In the Land of the Blind

 

In the Land of the Blind

 

Behind the mask, behind your screen,

something sits, clandestine,

repugnant and with noxious sting.

Not every spider lurks in corners,

casts webs or scuttles across carpets:

some observe, inspect, store what’s said

bound in silk, for some time later,

to be digested at leisure once dead.

Out of eight, it needs only one good eye

the rest deployed to mind the threads,

they can sense vibrations, touch, taste,

but never feel the need for haste,

when there’s rope enough and time.

What possesses you to be possessed,

is anybody’s guess. To be collected,

inspected, held up, exposed to the light,

groping for purpose with lack of sight,

a facsimile of life with grubby borders.

Spray yourself on concrete in watercolours,

for gaudy seconds, in gimcrack drips,

wither negligent in crimson crinoline slips,

drag up in chains or dress in furs,

bray like donkeys or howl like curs,

then beat your chests like monkeys do:

it’s all the same. In the land of the blind,

what will that one-eyed king find?

Under trapdoors with strong silken springs,

spiders spin gossamer all knowing.

I Am Sick When.

 

I Am Sick When.

 

I look on thee,

or I look not

on thee, these three

to five days

suffer me to droop.

Hard to greet

this idling week,

no friends to speak,

to or of, so

don’t talk to me

about love.

I chose to stoop,

admit defeat,

now I am replete

with seasoned nose

ears and throat,

a mind that floats,

eyes that stream,

bereft of dream,

and toss upon

these sticky pillows.

Envy the willow's

bent backed leaves

like cool fingers,

in rivers play,

warm breeze strays

and blows away

the detritus of

such dying days.

Feet Apart, Knuckles Stretched

 

Feet Apart, Knuckles Stretched

 

Johnny, bent, adopted that curious pose.

Squatting like he was touching cloth,

hands clenched around an imaginary stick,

just before he was about to kick

for goal, lips pursing, crowds cursing

every time he missed. Still, as for all that

at least he knew a good time to quit.

I’m told you had pace, an eye for goal,

now you’re out for an afternoon stroll

in the park. Deepest sympathy to the coach,

whoever he is, they come and go quick,

and the trick is to know who to pick,

which name is first on the team sheet,

and if you’re hooked, it’s gardening leave

until he's game-ended. Call that a team?

Bit-part players, yes-men, hopefully fall

in the box, you step up, feet apart, crawl

knuckles stretched, bloody miss again,

three or four paces, maybe one in ten;

nothing to scream about, then again,

that might be on the generous side.

Still, only room for one poseur on stage,

this theatre of dreams, you petulant twat,

career spent winking and promoting tat,

should’ve been scruff of the necked,

given a sharp punt up the backside,

a six spiked tattoo, left back and cried.

Take an early bath to expunge raked mud,

every time you should've been subbed,

those professionals that you snubbed,

and the bad smell you left behind in clubs.

By the Nose

By the Nose

 

Not something that he's seeing everyday:

rather ripping teeth through some bale of hay,

inexpensive chow; does the job, though,

and with stretched upper lip, he bares teeth,

waiting by white picket fences with belief,

to be led, by the nose, where he can't stray.

Today, Red Sea crowds are parting ways

like mud cut keen by a screwing plough;

he trots behind, upbeat, dropping last litters,

in rough, short white coat, flecked with grit,

sturdy enough, but soon it will no longer fit,

be skinned off his back and tossed aside,

as a crimson wrapping that stored the heart.

Indifferent people, who split then form,

foam like rivers that froth among boulders,

now clamp his rump, now seize his shoulder,

slitting bladed X about the throat, he streams,

hooves beat tattoos in concrete screams

and falls slack upon strewn crimson bales.

Standing upright, men who tell such fables,

will ask you to lend them an ear, toss red rose,

and let them lead you willingly by the nose.

How Have I Frighted Thee

 

How Have I Frighted Thee

 

Water is coming from her eye, I saw it fall,

but no sleep last night, no sleep at all,

there’s sawdust throat, but where floods it from?

How can it be that every swallow stabs

like a dagger's blade clutched and grabbed?

Have half a side of face, stuffed, like hard fillings

back a weary mouth. For a while, Sorcha, willing

and sultry in unbuttoned blouse, leans forwards,

rams us both towards some sun-setting corners,

an expert handler, falling free. Then, it’s me,

my arm embracing John - who’s grinning

ear to ear while trading licks, guitars swinging,

teasing a fully restored Paul with talk of singing.

These ears, both sides blocked, are still shocked

at any unsolicited sinister the flowing air makes,

shadowed sounds of night, ground that shakes,

oh, I need to sleep, for heaven’s sake.

Yet, water came from her eye, I saw it fall

and in hot darkness unfurls like moist ferns

come hard to fiddleheads and slyly it will glance,

it’s many years since it was wont to dance

or tread a measure. How long has it been?

But four days, she took to skies like Angels fly,

and I will myself deny there’s anything wrong in this

coarse kiss, missed company from one so small,

but now she’s gone, how time does crawl.

Old moons that stretch themselves like springs

untightly coiled, hot in sweaty night-times bring

memories of guilty pleasures. And it’s soft to see,

that it may possibly be, how have I frighted thee.

Ten Sticky Fingers

 

Ten Sticky Fingers

 

Do you poke it with a stick?

Squat down and peer closely,

move moss from here to here,

but don’t risk your fingers

something nasty might appear,

millipede of longitudinal wave,

might rip your skin, enter in,

to brim you top full with sin.

 

Will you sport a newsboy cap?

come along here full of crap,

a studied walk, unstudied brain,

a vacuous smiling picture frame,

trappist monk, right winged,

prattling endless fascist things,

country’s sunk, without a trace,

concrete lumps to slit your face.

 

Will you stretch upon the rack?

Promise plenty cutting tax,

watch for knives to cut your back;

you’re sunk before you sailed.

'It wasn’t me' you sometimes wail,

outstretched paw and tucking tail,

stacking treasure in your vault,

it’s always someone else’s fault.

 

Will you sport an oil slick?

Comb greying hair, Joe 90 specs,

beg the cognoscenti to elect

a puppet of no substance.

Don’t rock the boat with policy,

a square face lacking honesty,

keeping schtum in bland assault

you’ll get there by default.

 

Will you stick a cross or tick?

Strictly come squinting, 3 pricks

move slobber here from here,

it’s dribbling down grizzly chin,

from open mouths onto sheets,

shooken awake by self-snores

salivating for a soot black door,

ten sticky fingers in the drawer.

There’s Enough of them Walking Around

 

There’s Enough of them Walking Around

 

You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, really, 

after all, there’s enough of them

walking around, dispensing

tuppeny ha’penny like Panadol.

You imagine it don’t come to them quickly,

but when it do, oh, it do, don’t it?

Surely some sort of blinding flash,

scream the word, Betty's mad dash

and cashing in their chips,

yes, he’s had them all right,

I bet my life on nobody thought of it:

just splashing shit all over

like the great smell of internet drek.

How should I know? Most probably

some old shit like lead kindly light,

lead on Macduff; alas poor skull, I led him

to ignore me when I said

‘don’t wear that asses head,

oh, you really shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

After all, that could be you,

slipping discs on some scree,

and with a resultant shingled pepper-arse,

look at the sky, breathe your last,

pointing your feet up towards the sun.

On a brick. Or a rock. After a fall.

Much good it does us all,

because here’s your Greek God having a laugh,

at some actual dopey old Oedipus Rex,

in sun-specs, sporting a panama,

a black umbrella in the sun,

in sport he comes, and still he comes,

giving his legs and muscles a good flex,

like he told us all to do on the telly.

And so brave, hubris sorely missed,

I know this, because, as you'd expect

it’s all over my laptop like scabies:

dancing above his slip-slipping head

the Pleiades wink behind the sun,

as with collective tribute,

a million stabbing fingers take buckets to the well,

fill with a million sobbing cliches and tell

how you should feel as they felt;

oh, tonight thank God it’s them instead of you,

and taste and reason to the stars is fled,

if ever you should speak ill to the dead.

62 from 62

 

62 from 62

 

It’s often those most simple things overlooked

that are the turnkey. The muezzin chaunts,

it haunts and once struck fear, a tear even,

but now those palms that in the sunshine wave

drop dates you are minded to put on plates;

roll those sticky stones around your tongue.

No longer young, but so much older then,

pocked by tessellated tiles that seemed to fit,

prop bars with faces that were never there,

comb out thick black curls of thin grey hair;

sometimes into mirrors stare - you wonder

at what they did with all that stolen thunder.

Mostly happy sitting solo with only dreams

for drowning, how might it all have played out,

did they act wisely or too well? You can’t tell

that’s never him, chanting on some terrace past,

watching Beckham play his last, pitch and yaw,

roll camera, there’s some old hand at the door

who set sail for the world’s edge then fell off;

laughed and never looked back at what was left.

Maybe you reason it’s mostly luck, or lack of it,

tongue and groove, the way it somehow slots:

how firm iron stanchions stand strong in sun,

then toppling forward, crush straying ankles

but spare us a spine; on concrete lies the metal.

How easily shotguns might have smoked, fired

in blazing rage, of pale grey eyes if so inspired,

for the watered sileage by the barn ran deep.

Crept away under rains that ripped cliffs down,

sandstones and rolling seas crash and burn

with something, anything better than this.

While bats that flit within your head will kiss

people that you always miss and always will,

they can’t endure, those tools that carved you,

and all you are that ends with you is 62 from 62.

Like a Moth Does to a Candle Come

 

Like a Moth Does to a Candle Come

 

Like moths who'll flirt with naked flame

and dance, with pretense of brain

only one leg’s good; the other’s lame,

so therefore cannot hop for better

while scribbling all over French letters,

‘oui oui’ is all he dribbles back,

an octopus that’s all out of ink - she stinks.

Can’t change tracks, groove’s scratched

and her back against the board is backed,

sees those students are all out to get her,

orders doses of post-traumatic stress,

how she wishes she hadn’t worn this dress,

thinks why they curse instead of bless

her head made out of rock. Shell shocked

retreat they to their toxic box,

and turn the key and seal the locks,

let germs breed with some other germs,

damnation to any lessons learned,

fire blanket smothered stomachs churn,

held fast in wax, drowns and squirms,

behold the naked flame – it burns.

Recalls fondly her pregnant baby-sitter,

and how stray cats sling out their litter,

thinks in axed tin tacks, plans moonlight flits,

plots scratched up grit to cover shit.

Green Grow the Rushes, Oh.

 

Green Grow the Rushes, Oh.

 

Here. Take a corner, any corner, any building,

find a few red spider lilies idly guilding,

a small vase full of something of that ilk,

no shame, no guilt. And ceaseless prattle,

crash-zoom a cot of baby shaking rattles;

all dried peas, spilt beans, hollow shells.

Like that flung box that missed the bin,

you were too lazy to reach down, put it in,

quickly consumed whatever was within:

MacDonald’s maybe, flaky scalp, blotchy skin

over-sweetened by pastel coffee, delivered,

ordered by phone because you’re grown

or so you think. Blink. Dark here, too dark

within a toxic box, gather others for comfort,

blanket yourself with bouquet and shiver.

The tunnel is long, so better to remain here

than risk the living daylights and fresher air.

I've got six things on my mind you're no longer one of them.

 

I've got six things on my mind

you're no longer one of them.

 

There’s a corner by the edge of the pool,

cracked tiles; something there green grows

the rushes, oh. You might notice, maybe not,

because some come here just dive in,

strong strokes and swim, hold breath and grin,

touch bottom then gulp in a lungful or two.

Like a story you once read, through the tunnel,

holding breath, touching death, nothing left,

then – with joyous stroke – like corked bottle

full throttle, an explosion into a greeting day.

Well, I’ve heard that’s what some say,

but there’s a corner by the edge of the pool,

cracked tiles; something there speaks low

in whispers, oh; a stagnant flush of fools.