All The Way Down

 

All The Way Down

 

I first flew with the butterflies,

taking to the skies

with trepidation – there were flowers below,

the names of which I did not know,

never would, could not taste them

or leave wing-prints behind.

Nor did I have an inkling

of anything approaching destination.

She gives me a sultry wink and sighs:

‘All the way down there?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, uncertain inside,

as she stabs at an imaginary map,

stamps the passport, all hijab and official cap.

Stewardess shepherdess, I think,

but she will not be taking the flight.

Ten years have passed since that

happened – Emirates, and how it was,

closing the door on one life,

opening onto another chance - because,

well, that old story had ended in tragedy.

I did not know it then,

and thought you could revisit books,

return to the library for another look,

once you’d paid the fine.

But it’s not the case – they rip up pages,

rewrite chapters, only remember haphazards,

or come travellers, come blizzards -

and the title is buried.

So here, on this 11^th time around,

I’m different now, familiar sights and sounds.

The capped attendants have changed,

the wink and stamp the same

but they can spot shook pepper pots of seasoning –

some depression and foreboding, too,

but at the same time know that you

are part of the furniture

that completes the room –

all the butterflies have long since flown.

Those? My prints after thumbing down corners

but what chapter this is or in what order

I cannot say. They say I will be seeing

the final chapter as it comes into being –

I did not flit, look, leave - but left imprints on it,

all this, I did – today en route, I saw a car flip:

it hit the hedgerow, A392,

cut across the bus and pancake tossed.

I prayed they were safe, no life lost,

but, at the same time,

clutched my flight ticket and left it behind,

prepared to do - and be

my little bit of feng shui.

It Brings You Together

 

It Brings You Together

 

There once was a donkey

who guarded a thistle – it’s true –

nurtured purple, bruised blue,

clopping daily from her barn

to the Sky Glass widescreen –

rating all crime dramas ever seen,

‘I feel depressed, distressed;

there ain’t one of these I’ve missed.’

He nods; clears away the mess.

 

In another place not far away

which abutted, they had a power-out.

Is that actually a thing? No doubt.

Anyway, they’re watching

when, suddenly - Pif, Paf, Poof –

the cathode ray tube pops;

fades to grey, hits black.

 

Huddled around a candle,

casting jittery shadows,

with a sweet smell of waxy wick

he’s hurdling steps, double quick,

finds a couple of torches, kept

for such occasions as this,

rare as they may be –

 

She considers, and declaims: ‘funny how

it always brings you all together.’

There’s a hole while

they consider empty spaces –

then the light comes back

and he’s off upstairs to pack.

Only the Strong

 

Only the Strong

 

Take weeds – no, take mosquitos,

nipping at your heels;

your ankles – how often you feel them

kissing hairs just above –

ah, it must have been love

but it’s over now

and even though you dealt her a death blow

there’s snowdrifts more coming through.

 

Once a flea thought he was not a flea

at all, and jumped, maybe

150 times his relative size

but, alas, he was not king all he surveyed.

His was a schoolboy error, made

landing, as he did, on sticky tape.

You folded him inside

like amber, but on contraction he popped

and what a lot of blood he’s got –

yours, probably.

 

Back to weeds, this summer’s heat,

relentless, the burning sun scalded the lawn

crispy brown until grasses being born

gave it up as a bad job. Still, patches of green

are dotted hereabouts, like bacteria

thriving in a Petri dish that time you warmed

your coughs and sneezes -

thistles, docks, dandelion clocks, riding breezes

and thriving.

 

Why? And the brambles

abseiling your fences, downward spears

tooled up with thorn, there’ll be tears

if you pluck what sour fruit is on offer –

you scowl, make busy with the Roundup or Raid,

but it seems they like the taste –

that or greet you from some other place.

 

Sneaky bastards – they’ll gouge out your eyes

given half a chance – they despise

your weakness – you can’t articulate why,

what it is that’s needling you,

nor can they put it into words,

how they keep just ticking along,

how there’s nothing here wrong,

mate, holding out hands that if bitten

become feeders, suckers, creepers – give nothing

unless you’re counting bees -

even these seem to tuck tail and flee.

 

You could argue,

the more you cultivate, the more the risk,

while sheering wool, you’re fleeced –

but take out the mower, attack at least:

while down on the line, you spare a copper, Guv,

salve your soul or do it for love,

making measurements of how strong

by the frequency in which you're preyed upon.

Moving On Up

 

Moving On Up

 

Some songs sting more than most,

but not for those reasons:

 

not love, not hate,

never the changing of the seasons

or the guard - the rennet’s set them hard -

coagulated whatever stirred.

Some songs sting because they’re heard.

 

I speak not of loss but something’s lost:

they’ve done us wrong,

moving on out, your time is up –

some bland playlist drops,

Falconer and Garraway rap

something milquetoast, rock your baby,

but I’d rather jack than Fleetwood Mac

and I always hated crap like that

 

And so say all of us, or should –

but no – so smooth, you’d gag

like you did when they served semolina.

 

One day, I predict, you’ll rue

lack of potholes, bumps in the road.

Dreams? Means nothing now.

Somebody to Love? Broken vows.

Baby Can I Hold You? You did.

It Must Have Been Love? I fled.

Moving On Up? But where?

What have you found that counts?

 

Join me, if you will, but won’t,

burn an ear, if you do, but don’t,

pardon my misgivings

but set my face in stone,

I’ll walk on, walk on, alone –

 

There’s part of me keeps on wishing

while the nation congeals,

and it grieves alongside Curtis Mayfield.

Slow Boat to Flushing

 

Slow Boat to Flushing

 

‘You disappeared from view.’

And – on cue –

Mylor Harbour fading out like Layla,

and other assorted love songs

‘And we were worried about you –

but, moving on…’

 

Simon’s got the helm,

steady as she goes -

you could trail your hand

and stroke the mirrorlon below,

break blue borders,

to send ripples to shore’s far corners

imperceptible by the time

they make landfall

and comb the grains,

but they’d be there, just the same.

 

‘Those are oysters,’ he reports,

his voice cutting through their small talk

like a short bladed knife -

each hiding a pearl,

cufflinks for boys, strings for girls.

 

You wonder if he now wishes

he’d stayed below to steer

from within the cabin, not here

on the quarterdeck.

That’s me escaped up the fo'c's'l

by the bowsprit,

but I can still hear it:

their talk a sink full of greasy dishes.

 

I remember we had adjacent offices,

I hadn’t stayed in touch –

such things become too much

like most people are -

the latest flatscreen, the newest car:

 

‘And then we stayed at the Hilton,

Singapore, and at the bar, guess who?

Lionel Richie with the forward row

of England’s starting 15, true –

and that's Ben singing 'Nessun Dorma',

just over there, by the corner...

but, you know,

we were worried about you…’

None shall sleep.

They don't know; the idea creeps

that you could dip them both in Carrick Roads,

trail them behind the boat

to see if its glistering wake could soak

through; make them gleam.

But the only bubbles blown

are the ones they call their own

and trapped within

they push outwards at that thinning skin,

a long way from here to home.

 

Simon grunts while I make clear

there was one boat deploying forwards,

and another abandoned here;

tied to that pontoon;

you don't want to make a splash,

just a dash for new horizons

or sometimes you just get drafted

and there’s no raft back –

 

Or - if there is - it just exists

drifts and drifts, screwing cork into itself

crewed by two by twos

dipping and pulling on opposing oars –

just flotsam from wrecks, 

lashed together

with creepers for the deck.

Coming Round Again

 

Coming Round Again

 

Belts and braces – literally –

let’s not try metaphor, hide meaning,

instead, let’s feed on feelings

either eat or be consumed

because sometimes they take teaspoons,

tap your head,

crack you open like an egg.

It’s coming round again,

tonguing your belly like fire,

moving up through guts to heart

and we all have guilt. For a start,

your sending him to school in trousers

tied around the waist with string

and I have pain about similar things:

Belts and braces – don’t fade.

Children can be cruel at that age,

I remember my own drubbing,

those second tier bullies rubbing

my youngish nose in it -

and a coat unpicked,

stich by stitch, at the seams,

every night trying to avoid another clubbing

by concealing more leaked stuffing.

But, you know, you slough

your chrysalis and make it to man.

These days, I’m old – I can

reach in my pocket, shell out a few shekels,

after all, it’s only what life has dealt,

so, let’s go to buy the boy a belt.

 

I Travel

 

I Travel

 

 

Chacewater garden centre,

plants its mark on visitors,

who are mostly old.

Sipping tea, chewing scones

of gritty currants, dollop of cream,

jam – cherry, maybe

more likely raspberry,

excavated from the wholesale tin.

Spit seeds from gapped teeth

where they lodge like squatters,

dab tissues on dribbles like blotters.

Some have a partner oppositting,

perhaps there’s a little talking –

sometimes silence because they say

when you know somebody so well,

conversation gets in the way.

My septuagenarian neighbour, Kevin,

clatters metal buckets of weeds,

uprooting daily those unpleasing

thickets of intruders seeding

on his four square bit of green.

From my window his constant noise

is sometimes ignored,

and sometimes annoys –

often inoffensive, but makes me think

of other plots, days gone down

where we’re younger - it stinks

to have me around, he thinks

and he longs for the days I travel.

But here’s where it ends,

bent backs, pots and pails.

Today, I’m on Artemis, out sailing,

tacking across Carrick Roads,

maybe St Mawes, who knows?

Depends on where the winds will blow,

I’m ten years behind him,

in no hurry to rattle my tin

but know, in my heart, it’s coming.

Maybe, nations are only people –

they want to travel too

with views that may be strange,

but they’re views all the same

and we’ll mistrust our sight

as they waive your right

to cultivate, border and contain.

Within our minds

travels each and every state

to be explored with furrowed thought,

and destination is only            

what a planted life has brought.

Butcher’s Choice

 

Butcher’s Choice

 

There’s only one apostrophe.

On the wrapping. Quite clear,

signifying singular:

‘Butcher’s Choice’ it assures us,

slapped on the thin plastic packet

which some sleeving machine

took no time at all to wrap it

in. Purporting to be sausages,

high quality product, these porkers -

a year before a walker

as Squeeze would have it

in reverse – appropriate, you’d think,

but fry them, they shrink

and water come a mi eye.

I wonder what they’re stuffed with?

Sage? Onions? Certainly not bone

sawdust or reclaimed gristle – no

that’d be bang out of whack,

this is top quality and that’s that –

but I microwaved one

for a shade too long

and it turned into brick.

That or a pale thin anaemic thing

you’d get arrested for quick

if you waved it at a trusting public.

They claim with maximum fuss:

‘Good food for all of us,’

in orange wobbly Mary Ann sans serif –

but quick! quick!

Send for the sheriff -

I’ve seen shopfronts

of affronted butchers

murder in mind, downing hooks,

wielding hand saws and cleavers,

taking to a nation’s streets

screaming: ‘Where’s the fucking butcher

who chose these?’

Teatime Tygers

 

Teatime Tygers

 

It’s written as a cautionary tale,

obviously, one you can’t fail

to spot. Even a retired mallet,

gone to seed and having cracked

his fair share of heads

would leap out of his deathbed

for this one. Devised by a hack

with a nought degree, ECE, probably –

into barrel-bottoming

with a major in crayoning,

fuzzy felt and tummy time.

Couldn’t cut it as a teacher,

throws on a dog collar to preach.

Presents two or three pages

using the deepest, biggest fonts,

with, ‘Illustrate this, please –

let’s have animals, with placid faces

drawn not quite right, off centre,

clothed, standing upright,

you know, anthropomorphic porkers.’

Chalk in a comedy hedgehog

with a bonnet, wooden clogs

and a penchant for mushroom houses –

it’s Beatrix Potter with an asinine plot

so far removed from ‘Animal Farm’

the only probable harm

could come from paper cuts.

This self- published slop

is flying off the shelves of no shops

whatsoever like an out of breath

iron propellered Caxton Press.

‘Piggly Porker Chokes On Sausage’:

there’s little industry and no cottage.

Sorcha

 

Sorcha

 

Why do two truths flower on one face?

Maybe you’ll see traces

at first – like how pinks streak a warning sky

before melting into blues – perhaps a cry –

Shock? Surprise? Something you’ll recognise.

Smoke signals that always have been there,

lofting skywards – calling both to dare

to read, pore over the hieroglyphs

once obscure but becoming obvious:

and now the flames are fanned,

she’ll coyly take you by the hand.

 

But how can you both play this harmony?

Maybe you’ll settle for one key,

G Major – you’re a tonic, she’s the dominant,

all hands to duet – each as complement,

soft strokes, neither of you more prominent.

You’ll find a corner – you’ll practise, amazed,

shutting the fallboard but still on display,

to touch in blunt wonder; trace

semi-breves and breves scoring your faces,

and when you’ve had time enough,

she’ll lead you to honesty from bluff.

 

And if you surrender, what will you lose?

It’s not something you can choose,

battlements will tumble like dominoes,

as rushing water into cracks must flow,

thrusting your coracle onwards and you row

against currents, strain at oars, bend backs

until you relinquish and the rudder snaps.

All you might have wished for – yours:

Shipwrecked; entwined with each other,

and as you cling with nails to her beach,

she’ll chide; she’ll tease; begin to teach.

 

Where does elation end and jubilation begin?

That is a difficult place to find,

but together you’ll uncover it; spend time

there shocked by its relief; how fine

it is, long languid hours tracing contours,

from rippled peaks to valley floors,

dazed by the accuracy of the charts you draw –

and once complete, you still sketch more.

No longer strangers on a strange shore,

and as surveyors becoming familiar,

she’ll fix positions and chart the laws.

 

When will you know there’s nothing more?

Here is the unkindest cut of all,

a scratch, but it will serve - then fall,

Caesar - but a little way above your heads

comes some sort of chopper; you’re led

by kindly lights, subtle phrases, shepherd’s crooks

impersonations of those doting looks,

something intangible was all it took –

a smoothing of corners, a grinding of blocks:

and when at last it’s time to go,

she’ll softly sigh and let you know.

Living Testament

 

Living Testament

 

 

And Will. There he is,

rubbing shoulders with Gareth Gates.

jewel case to jewel case

with nothing rare or precious

about it – except attitude.

Some remember the blubbering,

and all that stammers

becoming stripped of glamour

that no longer gleams,

but not many of you, it seems -

given the grime that collects

under my fingernails

should I handle these rejects.

Dido, thank you for another one;

there's ships that have gone down

to escape grinding boredom,

and you can get your fucking eye

off that telescope, Tunstall,

you’ve learnt nothing that bears

scrutiny – go and join Hucknall –

where something’s got him stopped.

Behold more Sandi Thom, confused

by all the smiling, pointing, laughing

at the heap of shite that’s lining

dusty boxes – another load dropped

off in the congested Charity Shop;

not much goodwill stored here,

just some struggling space

being pulled under by poor taste -

and let’s not even get started

on Bryn Teflon and the three tenners,

you parted with to purchase

his palm-stroked, pinched face

to signify depth but betray space.

Between the ears? Could be that,

if that’s all there is, if it’s enough -

but the real question sleeping rough

on the streets, begging for scraps

is who the fuck bought all this crap,

and what does it testify to a nation’s

brains, adjusted for inflation?

So, You’re a Carer Now

 

So, You’re a Carer Now

 

 

I heard it on the grapevine

(good opening line),

that you’re spending not a little time

being a carer, now.

Well, grapevines are pretty good –

for grapes, that is – and wine,

but have little to do with messages,

covert or otherwise –

truth is, you told me.

I suppose there’s a symmetry there,

you being a carer, now,

your mother, is it? You bear it,

she bore you, we’re both 60 plus,

more than a touch of rust

upon what’s left that’s vital:

the NHS whipped yours out.

We didn’t use them, though, did we?

Had the opportunity,

I could smell it, so could you –

but, khalas, you’re a carer, now.

Do you ever sometimes deliberate

if some are born to it? Caring?

Decades spent with that wanker

who worked the cemetery, chancer

who put detectives to work,

had you followed, a complete berk -

checking your mail, chasing your tale,

editing any story we could’ve wrote.

Still, as he went up in smoke –

literally - some said, ‘Solid Bloke,’

and now you’re a carer.

Or maybe, it’s Machiavellian,

that’s what your Marxist would say,

give the masses this day

something to mollycoddle, full bathtubs

of coal, pat their heads, good job,

or promise them, when they get old,

they can travel the world -

they’ve always wanted that, after all.

If you give a shit,

you could ask yourself if the world is split

into those who do and those who don’t.

Care, I mean. I won’t.

Still, I wonder,

now I’ve ricked my knees,

if you’d come over here

and care for me?

Zeta Minor

 

Zeta Minor

 

On the very edge of the known universe

where you must learn to thrive

after passing through boundaries

that separate old worlds from new.

 

It is beyond Cygnus A,

a one way trip, and they say

bringing any matter across

is forbidden, will bring down calamity -

you may not rely upon it, no source

of energy here,

you’re tampering with forces

beyond hideously dangerous.

 

As distant again from Ortoro galaxy;

any plausible strategy

becomes nothing but fallacy

propagated by bleeding hearts and artists -

you can no more bring me back there

than I can bring you here,

to even attempt to try is catastrophe.

 

That galaxy, far from the Anterades,

where scar tissues still breed

in our mind’s eye, will multiply –

if you want, go ahead, try:

but see what it did to my limbs,

the outlook’s stagnant to grim,

atrophied muscle from the attempt -

debt’s doubled, summer’s spent.

 

Any mined minerals, any dust churned

from that sullen world

is venom, toxaemia with properties

so mutagenic you lose identity

like I forgot myself, went beyond

and left just memory to hang a peg on.

 

How naïve - to think in ways back,

that formulae may calculate the abstract

into something concrete,

you can no more turn base metals gold,

spark warmth from cold

after planetfall, Zeta Minor broods –

the furthest border, adamantine barrier

between what we left there

and what we brought here.

When Do I Get to Sing My Way?

 

When Do I Get to Sing My Way?

(With thanks to ‘Sparks’ for the title)

 

 

I read ‘The Book of Dave’

and its messages stayed

with me a long time,

couldn’t put it down,

but ‘Great Apes’ left me cold

and I wondered if that was it –

do you only have one good idea

and the rest of them? Shit.

And Will Self was no Mark Lamarr

when Vic and Bob had him

fronting ‘Shooting Stars’,

that much is true. Emma Raducanu,

there’s another one –

stormed the US Open, as you do,

then managed Jack, after that.

You see, not everyone can be Beckham,

Andy Murray – Shakespeare, even –

most of us have to be content

with a life more ordinary.

Take today – having screwed up my

quadriceps well and truly

by missing the one stair; flat foot

landing – that’s all it took –

I was bombing round Sainsbury’s

on one of their electric invalid cars,

thinking, well, hey, I got this far

and look, it’s pretty neat.

Which, I think, proves my point

about onrushing age and buggered joints,

so, perhaps that’s all I’ve got to say

about when I get to sing

‘My Way’.

Ice Cold in Alex

 

Ice Cold in Alex

 

 

Not quite your rags to riches, shame -

it would’ve made a better story

if one were needed, all the gory

details that are fit to print –

like that Kate – whose husband’s late

and has to publicise her new beau,

some poor sod she’s got in tow,

you’ll read it on your bloody phones

while choking back your cornflakes –

say under your breath, FFS,

not her again – what did she ever do

except leave you?

But, look – here’s Alex, ice cold on court

and within her head, one thought -

to win – she’s playing through pain,

clipped ankles, chronic elbow strain,

serve volley, chip and charge,

tension surges on second serves,

hitting winners - cross court backhand

while fans in the Grandstand

raise the roof. In truth, you watch; feel

thrilled - like here’s the real deal

someone with a nation’s expectations

on young shoulders, an anticipation

that she’s flying their flag –

a little jealous you don’t belong,

you’re borrowing someone else’s song

having their time in the sun,

whilst your own proxies are limping along,

haunting locker rooms. Asking for time

to heal, entitled to sick notes

and understanding, your supplicants pray

for that long distant, far away day  -

they’ll generate column inches that say:

‘Legendary mirror of your community.’

Legless

 

Legless

 

Well, that’s torn it.

Both of them, actually –

and while instinct suggests healing,

what’s that pain you’re feeling?

 

There’s just a shadow,

an inkling, barely a pen stroke

that this is not a joke -

possibly indelible

 

like those tattoos you didn’t get -

you feel pity for those

who did – fading like the rose

they were never given:

pull down their cuffs,

keep them hidden

from scornful, unspoken stuff.

 

A summer spoilt by a misstep

and this, my dear, is unjust desserts;

keep telling yourself the hurt

was undeserved – both flat feet

hit the deck, bearing weight

you should’ve lost.

 

And the cost?

Humility and then the boy saw it all,

old enough to know

how these things sometimes go

why there’s a town full of crawlers.

 

Spoilers, darling, spoilers:

‘Were you drunk?’

Well, you had to hear that

at least once –

but, no - oh, how you rue

the impulse to undertake

that dangerous trek

down darkened stairs

to buy yourself some Chinese food.

 

Takeaway, why not?

Well, take this away, my lad,

remember in fondness              

those steps you take to make you learn,

and those you take that burn.