Is It a Crime?

 Is It a Crime?

 

You might ask yourself,

before resting, laying down to bed,

just a few years left,

kicking around the idea

on the football pitch in your head.

Making a substitution,

this late in the game, a final throw

you know, and you might score.

It’s not an early bath you’re giving,

if anything, it’s coming late,

punters pushing indifferent through

the turnstiles, the meshed gates,

that turn like teeth interlocking.

A fresh pair of legs on the park,

warming up and ready to go,

this finished article, plays a blinder

shoot and it’s back of the net,

you’ll put your arms around her yet,

hands upon her shoulders, neck

feeling younger, not older

and kisses all over.

You’re not doing anything shocking,

she’s seeing out the final thows

from the comfort of the changing room

oblivious - win, lose or draw.

False Face Must Hide

 

False Face Must Hide

 

When truths have been on the slide

for some years, false face must hide.

 

It hides in words, conceals in deeds,

attending to its every need and sees

no gaudy costume jewels hanging here

from headscarves, no dusky promises,

but a caravan two weeks stuck travelling

hopeless in thick spun mud.

 

It’s famished and never diminished,

bigger, if anything, and never finished

with its callings and its wantings,

its hauntings brief and lengthy tauntings.

 

Those weeds that spring like crowns

on lawns, hiding when grass is cut flat,

reappear in thick ropes to push back,

possessed of grisly purpled thistled teeth,

think covered pits, think palm leaves,

think plummeting through trap doors.

 

Here’s a suitcase’s wide opened jaws

an overstuffed crocodile, in tough cloth.

Who knows what they make these of?

Nevertheless, it does the job. Push it in,

to the brim, make fat what once was thin.

 

Birds of a mind look south, fly west or east

to guaranteed warmth, dry feathers in heat,

fill beaks with only what they need to eat

and nest within the other in peace.

 

It will out in the end, these things do

dare speak their name and tell not show

truths that my false heart does know.

Serial

 Serial

 

‘You miss the ones who understood,’

the doctor leaned over and said:

‘When you were young, did you think

to bury your emotions and leave them

for dead?’

 

He replied, ‘I didn’t think. I was told

often enough. You didn’t think, boy,

what didn’t you do? And it was cold,

in that room, colouring purple bits.

When you do think, you think black,

you think leaving, never going back,

but it’s always too soon. Time crawls,

only later does it gather pace, falls

and when you about to reach the brink,

you’re left with time enough to think.

 

How they saw through childish ploys,

easily exposed, tore teeth in them

until, older, and only gums remain.

For every kettle switched, water rains

tea stains, boiling water burnt throats

inside, something indelibly changed,

left its imprints on veiled tissues.

Angers boiled, cooled, formed crusts,

I think it’s something to do with trust,

isn’t it? Yes, that must be it.’

 

The doctor smiled; a familiar story

because nothing original is left,

he’s heard it all before, deep breath,

you know? ‘I can see where you get it,

put it behind you, forget it.’

 

‘It’s all gone, but here’s a knock on,

we’ve sung songs, duets, some do

but most don’t stay long, move along,

take a piece, leave a piece, wronged.

Or maybe you had to up and leave,

no fault of your own, you had to seize

day’s opportunities coming your way,

nothing good will come if you stay.

Some died, some have died, some dying,

they lay with you and then lying

as they leave, go on living and grieve.

But here’s the point, explain it please,

why so many dominos in the box?

Lined up to knock down shoulders,

still falling as we keep getting older

to form forward lines of black spot paths;

way leads onto way leads onto aftermath

that is too well known and fashioned.

If you make a pact to box up passion

there’s logic here, immunity from harm,

why still take the field fully armed?’

 

No doctor looks back, blank and cold,

for the credits have already rolled.

You'll Miss the Ones Who Understand

 

You'll Miss the Ones Who Understand

 

It’s the ones who really understand

you’ll miss when they leave,

slip your grasp, take your hand;

you fold. How they touched your soul,

gazed into looking glasses there,

stealing little, not much, but enough.

If you ask for it back, you’re rebuffed

of course, unwilling to exchange

one rare diamond for another taken,

something that you treasure with grief,

neither of you were the first thief,

or at least, that’s how the story goes.

A touch you both possessed for a while,

traced fingers around a leaving smile

that was already gone, swallowed

long by tunnels, buried deep in hollows.

It will clutch you forever, taking hold

as firmaments cool and suns grow cold.

For I Have Got

 

For I Have Got

 

Oh, rigid; a tight, tight squeeze

to fit back into a previous

version of life, a record sleeved,

creased up, bent backed, old,

which can no longer firmly hold,

slipped in and it won’t be told.

 

Oh, pussy, pussy, my love - gloves

too small sheath hands too big,

two fingers in one gusset won’t fit,

tangled up together and crossed,

getting knotted, throb with loss

skinning summer's teeth with frost.

 

Oh, only half a mind lives here

that ponders on shifty habits,

how the cowl clouds what’s near,

close enough to see it clear

in concrete wisp of softening mists,

and ocean dappled sands of tryst.

It Got You Too, Lover

 

It Got You Too, Lover

 

A carrot peeled and scraped; you split it,

bring that knife down hard to the board,

going for batons, no, going for discs,

all it takes is your flicking wrist,

forced fingers on the pointed end

handle the rear with mechanised blur;

left with orange bloodstained flesh;

you’ll be rubbing that out for ages,

scrubbing it under the tap, it stains

vicious, nicotine slick: you never smoked.

 

So now just buy a bag of ready chopped,

plenty of those available down the shops,

less bother, these days all it takes

is popping cellophane into microwaves,

rotate and two shakes of a lamb’s tale

they’re steaming in brittle plastic,

burnt fingers as you open slit; cools quick,

that’s it.

 

You said you are not reaching out

while I’m watching England lose to Spain,

all the next day it’s hacking down rain

in pathetic something. The fallacy lies

somewhere within, we all feel connection,

even me, years after facts, looking back.

 

Fear the knife, vicious blade cutting loose

until it hits home – no more spilling juice:

leftovers for which there never will be any use.

I would not recognise you now, I’m lucky;

words like these hit the back of your own net,

deflected off defender’s knees, or maybe

unforced errors  - going down in straight sets.

 

As you say, we took different paths,

I doubt writing would cut it, you hated sport,

took scissors to books and pages ripped,

stabbing hard at the heart of manuscript.

Scarcely gave a thought that day you offed,

upped and out of it, smiled and quit,

to some transformed futures time-slipped.

 

You say it got you, too. A disorder of order,

just so, made you go, pretty cans all in a row,

you researched, looked deep, and I should, too,

that's would you'd do if I were you,

fascinated by yourself, prognosis of validation

and you tore leaves from the rolled wire,

screwed the pages, tossed it in the trash,

scoring lines with blackest biro. There’s more:

A surgeon’s scalpel to prevent the spreading

of two blooms, one that needs dead-heading,

and lumps in my porridge, lumps in my throat.

I wish you well; I would never call you out,

after all the stats are good and room for hope

but I cannot reply to your final note.

A Moss that Grows Upon the Rock

 

A Moss that Grows Upon the Rock

 

Stand stoic, black rock who has weathered

cuts, scars; gouged and hell for leathered,

of bludgeoned scarlet eyes and coat of snow

beaten dead for decades to see life grow.

These whispers of hair that set home must strain,

slight at first, unrevealed, until full flush

slim roots work hard and fertilise this dust,

turns it over, sucks in those given grains.

Moss flourishing strong, seeming plumb and dull,

boasts spectrum hues and swollen curves full,

while moist breezes part brush fingered felting

her light thrives, drives roots in rock and melting.

Look closely and see her pulse flushed throat

beat life’s strong tattoos upon winter’s coat.