in oil stained filthy puddles

are only leaves left over from teacup storms,

from unfaithful acts are futures born.

 

Her life only is damaged goods

and where she misplaced the receipt,

heaven knows. It’s hard, I feel hard.

You do. Need to push off and away, go far,

want to help but need to shutter eyes,

deaf my ears against her hopeful cries,

as rain now gathers in the skies.

 

They come, those first drops, they come.

Beads, they precede the coming storm,

brushing light on your skin and prickle.

Fall heaven fresh on thick parting brambles

unstrained, untangle love and unscramble,

she forgave them already, is happy inside,

any pain felt comes only from pride,

but to lose, lose us and well water trickles.

 

Falling fast on crumbled cheeks, pale lips,

her smile it slips, her small hand rips

a tissue, then another tissue torn,

in distance sprung from closeness born,

swallows air in gollops, like inconsolable child

picking herself up from playground wild,

and is it my burden to clean grit from skin

know I must open heart and let her in?

 

We put our arms around shivering things

with hope that mending pain can bring

never a burden. Love is a coming pleasure,

dreams lie ahead to gather and treasure,

turning our backs on measure for measure

to hold us close on the day it rained forever.

There Are Only Three Steps

There Are Only Three Steps

 

He’s smoking, looking grim

that time I passed him,

some of the others, going in,

up steps, stride in quick threes,

push glass doors and through,

and yet what will he do

with last night’s debris?

Rakes it, opens its shutters,

awakes litter blocked gutters,

floods maddening brains,

until this morning’s showers

wash clean down drains,

act fast on tough heart stains.

He doesn’t want to forget,

hasn’t punished them yet,

pulls on his damp cigarette,

in careful, calculated drags,

smoldering, end drooping,

gladness found in being sad.

Scarcely cradle trained,

this small boy framed,

sucking on a man’s smoke,

wears sadness as a cloak

surveys those who pass,

with the quickest glance,

until at last, his chance.

She pauses with sly smile,

stopping and stoops a while,

asking. He’ll not join them yet,

will sit a while upon three steps,

gives his friendship as regret,

painting life in this vignette.