Santino

 

Santino

 

One day, I’m drowning in the Black Sea,

and the only voice left in here is me.

A thought struck: some things are down to luck.

You know? Sheffield went under—

one Exocet through steel did it.

 

Me in the hospital, pitying, hauling the raw,

ferrying them home, tearing the doors

from ship’s heads, making space for plastered legs.

Mothers and fathers watched the news,

saw nothing, then mourned.

 

You were real good—convincing—laying beats,

singing me Song Sung Blue, not Tiger Feet.

Picture him crying, covering his head—

who was it said a brain’s the thing

to catch the conscience of the king?

 

No one, of course—just invention

after being sent away to join the fleet.

Who guessed there’d be war?

Sweat drips, as Michael Corleone speaks:

“Carlo, you got to answer for Sonny.”

 

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was instinct.

But something reeks, something stinks

beneath the Eastern sun. To run down debt—

maybe something owed is best left unsettled.

After all, it was luck. But the thought struck.

Punt

 

Punt

 

You don’t remember

if there was a mission

to sanction some torpid skyscraper demolition.

Thought more of a bridge-builder,

good chap—

on cue, your masses rise and clap.

But as for that,

nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.

And all your blue-grey pigeons

crap in the square.

Could be St Mark’s—

don’t remember, don’t care—

or St Peter’s Colonnade flung wide,

a place to embrace,

suck lemonade through straws and hide.

 

Meanwhile, the chapel of Sixtus

just witnessed something rictus,

and your likely cardinals take a punt.

Newspapers briefly run

with all the sex scandals under the sun,

pap at those shuffling bums—

then switch off and yawn

at a grand guignol game of musical pews,

all suits you, sir—oo, oo—suits you.

Signature

Signature

 

These are the days

a moment can take you flash sideways,

in the hanging space between

this tick and that,

summed up by a minor sentence,

suspended

in preparation and resolution.

 

A word struck, a thought stuck —

my imitation, his indignation,

then stagnation:

‘You stole that from me.’

And I had.

 

I’d copped the rolling R,

the way it soared and swooped,

the A, the P,

intricate and linked,

fountaining ink —

knew I was due one on the knuckles

and ducked.

 

‘You didn’t think,’ he’d thunder —

this Augustus, muscles flexed,

maybe seize me by the neck,

boot arse for good measure,

then yomp up small mountains.

 

My signature was a pale impersonation,

a Mike Yarwood, a Little and Large;

he'd grab chainsaw, sledgehammer, axe,

feel put upon to have me at his back —

but I suppose I served.

 

These are the days

to remember a father’s cursive scrawl —

it strode ahead, stood tall —

but now it’s hardly there at all,

iced air that dispersed hot breath,

only an impression is left.

Fold

 

Fold

 

You’ve got to know when to fold them,

which, to be fair,  don't feel hard to play

in a four beats to the bar kind of way.

But here's weeks unfolding into months,

you’ll always find them out to lunch

because witches are in season again.

That, or could be Keith Richards’ fingers

are sprained beyond repair - can’t linger,

left guitars on the train, forgotten picks,

and your teeth are itching that little bit,

watching these walking wounded sprains.

You buy them a diamond ring my friend

if they’d not turned up with slings,

can’t play a note, can’t pluck strings,

them guitars are rotting in their cases,

you’d take that look from off their faces,

but they sagged off racing for the weekend.

So, shrug, pack, let's switch off that amp,

down sticks, admit your style’s cramped:

you can't get me no satisfaction

so, just got to know when to fold them.

Haste

 

Haste

 

What is it in us that makes us leave?

What is it makes us believe

that far sunsets will ease our grief,

touch grass, search long for lost fences

beyond green, beyond buried gems

in distant marshes, lakes and fens,

where treasure is believed to lie?

It is age, all thresholds crossed,

waymarks that once relieved the lost

are on the stones that grow the moss

and the guardians there have fled.

You claimed to have felt palipations

and the pull of distant nations,

that once claimed you as their own,

set sail a weary head for home

and there prepared your sleep.

But it’s a long, long time lying

and we in envy, keep up trying,

grind our bones to make our bread,

tilling soil, sweat and toil, in stress

pound hard hearts, supping breath

from wells that draw from watersheds.

Passage

 

Passage

 

It was on a train

coming back from football,

Dobson forgets the game:

the Addicks or maybe Wolves

howling - shredding night skies

with wants, needs, compulsions.

 

In the aisle, he’s standing,

staring in revulsion,

barring passage with bullets for eyes

as if to say, no right of way.

 

But Dobson doesn’t want to play

having already seen a game,

too many, in fact – they end the same.

Doesn’t want to throw a punch,

not today, anyway,

but wonders what this one has to say.

 

He sets tinned beer on the table,

backs down, sees the frown

that crossed his face

like he’s marked absent in the register.

 

This antagonist speaks,

slight, trembling; he reaches

for those words he must’ve rehearsed

or scripted over the years.

 

A voice like the shaking train

and the cans rattle like snakes.

You barred my way so many times,

so now at last, I’m barring yours,

she’s mine – I took her.

 

So it goes. No jab in the chest,

just a quivering breath -

he’s Lene Lovich’s Lucky Number

all falsetto and fear.

 

Ah, it must be her: Rachel.

They’d been players together

trod boards, ridden stages,

recited lines, flicked pages.

And once or twice

she’d held him

sticky in her hands,

wiping the mess from her belly

with clean, white tissues.

 

Later: something dark and self-harm,

approximately raised black alarms,

whipped storms, swapped out calm

for all the drama you could watch.

 

Now he’s the lookout

and a boy stands on a burning deck.

It can’t endure, it falls apart,

and this man having played his part

stands aside:

leaving Dobson to finish his ride.

Coffee

 

Coffee

 

Came here for the peace and the price,

visited more than once or twice:

coffee’s cheap, tabled with a smile,

wondering if they’re real or servile

or something else entirely - after all,

we’re aware they’re paid a pittance;

dripped cream swirls in toffee whirls,

like sweet but sticky thoughts unfurl.

As for quiet – well - none to be had,

you’re getting old, Grandad, past it,

and noise pollution of conditioned air,

piped music, kids’ shrieks of unfair

in Arabic, forbade something sweet;

sets off alarms by malicious security.

Your looks across green plastic tables

betray something, nothing, raise fables,

sketch hexaflexagons of hidden fears

toll the bells of tinnitus in your ears,

for which you know no cure exists

a persistent pitch of splitting trysts,

a guilt that shadows all you’ve kept

like dust beneath bright carpets swept.