Bubble

 

Bubble

 

She pushes 2 strips of Nicorette

across the counter, didn’t forget

how you always toss packaging;

refuse the plastic. You examine

dark eyes, banded by face mask

and hijab, they’re hot; it lasts -

her burning brand drawing fire

that rises from straw - you mount

the escalator and tamp it out.

Sit, take coffee, glance around

thinking about how you found

a place here. Yesterday, in bed,

giving her lunch, resting heads

afterwards, hearing her shrieks

as Ginebra, letting points leak,

missing baskets, lack control,

could not put balls in the hole.

Reminiscing how you’d cupped

flesh and all that sifted air sucked

through teeth, hoops blown soft

provoke froth, send bubbles aloft,

that live in gilded precious bursts,

can for an instant satisfy thirsts,

then fall in liquids on the earth.

With that conceit; kill your phone -

and long for being left alone.

 

 

Al Sadd

 

Al Sadd

 

You took a selfie sitting on the steps

of ‘Brands For Less’ -

there are two,

one at the other end, abutting the Metro,

where an unwary motorist

is honoured with medals for illegal parking –

Alex messaged: ‘Where’s that?’

You typed ‘Al Sadd’ while a stray cat,

tortoiseshell, and therefore female,

made a play for your lap;

gave your thigh a friendly pat.

The cars are a nuisance,

backing into careless pedestrians,

blasting hot air at dripping legs,

as cloistered commuters point at fools,

sipping karak in the cool.

Change direction at random

to avoid pits in the pavement,

exposed bricks, quick drying cement

that can outstrip the arcing sun,

and in grey, clogging rivers run,

form cooled outcrops that crest

levelled hardscaped flagstones.

You generally stride out solo,

pass familiar landmarks

– you’ve known them years –

Chtoura, Marmara, La Paz,

with Filipinas who will cast and stab

at any chance to engage and hook.

Catch eyes with private looks

of promised pleasures, straighten backs,

pushing upwards, in pairs or threes

lipping rumours to capture and tease

while disregarding feckless husbands

left in Mindanao far behind.

Still sat down, Let’s tackle her message

incuriously, received spuriously,

you’d best guess -

from Kenya, Nigeria, somewhere

anywhere, words that want care

and come with attachments,

something harmful, somewhat libel,

and she’s slung her hook

5 years ago. You look.

‘We should catch up, keep in touch.’

You wonder why

it stirs nothing much.

Dear Old Friend

 

Dear Old Friend

 

The only time I sniggered

watching ‘Steptoe and Son Ride Again’

was during the funeral scene –

specifically, Yootha Joyce’s mocked up pain

while crooning: ‘Dear old friend,’

on top of a clapped-out horse and cart.

Good acting, that.

You would've disapproved, I know,

cited the latest Tarantino

but you never saw ‘Hateful 8’

or ‘Once Upon a Time in Hollywood’.

I like the latter and the way History

was bent out of shape and twisted

to bequeath a happy ending.

But, I left it all far behind – still amazed

you never put the black on Brexit 

or faced plague –

but I think of you most days,

wonder if you'd have beaten pans with sticks

like the rest of them

while watching YouTube, streaming The Beatles,

in a distant world so removed

from anything two of us knew

in our lifetimes -

Sunday driving, not arriving, on our way,

looking back at us from far overseas

while she comes to me

all bass runs and Shangri La

in falling towels dripping showers

oriental and perfumed flowers.

My dear old friend,

it goes without saying

there was no comedy at yours

when they closed those committal doors,

it was curtains -

I wondered how life could continue.

But now, with different songs to sing

she’s crossed her fingers, wondering

what our next 5 years will bring.

Conflicted

 

Conflicted

 

That hot sauce, I ordered with my pizza

last night will out, they say,

sauce will have sauce

and leads to thoughts of taste:

why, 20 years ago, enough to floor a horse

if my mouth were equine by nature.

I idly wonder, while clutching my belly

and beating a path to the bathroom,

machetes cleaving my guts in two,

if the chef was putting the laugh

on me – but, no, that surely cannot be

the person dipping his bread was me.

And some Uber driver on the way

was extolling the virtues of Sri Lankan holiday

because the voters there had spoken,

got rid of the wankers running the place,

replaced them with more grinning faces

no doubt. Armando switched tennis on –

we're talking Swan Lake and the Russian

ballet from Moscow –  that had performed

this time last week, I was torn,

conflicted, as the art ripped tears

that quickly dried; 'It's all one, they're just here.’

this side's that side's compromise.

Overseas, there's midterms;

the media speaks of heel face turns -

but I'm wondering what it is that blunts taste,

if age creates a tungsten tongue

that was not there when we were young,

while later on, their bellies burn.

Implacable, the old, old foes

each the other's weakness knows,

and pay no attention, tweet intention:

Half of us sue for peace

while the other half hunger for release -

and I wonder if any of them look up

and spot a flock of seagulls,

because they ran, they ran so far away

to drop their bombs between the minarets

down the casbah way.

Don't Feel It, Fight It

 

Don't Feel It, Fight It

 

He said he was putting up wardrobes,

I heard picking up drugs –

In Romania – that’s close to the border.

I apologized, but it’s a tall order

hearing properly over tinnitus

and entry-level kids from the Emerald Isle

acting the maggot and speaking Child

on the bus to work. There’s frigates

destroyers, aircraft carriers, off the coast,

hanging around, ready to roast

some obstinate regime with ideals

from fifty years ago, grudges they’d steal

from forefathers if not for amputation.

If you’re drowning in a pool,

pull someone else in, fill it up with fools -

when there’s enough there floundering,

you could stand on their shoulders

or displace the water – so my theory goes,

but it’s easily debunked, disproved,

like the crap it is. In a tailspin?

Write in the margins, blame immigration,

bravely launch apps, carry on watching

continental students storm The Bastille

and keep calm – why, only yesterday Fergie

landed Beatrice and Eugenie in harm

and a pig was born on Clarkson’s Farm.

Roderigo

 

Roderigo

 

Roderigo arrived without fanfare

at the start of some term, he was just there

from Portugal - tall, well-built, no hair.

At first glance, attached, it seemed,

by the hip to the Queen

of Business Studies – no mean feat,

a result, you could say,

feather in his scalp to share the throne,

and some conceded - a great hair day.

Still, he wasn’t well-endowed

or overburdened with teaching skills,

so, they parked him at the back

of classrooms, where what he lacked

he made up for in looks that killed.

After shattering eardrums, being shrill

in meetings and mouthing loud enough

words: love, respect, well-being and stuff,

they acquiesced, gave him a desk

in a room downstairs and mostly left

him to: ‘Assist This!’ And sometimes, he did,

in between studying his phone

and complaining that time the boss insisted

he move a bit, get up and shift

his desk to make room for the band

to set up instruments and rehearse.

It seemed he knew a verse

or two himself – The Cure, mostly -

but they weren’t keen, let him go

and the Queen said, ‘That was a cruel blow.’

Until, one day, he was there no more.

Later she confirmed she’d closed the door

on all that, no commitment, a coup,

and did you know what he could do?

Yes, perhaps. It took a month or so

of nobody searching high or low,

when someone scratched hair and said,

‘Know what? I can’t find that bloody Roderigo.’

 

Must Have Been A Hole Somewhere

 

Must Have Been A Hole Somewhere

 

Leave an overflowing water bucket idle,

and eventually it will dry,

leaving you to reason why –

evaporation or breach?

Now, you could take and hold it up to light;

that damn thing seemed so watertight,

yet what was in it has taken flight.

Keeps you from sleeping nights,

but not always - some days, the butchers

have had their pounds of flesh

and, in the aftermath, rest

comes easy - but you still wake, weary;

interrogate that spent receptacle.

What can it be? Yesterday’s spark

will not fire kindling, smoke straw,

she’s in the kitchen, slams the door

and pours frustration into her sewing machine,

cannot thread, the bobbin’s fled,

and minute stabs draw blood instead.

One look will freeze imprudent wisecracks

on your lips, will draw attacks

instead of grace or favours,

no aromatic libation, no musky scents

will liberate what you must repent –

empty buckets leave us thirsty fools,

somewhere there must have been a hole.

A Sackable Offence

 

A Sackable Offence

 

He insisted on Shaquia –

made me repeat it several times

until satisfied,

his voice a playful punch

to the throat –

on parade in a leather coat

and holes in his nose

where the ring should go.

The tattooed ivy around his neck

grew so thick

I thought he’d choke on it.

‘South London,’ he told me,

so, I ventured, ‘Charlton’,

but no, one of the Manchester teams,

West Ham sometimes

but they’d been relegated.

I’m thinking, ‘wide berth

for this one and what on earth

are they recruiting?’

Shallow of me, I suppose,

but sometimes

you take one look and know -

to your disparate classrooms go.

He’s a hit with the girls

of course, fair enough,

and I’m not averse to a bit of rough

on the odd occasion

being ex-navy and all that

but I didn’t mention it:

boxing rings on the flightdeck

to settle disputes,

three minutes on the undercard,

brief flash, lights out, hit hard,

moving on.

I just waited for rumours to grow.

Which, of course, they did –

gaining traction

from initial contact to form closure

and that heavy blow

just before you hit the deck –

they’ll get you yet,

Shaquia, repeat it, after me -

until our whispers are screamed

loud enough to stopper the larynx.

Come the day, come action:

Tony’s got previous

and is proficient

at keeping those he deems efficient

but axing down dead wood;

it’s said, frustrated, you seized

and shook him by his shirt,

threatened to grind his nose in dirt;

all captured on CCTV

for the delectation of security

and Head of Humanities:

‘That’s him!’ bellows our Tony,

‘Without provocation, and in the library,

too, what are we coming to?’

I do believe if they burnt witches,

there’d be flame about your britches

but they lumped you 

on an outbound plane

never to be seen again.

and all that remains

is - didn’t really know you – shame.

Piqued

 

Piqued

 

The evening had peaked -

walking home, along Al Wakra Street

singing a nothing comedy

to two Filipinas:

‘I’m a Lonely Shepherd’

nonsense like that

and Lear would’ve patted you on the back,

while you allowed

yourself to feel proud,

mashallah –

And prior to this, Sheryl had blown a kiss:

called you Pogi

while stray cats attacked your lap

you’re paw-patted for stray chicken,

fresh from skewered kebabs

delivered straight to the plate -

far too much for three.

You remember pushing the tortoiseshell

off your knee

as you ascended steps to the bar,

intent on two cold beers –

felt you’d earned it, paid for the rooms

too full of food

having left a plateful or more.

But the barman? Shows you the door,

for reasons of law -

you hiss, ‘I will stay here NO more!’.

grit your teeth for effect,

flounce offstage.

Stripped for bed

you caught a glimpse of yourself,

naked, in the mirror’s frame –

felt ashamed.

 

Awake

 

Awake

 

And in the end, 

maybe paper plates -

or the best china that could be mustered?

After all, you claimed no fuss was best,

so, let's lay this all to rest.

 

What woke you, who knows?

Around  pillows and sheets it rolls –

perhaps the cold.

 

Or wretched, uncooked Irish youth

you share this block with - kids

returning from celebrating cracks

beyond compare

and pissed as cock-doodle-doo,

puking rainbow-hued shades of deep purple.

 

Maybe interminable rumbles as Doha

cools, contracts and fractures;

creating infinitesimally small splinters

deep in concrete and sandstone

grumbling about weight and load.

 

Perhaps just the ice that forms

in your night's AC

clattering like bucket-rattlers

digging up twilight's weeds,

tugging grass heads gone to seed.

 

Fatal. Don't look at the clock.

For as soon as you do – the shock

of fears rearing like cobra headlights –

you're stuck in quicksand, the fight

seeps from your skin,

pores opening,

fixed blinking,

clinging onto fragments of dream,

comforting or otherwise.

 

That's it, then. 1am.

Doomed to toss -

a lost sailor in an inflatable rubber boat,

an armored knight unable to float

watching green tentacles of moat

surge, each trough deeper than the last,

oncoming waveforms that overlap

and crack like waves on shores

too distant to reach.

 

She swims into view, funereal,

lines of filled pews,

choked sobs, stifled howls,

her outsize casket makes its stately way

between the hassocks and prayers –

you summoned them incarnate,

then washed them away, wiped the slate

in a paroxysm of guilty shame.

 

Now, find yourself grasping levers

at the points of the trolley problem -

it's a switchback;

you constructed thousands of them

on living room carpets when small,

until vapors of age seized

you -  old man watching grandchildren

shriek delight

at fast-approaching daylight.

 

The future is coming, faster than you'd like,

two years, three at best

to spend with one you love

who fits snugly like textured gloves,

before a prodigal return

to that sulky sullen dame

who will not budge

and obstinately remains.

Masarap

 

Masarap

 

It was just compulsion, call it OCD

if you want – I checked for mixed seeds

and baked bread. Why? Hard to say –

well, maybe to see if it had gone away

or wasn’t totally lost – authenticity,

the idea of creating something of use

after weeks spending wasted time

returning emails, messages, spreadsheets,

like you’re back beyond the baseline

hitting dropshots that always net –

oh, they’ll get you yet, Penelope Pitstop.

Bought yeast from Palengke, where MJ

wanton behind sultry eyes, says –

‘Give me.’ So, after it was risen, I cut

the dough, made two pillows enough

and gave it to her full floured.

More than just a snapshot, she devoured

hunks with her eyes, then later told me:

‘Masarap, Sir. I wash it in my coffee,

eat all up, so nice.’ and with heavy

heart now light of touch, come back to you

peachy in the bedroom – doing as you do

too much – ‘Hurry,’ I said, ‘it’s past nine,’

but with succulent smiles, you reply,

‘I am woman, it takes time,

to make myself a pleasure for your eyes.’

Every Little Thing

 

Every Little Thing

 

If they say they love – you care less

because one person’s wit

is just another person’s shit

and you believe that intelligence

is only a measure of how often

you get to do it your way.

When she comes to you,

her pupils dilated, her face flushed

and words that tumble in a rush;

more often than not you push back -

your chair from the desk, that is,

from where you’re prone –

all you ever wanted was to be alone,

get some work done,

think some.

Every little thing she brings

is apropos of nothing,

some small-scale issue, something wrong

that could be righted

with less effort than it takes

to refloat a toy yacht in the bath.

You say as much, she laughs,

because she knows it, enjoys your tongue

tripping – exasperation, mock sarcasm –

while her eyes become caverns

within which you both could retreat,

lie a little, explore,

roll away the stone from the door,

slip your fumbling fingers in,

unzip, unhitch and knead like dough

until both loaves prove

you each were right.

How easy it would be –

child’s play, you dare say,

enjoyable, fulfilling – as each day

it comes ever nearer by halves,

and thank Christ, for Tennyson –

all those half-a-leagues it took to gain nothing

but the valley of death,

and give us this day our daily bread

buttered by Zeno – all paradox

as open doors stay forever locked.

Nothin' But Air

 

Nothin' But Air

 

You would think she might have

run out of air, grasped the fact

that some of us don’t care –

have earned a holiday, a break,

but, no – look at your messages

and there’s more, for fuck’s sake.

Who can it be now, men at work?

No – some penny ante award,

a grubby, grasping exam board

issuing certificates willy-nilly,

desperate last gasps for publicity -

even cardboard’s worth more

than anything it gives credit for,

yet she feels the inner need

to oxygenate, satisfy greed –

or perhaps draw attention from

an abject failure to perform.

There’s the usual murder of crows

in delightful chorus, composed

of inane self-laudatory plaudits,

you’re thinking ‘bag of shite,’

they’re waking you up at night;

you wish you had the courage

to leave this group; its sludge,

but, shrug instead, bake bread.

As yeast ferments, it fills your head

with nothing but air, crusts form

over crumbled textures as warm

thermals rise from within the stove –

serenity drifts as dough proves.

The Lost Years

 

The Lost Years

 

Lennon had his lost weekend,

a booze-fueled haze

where the only music made

did not hold back the years –

although you’re partial to a bit

of sweet birds of paradox.

What did you get? Socks,

mostly, once handkerchiefs

were cancelled due to the nagging

doubt that pocketing a sopping

wet rag was outmoded.

You’d got another Secret Santa tie,

binned it with a sigh

because some narcissists never die,

then cast a suspicious eye

on the new year. What’ll it be?

There was an idea to explore

youth, cast a dispassionate look

at things that formed your mind,

memories that may or may not be real,

because although you feel them,

there is no real proof or veracity

in the coalescence. Intangible things –

let’s see what the year brings

then Trump bombs Iran,

and everything’s lost, replaced, canned -

it all seemed so important then.

You wonder if time’s wandering

abandoned in some fallow field

wanting a shepherd or a border collie?

Get down, Shep, we’ll find it yet.

Corral those lost years with a pen,

round them up, count them:

they’ll surely make a tidy sum

as your skin folds and what was young

is misplaced somewhere.

Still, you could always look

down the back of the sofa

or under the fridge:

When you lose something

it’s nearly always there, you think -

except when it isn’t.

Curmudgeon

 

Curmudgeon

 

I feel like a bit, sometimes,

of a morning in that liminal space

before sharpening my axe; beheading

those refusers of the call to wake.

I could do with it, feel the urge,

could bang on her chamber door,

have my fill and demand more –

because every dog’s due his day.

Instead, I hit the gym,

look at how my inbox has refilled

like my cistern after a long flush:

‘Sorry for the late message,’

exclamation mark, which I will not

reproduce here for its lack of wit.

Most of hers are shit –

products of a limited brain,

but I throw her a bone, due to the fact

that lately I am curmudgeonly.

When someone tasked me,

I said something along the lines of

‘The tragedy simply exists

because you can see systems,

feel symptoms, point at them and bay,

but they persist.’ But who can say

if any of this was gathered in?

So, I reply, ‘Any message you send

is but a delight, keeps me up at night,

fear not, for come daylight,

I’ll do thy bidding.’ Did no such thing,

but after the same spreadsheet came in

6 times - I counted - at last

I hurled myself from the kennel,

with thoughts of something penal

resulting from my violent unhammocking.

But, in less time it takes to stomach

Viagra, wash down a petit-four,

cast cursory looks or slam a door,

I was smacked up short with thoughts

of contend in vain, crumpled forts

and Birnam Woods v Dunsinane.

‘Oh, we are completely insane

to think this thumb, these digitigrades

lacking anything opposable could save

dykes from crumbling, plug the leak

by sticking it in.’ Therefore, my feet

to bed will wend their weary way

and beg the mistress to come play.

Abandoned

 

Abandoned

 

You don’t feel it – moving much, I mean.

Imagine a scheme

you had – eight weeks ago –

 

term’s beginning, hot ice flow

through sporadic permafrost veins,

a one-way ticket to the blues,

you’ve vacationed, now pay your dues,

boy – thought of filling manuscript

with random notes; kids playing it

because the kids are alright.

 

You’re thinking, ‘Damn me, revelation,

this’ll save a flailing nation,’

but toting a keyboard and amp to class

is too much like farce

when some litigious parent will claim ‘haram’.

 

The Inspectors came and went,

so you want to, but the band’s spent,

she’s floundering sultry on the sofa, all tits up,

chesting her disinterred violin,

in busty disinterest, wan grin

apologetic – you get it – she’d let you in

but won’t put her bow to the strings –

 

and as for him?

Cut his strumming fingers, split his nails,

tries arpeggios and fails,

‘Any chords but B,’ he wails,

without taking the trouble to clamp the capo

like a tourniquet.

 

‘Where’s RZ?’

Scuttled off absent without leave,

his keyboards sitting idle,

an uncased axe shunted in a siding

somewhere between here and Tehran –

 

plays when he can,

but there’s leitmotifs of looming cyber-attacks,

flatlined internets when their flack

starts droning overhead again.

 

Bassman’s plucking mixolydian modes:

‘What’s that one in?’ Doesn’t know –

calls out a sloppy something

like B Sharp Minor, slaps the open E string

until its buttocks are raw -

there’s nothing noted, nothing scored,

 

they’re gazing at the open door,

and wondering – until the drummer

throwing his sticks

declares – ‘that’s it, I quit,’

because you’ll get days like this – nothing clicks.

It Exploded In My Face

 

It Exploded In My Face

 

Some of life’s minor trials are unexpected –

putting up the moose head,

one bell a semi-tone higher

than another – you could end up dead,

probably not forever, though.

When it goes off, you’re practising bass:

‘Another One Bites the Dust’, tasting

an acciaccatura from open A to G

you feel the downstroke, don’t see

what Deacon’s doing, per se – until

some Irish kids set fire to their kitchen.

Professionals? Doughnuts, you might think,

chucking cold water from the sink

onto a blazing hot fat chip pan –

little wonder they’re forever ordering out

and they put these hungover lager louts

in front of classrooms full of infants

Sunday through Thursday. They’re skint

halfway through the month, with cisterns

flushed, protesting about overwork.

Soon, you’re outside watching the car park

overflow with half-cut kids all trademark

mini-dresses, vests, coiffured chests,

still half-dressed in their Thursday best,

tattoos and scars from the night before –

the police and firemen guard the door

while some poor sod - skipping stairs

with an extinguisher – kicks a fifth floor

door down, keeping an eye out for clowns.

An hour later, pick up bass where you left off,

tacitly admiring craftsmanship – doff

your cap to years of trial and error,

practice, skill and his sheer bloody grit –

you don’t let your mind shift

to what transpired or was witnessed:

liken it to scripts that Dahl had rejected,

when writing ‘Tales of the Most Expected’.

Bully Beef

 

Bully Beef

 

Words - lost in time, but appropriated –

canned meat, packed and salted,

you might call them jellied tins

and there’s a key, to shred aluminum

and skin – no matter how much

care you take you end with a bunch

of shrewd strip metaled spirals.

Where do they end or begin?

Let’s spend some time considering

Chips - vinegar enough to outsmart

and sting – leave Beefy with the tart

taste of defeat by the time the strip’s

done. But he’s young and has won –

hefted sabres of success and run

circles around the protagonist.

‘You’re disorganized!’ you hissed,

in frustration, the last time

he’s left his pencil case outside

those four walls of learning, blocked

the lesson for the nth time, rocked

your coiled up serpent temper

a veritable, God’s honest class preventer.

Maybe, as an aged mentor,

you did indeed, pluck him by cuffs,

bully him firmly to chairs enough

to thrust in front of surly books.

But there were sullen looks

from beneath his fringe and he ached

to revenge for revenge’s sake –

more than capable to demonstrate

that all that’s canned up within

can become barbed and salty in its tin.