Partial

 

Partial

 

What label can you sew

onto sleeves

for the slightly disabled

or special needs?

 

Like someone

in want of a patch

for a torn coat, a uniform,

lovelessly stitched,

and when picked at, rips—

gutted synthetic padding leaks—

she speaks.

 

Delivers dogma and diktats,

firm requests,

polite petitions,

final supplications—

 

from a far nation

bordering undiscovered countries

where mantras of Brexit

replaced the lotus prayer—

 

because they dared

so we must dare to stop them.

And he’s not coming back, of that

he feels certain.

 

He tried out his travelling feet:

left pointing due north,

right bound north-north-east—

shrugs—

it was always like this.

 

He’s twisted, out of kilter,

sloppy-angled, set square;

he cannot run, doesn’t care;

and if he swam,

right would always break surface,

cause a splash—

excuse me—must dash.

 

Except it’s not on the table,

never fleet of foot;

he recalls one hot day,

tramping up Valetta Way,

slopping in his shoes

and father blows a fuse:

excuse me, please,

I must refuse

to accept your pair of sandals.

 

Now—who is speaking?

A mind split into two voices:

one argues with

the other’s choices;

both can talk in far, far sunsets,

 

remember more

than they forget,

bring back words they should regret,

repent me of my fury.

 

Never shake your locks at me—

he studied hard and long,

dread books and more dreadful song:

why, yesterday, a blackbird

was fixing a hole

in tangerine skies.

Oh darling,

I must look through you,

so please, don’t pass me by.

 

Perhaps you felt you could try?

You had music in you,

words enough and time;

she’s in love with me

and I feel fine—

treading solitary that long

dark path up her mountainside,

 

where stories bubble brains—

slow-boiled black treacles

drip from wooden spoons,

sear flesh, rip wounds,

make red, crimson the face—

we got to get out of this place.

 

As driftwood, far out to sea,

maybe he gets lucky:

Blue waters calm,

a Chief, a Buffer,

a Master at Arms

rocks you in the Sargasso.

Tangling weed enough to stop,

propellor's locked,

so - maybe not.

 

The jury’s deliberating:

twelve good men and true -

all of them you.

So, tell me, in your defense:

what label can you sew

onto sleeves

for the slightly disabled

or special needs?

As we stand in front of

her Court Martial,

we judge ourselves—partial.

Screen

 

Screen

 

She, who raises a hand

is the flower blossom on the stalk,

rather than on another flower.

She, who only wants to talk

has not bloomed, and is still small,

so, how is it that her petals fall?

She, whose questions float

on air leaving cool vapour trails

dissipates in your hot fumes.

She, who has not yet power,

one day will make herself heard,

leaving your empty memories

and wasting words.

She, who is alone before you,

a notification left unread,

an unclosed tab you left for dead,

a lesson that remains unsaid.

 

She, who sits behind her screen,

is the lost within the drowning dream,

swiping up, swiping down.

She, who must forever squat

sedentary, slowly piling pounds,

cannot retain what she forgot.

She, with windows on worlds,

is ignoring the baying of her girls

left here to be charged.

She, who has always depended

on the kindness of others,

is buried deep beneath her covers

and has only ever pretended.

She, who has neglected

to wipe memory, close windows,

upon shells imprints dull shadows

that only ever cling to limbo.

Burn

 Burn

 

They have the same haircut—

ugly twins, staring at screens

at a village of the damned.

Cultivated their thick mops

of clot-stoppered tops

like flowers growing on flowers,

never seen a bucket,

never taken a plunge,

never wrung it through the rinser,

or cut through grease

where silence has lease—

while they stare at screens.

Undercut, grade one trim

around their pocked sides,

from top knot to nape:

those who don’t smoke, vape,

while they stare at screens.

Not one, not two - forming queues,

clutching 250 riyal Stanleys,

with straws sticking out of lids

pricking like nipples once sucked,

not forgotten—lately wiped soil

from baby bottoms—

while they stare at screens.

 

And you? You know

they don’t want to learn,

they don’t want to burn,

while you stare through screens.

Walking toward you

passing by, using screens

to screen the unwanted eye,

while you're reading books

to avoid the looks of all

you ignorant asses and fools

that lighted the way,

who spent your lives

borrowing currency from usurers

walking the schools,

while you stare through screens.

Your watching window gleams,

fluent in bubble-tea dialects,

words foreign to you, to me,—

new songs that drop

laying their Easter Eggs

in thirst traps, lampshading you,

mansplaining a soft launch,

all doomscrolling, ghosted,

burnt and toasted—

while you stare through screens.

 

We are Faber, we are Benjamin,

from outside looking in,

observing with our mocking grins,

and we put up screens.

We don’t talk things,

for courage is as courage sings—

and sings the body electric,

but only hears it through ear pods,

piped like the ire of angry gods

with flour-dusted aprons

on which they washed their hands,

and left this October Country

for other lands—

and we put up screens.

We are reminded of what

we already know:

we know the meaning of things

and we turn the pages, turn,

but those who don’t build must burn—

who think hell's a fable,

negligent counting of the cradle,

and witness pedestrians arrested,

never beaten, only bested,

and what will be has always been

blazing while we put up screens.

Howard

 

Howard

 

…as in the Duck.

You know, you have simply no reason not to like her. 

I mean what has she ever done to you?

Like…er, what have The Romans ever done for us? Sanitation, Roads, Law and Order…and then there’s that scene with Cleese getting Brian to write Romans Go Home or he’ll cut your balls off. Mr. MacKinnon. Your Latin teacher. Splendid. But, of course. Mrs. Rankine on Double Bass, Her tits all over your shoulders. Hey, did you write that one yet?

I’ll check my notebook.

Do you always talk to yourself using direct address?

You know I do. There’s always a conversation in my head between you and me.

Is that the same for everyone?

I don’t know. You just don’t know. You don’t know if your red is the same as her red.

There’s a boy. In your office.

What?

What?

What?

There’s a boy…in my office.

Where the fuck did he come from?

 

 

…Now, I’ve got to keep an eye on him. Damn.

That means he’ll be hanging around all day. Internal suspension, another of Jarier's ideas. Heap of dog doo doos.

Why did he steal a girl’s planner and flush it down the toilet, anyway?

This, they told me, is a more civilized place than back there. That’s why I signed for my two years, isn’t it?

Why can’t a boy just behave himself? He’ll be eyeing me all day. Eyes up, eyes down. Revolting thought. 

I’ll check my phone.

That’s another thing, how can I use my phone all day to message Steve?

Steve. He’s not bad, I suppose, that thing he does…that thing he does…that thing he did last night…I’ll check that one on Chat GPT, no I won’t, maybe it tracks you, keeps your data…then it’ll be me on a flipping internal detention, won’t it?.

Internal, internal, internal…stop. Wish he was taller. Bigger. Just that inch more. Maybe two

Because, the thing is, it doesn’t look so good being with someone shorter than yourself – and I’m not giving up heels – I’m just not.

They give you height. Height gives you power. Power to put boys who flush planners down toilets into  internal detentions.

Another cross on the tick sheet for him.

Cross on the tick sheet - wait, is that – no, no, there’s nothing there. I’ve filled in plenty of tick sheets in my time – it’s just, oh, look at him, look at him.

That boy’s piggy little eyes are travelling,…

Where shall we put him, where shall we put him, come on - think, think, think.

I don’t want him watching me all day, do I?

Oh yes. What if I put him an office? Not my office – I’ll say he has to be on the girls’ side, away from the boys – because…because…oh, just because.

 

The Office

 

No pictures

on the wall.

Nobody here -

none at all.

Just a black 4 string

guitar for company

And - if I had

another chance

to rethink my actions,

avoid her sanctions -

would I give 

that planner

a second glance?

That's what they want.

She’s put me inside.

So, I’m a perp

in a film called Havoc,

all Netflix funding

has me looting -

wide aperture red flame

night’s shooting,

all camera flares,

taking dares,

that’s me – look -

a tedious car chase

you’ve seen before,

same bombastic score,

blowing locks

off the door,

they put me 

in a gangsta suit,

bagging me up

wads of loot

luminous mask

covers my mouth,

it blocks CCTV, see?

No flies on me,

just your cliché

whip pan cellphone,

out of my pocket,

passes the time.

It's a fair cop,

who does the crime,

her planner

full fathoms five,

blocking the cistern,

rocking the system.

 

 

Well, went better than expected. What time is it? Ah, 7.30am. Can slip off to the coffee shop before I look at that spreadsheet I suppose.

Out through them pearly gates.

Got to be quiet, that’s where these heels become a liability. Ah well. Got to break some eggs, I suppose.

In any case. Their rules. Not mine.

No leaving the campus to get coffee. Silly. What civilized place does that?

Yes, I know, I know. There’s a kettle in the office. There’s a canteen downstairs. But, look. After a solid hour’s work, you need to kick off you heels, pull up the bonkette, plump a cushion, drink an iced macchiato.

Does the school canteen serve La Macchiata – feminized and Italicized — an iced espresso marked with microfoam and existential flair?

I don’t think so.

Now, we don’t hold with dictats like that, do we? We ignore them.

And, I’m not teaching until Period 4 – so who’s to notice?

In any case, like I said, it went well.

He moved that desk from classroom – OK – it very slightly interrupted a minor exam, but, you know, he should've put a notice on the door, n'est-ce pas?

Yes, yes, there was an email.

But who reads every email they’re sent, anyway? Everybody deletes them – if they’re really something, they always come back, like a tossed stick.

Tossed stick. Tossed it. Tossed. Titter. Tits.

Anyway, he’s stuck in that old fart’s office now, out of the way – and more importantly – out of my way.

We even dumped the desk. In his office. Like a permanent fixture.

 

So, I bloody told him, didn’t I?

What did you say?

Who the bloody hell are you, young snotty-me-lad?”

“No - you didn’t. I’ll tell you why. For a start that’s out of Blackadder and second, you’d be sacked, and third their CCTV cameras are everywhere, and fourth…there is no fourth.

Python.

No.

Yes. The Australian philosophers of Wallaballoo.

Get to the point.

Have we flipped over?

Who knows. Difficult to keep track. I told him, who sent you, who are you and why is that bloody desk in my office?

Did you take his poem?

Yes, of course. I’ll use that later. Don’t waste good material. So, anyway, he’s outside now, looking woebegone and I’m ticked off…

…is that what we say? Do we say that now?

Ticked off. It’s a bit…millennial, isn’t it? Yes. OK. Let’s not use that…we’re pissed off. We’ve always been pissed off, we are pissed off, we will be pissed off again. Pissed off with their fucking world.

Too right. You got it. That's my boy.

He tells me. Some sad story. Who exactly was. So, I marched over there, didn’t I? I’d guess she’s just back from the coffee shop, striding in those dopey high heels, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other…

…yeah, they do that don’t they? Bloody tiresome, isn’t it?

Always on their fucking phones.

What she say? How did she justify this unmitigated outrage, then?

Well, she’s sat at her desk by now. Looks up at me. All sneer – you know, her top lip curls over her bottom lip…

Now, look, she can’t help that, can she?

Well, what about her feathered hair, then? All Farah Fawcett Majors - before she lost the Majors.

OK – yes - that is pretty hateful, to be fair. Like a duck.

Yes, a duck. Shit and feathers. Hah! Then, she says, and I quote…him and his mates stole a girl’s planner and flushed it down the toilet. That’s pretty nasty, don’t you think?

And you laughed?

No, I stood there. It caught me a bit by surprise, actually.

You looked like a guppy. Like a grey guppy, spending his last years forever blowing bubbles.

I hate her. I hate her.

You’ve no reason to hate her.

Shut up. What’s that Sex Pistols lyric?

Um…she’s so pretty, oh so pretty…vacant…

No, no, no…now I got a reason, now I got a reason, now I got a reason…that one.

OK. Let’s call her Howard.

Howard it is.

Barrel

 

Barrel

 

Those tiny packets of creamer

with sticky peelers

tear before any useful hole appears.

The liquid interiors

refuse suitable passage,

afraid of the exterior—

what it might hold.

It won’t be told,

insists on clinging to what it knows.

So it goes.

 

But where? It’s forgotten,

ladled from a barrel’s bottom,

where it clung—stubborn—

like a limpet grips its rock,

blocked and locked.

Or a bivalve feels each passing tide,

sucking only what it needs inside—

knows nothing, stays alive,

safe in what it doesn’t know.

Watch Mary’s garden grow,

all quite contrary—

fermenting, curdling, souring, bubbling,

drips in thickness from the tap,

and lands unwanted in your lap.

 

Its third-rate degree and PGCE

in throwing parties, in long island iced tea,

in fleshy post pictures—

necking shots of cream liqueur,

see its eyes always flicker,

like a betrayed snake’s tongue:

testing the air, overhung,

on the lookout, on the run—

because they know, don’t they?

 

Be aware of what they will say.

Say it first. Use stone-age tools

to build bilge-hooped casks -

looking good in your mask.

Ingest any useful rules—

spit them like venom where you can,

your instant whip-escape plan,

have a doctor’s note,

and teach by rote.

Surround yourself with other woods,

cut and cover pulled hoods,

be bold in your apparel

and have them over your barrel.

Evaporate

 

Evaporate

 

Like as this hot sun’s breath brings oils

to clog your pores, shut down doors,

just as her sticky skin grows boils

that your typical sweaty student delights

in heated squeezing, a busy night’s

brass rubbing with grit felt fingertips,

so it is that your fevered brain lets slip

those ideas that were clenched by it.

Only yesterday it had you gripped

you thought it easily recollected,

could make some verse out of it yet

coin it, an original, some idea so neat,

once conjured from air, once created,

it could be dashed out, celebrated,

a baby ripped off Lady Macbeth’s nipple

and slapped onto paper to flourish.

But – wretched -your blasé boldness

made manifest, a notebook neglected

an arrogance, a feckless recklessness –

(if that’s not an oxymoron) all is lost.

Now you wish you’d written it down,

don’t you? Who was it who said

only fools leave notebooks by the bed,

beneath the bed, the bedside table,

anywhere, but here, oh, damnable!

It was you, wasn’t it? So near, so far,

here you are, chucked from the car,

in unexpected freedom from the herd,

only to find empty mind. Transpiration:

water rising from plants’ recycling,

evaporation’s fully more frightening.

Food

 

Food

 

If music is the food of love, Orsino,

play on—give us a song.

Make it bang up to date,

on time, not late,

something to make them feel great.

 

Those older singers got it wrong—

there’s no MC rapping,

no sampled backbeats,

no grunts like hogs humping fire.

Orsino -

put down your harpsichord and lyre.

 

So say all of us at the leavers' ball,

they're due to traipse through the hall

come noon, doomsday. We’re set up,

gears lit, cable snakes,

soundcheck’s done, the bass hums.

 

Adam's got his usual apple fingers,

sore throat—so draft in three singers,

last minute, Year 10,

one hour rehearsing,

confident grins,

to knock Bedingfield’s Unwritten

out of the park,

three more of us sit behind,

biding time,

on keyboard, bass, electric drums.

 

But no Viola, Orsino—Olivia comes.

Not one for micromanaging?

Oh, let it not be so—

no bureaucratic black hat,

no clef-chinned, crochety grin,

no poking her thin nose in

where it doesn’t belong.

Orsino, give us a song.

 

Wait—she says the singing’s wrong.

Bass is flat, hit the hi-hat,

“you don’t play keyboards like that,”

and ah—it’s her musical knowledge

we lack.

And where, she asks, is her beloved Adam?

 

Thank you for your help, madam,

but Orsino, the blood drains quick

from young faces taking places.

You can track the tears, traces

where confidence fled—

from singers come to sing the song,

celebrate those moving on

who leave today - graduate,

to step beyond her metal gates,

into the wild blue yonder.

 

Orsino, they were younger

when they first came through those doors—

weren’t we all?

Soft-eyed, half-sure, before inspectors

from overseas

left slime trails on those who lead,

stamped feet, stamped marks,

ticked sheets, broke hearts,

rewrote the ancient songbooks.

 

And as they go

through closed minds’ closed door—

enough, no more.

It’s not so sweet

as once it was before.