‘No’ he said
And he meant it
‘Then we’ll handcuff you’
‘You’re welcome to try’
And they tried
The two of them
With him and the metal
And they were lying on the floor
In blue suits and red faces
And he walked off down the road.
OVERCAST WITH NO CHANCE OF RAIN
The man on the radio
Said ‘overcast with little chance of rain’
I went out into it
Everyone dressed like a 1920s film
Black suits, black shoes, white shirts
White carrier bags screwed into their hands
(we've moved into the 80s)
Through the pale window frames
There are people in dark rooms
Simple drawings of shadows
I get into a Hackney cab
The driver wants to make light conversation
I allow him and we talk about the weather
Being overcast with no chance of rain
I get home. Mum is making dinner
A black bubbling hot pot is in the oven
But I can smell nothing
Mum has shadows under her eyes
I tell her I’ve been reading about Rembrandt
And his ideas of single candles
And chiaroscuro
She picks up a carrot and throws it at me
‘HAHAHA I’ll bloody give you key a scurrow!’
And the glowing orange carrot
Burns a trail like a firework
Or a radioactive missile exploding mid-flight
Bringing all the colour back to my face
FOUR WALLS
In the mirror with you behind me
Eyes in the light like something cold
I turn the mirror on its axel so it faces up
I can no longer see you
And we lay on the floor by the bed
With the television on
Your belly makes a noise like a toad
I watch the fan on the roof rotate the room
And I cannot think of anything
Worth thinking about
Outside these four walls
SNAPPING TURTLE MUSIC
The night was filled
With tiny razors that
Slit my chin, old men
Might need this sharp air
I was too young and beardless.
Four of us went into the warm pub
Warm is too mild a term, it was
Oven-basting hot
Surrounded by tall turkeys
Short enough not to buy a drink
Not that I could afford one.
A band played, the room shifted
In a white anger blindly
Whipping at each other
Arms chopping the heat;
Thick axes like something
From comic books I dodged
Ducked, dived and moved
With the room. Guitars were
Not guitars but craned necks
Snapping like hungry turtles
I did everything I could
To avoid the jaws, blinded with sweat
And then it stopped and
People clapped, slapping
Each others backs and the men
On our heads got down and I looked at
John and his nose was bleeding
And his mouth was smiling.
The band said ‘Thank you’
And we all waited, panting
For the drums to strike again.
A GOOD NIGHT'S SLEEP
I changed the sheets
From a crisp morning blue
To an expansive red
I plugged myself beneath
No more dreams of
Big Hearted Rivers
Part one or part two
No more Celine
Getting sick
At the sight of the sea
No more mariners
Shooting holy birds
And seeing ocean-bottom
Friends again and again.
No, it’s got to be red,
Red is the colour of a good night’s sleep
Then, As I drift off
I remember the colour
Of the Tropic of Cancer
And I cannot stop myself before I
Enter that crimson slimy gathering
If I’ve learnt anything
It’s read less, think less
And get a better night’s sleep.
PIG RIDING
I looked out over the city
From a high rise window
And closed my eyes,
Destroying the city
A miniature Buddha
Called me a baby.
I picked up the stone
And flung it out
It flew in its heavy lotus
I was too high
To see where it landed
Or if it landed
When the telephone rings
Do not answer
Leave it hanging
I am out
Pig riding
ELIAH IN THE OLD NIGHT IS ELIAH IN THE DAWN
Eliah found himself
At the New Year party
In a situation of sorts
Lying on the carpet n
Watching all the shoes. His thought:
‘There are too many
Shoes in the world’
His had dissolved into the night
Starting the year, with a bare sole
‘So he may not be right
But after 14 martinis,
He definitely is not wrong
People stepped over him
Stepped on him
Slid on top of him
Pretending to ride him
Eliah could not give a care
So he could receive none either.
In his pocket, he had his taxi fare
He could roll out whenever he pleased.
He slid onto the green leather sofa
Between a creationist and a evolutionist
Deep into the beginnings of debate
‘Faith is a concept your Lilliputian intelligence
Just cannot, will not, could not comprehend’
‘This coming from the man that believes in small men
Defeating giants’ said the other.
Eliah absolved them both
Baptising them in a shook-up beer
‘SHADRACH
MESCHACH
ABABADNEGRO!
WALK THROUGH THE FIRE
AND YOU SHALL BE BURNED!’
That little trick was an expensive one
And Eliah earned
A push and a kick out the front door
‘My resolution’ Eliah - master calligrapher,
Wrote on the pavement slab
‘To be this year a contributor
To cobbling shoes and shortening men’
THE NAIL BITER
She looks hungry in the rising dawn
Putting my fingers in her mouth
They come out sheared off to the bone
It is taking more and more of me to excite her
Woman: a definitive nail biter
I asked her to put the radio on
She throws it right in
She’s always complaining
She’s too fat or too thin
She’s O.K. at scrabble but
She’s bad when she loses
And she’s shit when she wins
FIGHT (on a triple word scorer)
And she’s telling me I bore her
Oh god, pass the cigarette n
Oh man, pass that blue lighter
Woman, shudder ugh a nail biter
She wants me to be a sculpter, rodin
She wants me to be a painter, GAUGIN
She hates writers
The nail biter
CHRISTIAN SERPENT KING
He had tattoos on his knees
Two pairs of snakes: ouroborous
So when he was praying
He could see the devil
For such a boring guy
This was the most
Interesting thing I’d heard in a while.
In Afghanistan they were all
That was left of him
Four snakes.
TALKING SENSE
It is October
And I am in the local park
Eating my lunch
Usually I am alone
Today all the blue benches are full
Of people of all ages, all
Wearing glasses and with
Pens and pencils and notebooks
Watching on and writing
It’s like a panopticon of writers
Recording writers
I eat my sandwich slowly
And try not to spill any French mustard
On my white oxford shirt.
To the left a man and a little girl
Walk in
The little girl is crying, maybe 6 years old.
Is this what they have all been waiting for?
He has his arm around her
‘Don’t think about them Angel’
‘WAAAAAAA’
‘Sticks and stones will’ WAAAAAA
He gets in front of her and crouches
The sun is in his eyes,
He puts his hand on her cheek
‘UNLESS YOU WANT THEM TO -
NOONE HAS THE RIGHT TO CHANGE HOW YOU FEEL’
The sound of pens scratching paper
Increases in volume
Like rats in the attic
The girl stops crying
And looks at him
WAAAAAAAAAA
He takes her hand
And they walk out of the park’s gates
We all watch them go.
HE SITS WITH A PEN
It is hard to get past that thought,
Him sitting with a pen
It is hard and liquid at the same time
And that is also inside him,
It could move and carve something on to the paper
Or it might not
He worries about being verbose
Or becoming lost in the spewing volcanic clouds of symbolism
He is angry and so sick with anger
He wants to vomit and get it out
And record it.
He sticks the pen
Down the back of his throat
and he writes,
‘I am in red anger
Hot and tight and sore.
A fly is wriggling on its back
Its legs fall upon air and it thinks
‘I am walking upon the clouds’
But stuck, it does not move.
And it sees a huge pinky orange line
Mottled with whorls and waves like dirt dunes
Slowly descending towards it
Until it is upon the fly and
It feels an immense pressure
Bursting it into nothing
The finger wipes itself off with a white tissue
And the invisible ants move in.
IMPERFECT BUT ON FORM
‘The half finished sandstone concrete skyscraper
Looks in the clear orange morning light
Like it has been here for forever
Or for a very long time
It looks like a fossil or some prehistoric behemoth
Or the spinal chord of the world
Clicking all to the hot…’
He continues on his mid-morning rambling
But this is the good part of the day
Maybe the best
Still a quarter asleep
And so life is still reeling,
Bleary eyed and sunken
Trying to
Make sense of itself.
And there is truth in what he says
The half finished skyscraper
Is in the clear orange morning light.
PUB CRAWLER
I'm the wolf baby
He says night after night
He says to all;
propping up the bar
To anyone who listens
And yes he is,
Just by looking at his
Long silver mane
Spiked and matted from the
Heavy rain
That fell like
Heaven broke
And the shards of the city
Plunged into our heads.
Red eyes from too much
Rum and not enough sleep
Never enough sleep,
Teeth ground down
4 visible points
His smile feasts on your eyes
He laps at his pint,
Glares at the blue wall &
Mumbles something about
It dribbling.
He says I'm the wolf baby
Yes he is.
THE GREEN GRASS
Two boys are crying
Watching something, pointing at it
In the park. Close, is another being
An ape on the bars
Impressing a golden haired girl;
She might be his
He might be hers
Everything belongs to someone &
The resin is gushing from the trees &
In the bough of the trees are the heads
Of the many beneath them,
Just the heads, so they watch &
Stare and don’t go anywhere.
The two boys are still crying,
Their pockets are full of things
'Though less full than the man
Who just gave away all his money
And more full than the man
Who took it.'
A cheap, miniature Buddha
Sitting in hedgerow speaks.
'With the weight of world
Coupled with the weight of your pockets
You bring yourself
Closer to your knees'
The two boys are crying
Pointing at
The man crawling like a dog,
With dark brown hands and knees,
Across the green’s grass.
NIGHT SWIMMING
He is night swimming in the dock’s waters
The moonlit water laps at him like a cat at her milk
Beneath him are televisions, fast cars, bags of money,
Women, sodden bibles & job applications and of course, fish.
It is difficult for him to write or even think
When he is doing all he can to stay afloat
And those things beneath want him down there
So very badly and they jostle and cajole and try to
Identify with his situation. He could stay down there
He could simply stop and spend his allotted time with these things
But something inside keeps him going, it is easier in the day.
A boat goes by him, filled with toothy crescents and laughter
And music that vibrates the water’s cloak covering him
He thinks he sees in the moon’s glare, a famous painter
Yes, and a renowned sculpturess kissing and he looks away
Something is in his eye, maybe a splash or it has started raining
So he stops treading water and lets the hands of the black reeds
Take him down and down and deeper. Till there is no moon,
But rest at the bottom of the dock’s soft bed.
Time is no longer of concequence.
AND SO IT GOES
At a bar with two friends
Drinking warm beer but it’s a cold night
Slowly soaking up the crowded room
I’m introduced to a wide eyed guy
With a huge chest, filled with heads
He works his way into talking about poetry
‘I used to write poetry –
I used to be great:
Our responsibility begins with the power to imagine’
He says, quoting Auden or Yeats or
Some dead.
‘But I had it, man I had it
I wrote this poem on the back
Of this napkin in a coffee shop
It had it all, women, sex
Power, death, oceans –
All that makes a good poem great’
The table is enamoured
‘What happened?’ a voice
Behind the table enquires
‘the waitress spilt coffee on it and
I lost it all, every word; could not remember
It killed it for me’
I think on this little death,
This little piece of gibberish.
Every poem should be that
Feeling that you cannot write another
You are shackled to the pen
Hands glued to the paper
With a knife point held to your eye
And a warm gun to your ear
So that each word you get wrong,
Those makers of your own destruction
Move a little closer and if you finish
Badly,
You lose an eye or an ear
And for every one you get right
You get nothing
Just the chance to write again
And so it goes.
As you might imagine,
I’ve spent many bullets,
Bloodied many knives and
I’ve had a lot of surgery.
In fact, I think I hear behind me
The cocking of something now.
I close my eyes and
Let go of the pen.
HOLLOW HEAD
‘Hollow head I got’
He said ‘Touch wood’
And wrapped his knuckles
On his temples
‘HAHAHA’
‘Never join in with the mad’
Someone once said
‘You pick up bad habits’
But talking to this huge tree
Of a man
A gnarled face
Older than centuries
Hands;
Tough long roots
10 long histories
Motioning wildly
He doesn’t mind telling me
And I don’t mind listening
There’s gold in those
He said ‘Touch wood’
And wrapped his knuckles
On his temples
‘HAHAHA’
‘Never join in with the mad’
Someone once said
‘You pick up bad habits’
But talking to this huge tree
Of a man
A gnarled face
Older than centuries
Hands;
Tough long roots
10 long histories
Motioning wildly
He doesn’t mind telling me
And I don’t mind listening
There’s gold in those
Black snaking mines
Even if I can’t see it in the dark
Even if I can’t bring it back to the surface;
Even if I can’t bring it back to the surface;
Or even get back myself,
It will surface somehow.
It will surface somehow.
POETRY WORKSHOP III
I sat down and
Waiting in line
As one by one
They all read out their poems
The teenager in the blue or green cardigan
Wasn’t wearing one
He stood up to read his poem
I stood up also
‘Would you mind if I went first?’
He looked and smiled
‘No, not at all’
So I went first and said:
‘It’s days like this
Fresh blue cold
September mornings
I would not swap
For a full pack of cigarettes
Hot black coffee
Warms my stomach
Sets my jelly eyes
Into two, clear-cut crystals
Catch myself
In a quicksilver blue
Passing car and
Damn I’m not bad
Not too bad
Buddha, Allah and some
Holy fathers or various
Mothers of the Earth
May have lived or died
Or never been born
They all now are nothing
But this day is something
Else’
Afterwards the teenager came up to me
‘That was pretty good’ he said
‘Thanks’ I said
‘Do you want my poem from this week?’
‘No thanks’ I said
‘I see - can I have my others back?’
I reached into my pocket
And gave him the two, blue sheets of paper
And watched his face crack
POETRY WORKSHOP II
I sat down
And waited in line
As one by one they
Read out their new poems
And discussed them
The teenager in the blue cardigan
Was wearing a green one
He stood up and read his poem
He said:
‘I dip one frost-sugared toe
That’s my lot
Into the porcelain cup’s melting pot
It dissolves, too hot! Foot throbs
From the scold
Too bold! Too bold. Let break the,
The banks of cold’
Eureka! A tub fit for Archimedes
I’m in england’s warmer antipodes
I slip slowly under at Neptune’s entice
Lying in the same river, for once, twice
Did you ever have baths while philosophising?
Changing states and acclimatising
Before being and becoming, Heraclitus? It
Could have undone your laws and while at rest
Fixed your body broken by arthritis'
After the workshop,
I said the teenager
Can I have that poem
He said ‘Becoming a collector huh?
I looked him in the eye
‘Sure’ He said
When I got home
I ran myself a bath
It was cold as
There is no hot water
I got in and read
The poem to myself out loud
Then I dropped it into the water
Everything went blue
And I pushed myself under
POETRY WORKSHOP I
I sat down and waited in line as
They, one by one
Read out their poems and
Discussed them
A teenager in a blue cardigan
Stood up and read his poem
He said ‘Hello’
Everyone said ‘Hello’ and he read:
‘Evening horns herald me from the deep
Drowsy and drunken double headed sleep
I try to squeeze the dark world from my eyes
Keep my head in a dreamboat when capsized
But lifeguards pull me up, out by my hair
They should have known I was happier down there
Dressing I swim out through the twilight pitch
In search of ice to sooth a burning itch
Your pharmakon anointed on my chest
In lack or excess, it now won’t rest
My heart is played upon a voodun drum
By a loan, boy racer’s stereo hum
Lungs shiver out breath, stolen by Amon.
Even after all times past – the beat goes on’
After the workshop
I said to the teenager
‘Can I have that poem?’
He smiled and said
‘It’s my only copy’
I said ‘Can I have that poem.’
He said O.K. and
Gave me the poem.
As I walked back home
It started to rain
It started to piss it down
I took the folded up poem out
Of my pocket and
Dropped it in a puddle
The paper went blue.
EVENING IN NOVEMBER
We watched the cold dead thing
Sit there like a tree trunk
Expecting it to grow and explode with green
All of us crammed in coats
Exhaling smoke till our lungs hurt
Wanting more fire, smoke and light
Something to blot out the stars
Getting knuckle cracking impatient
Ryan moves towards it as if trying
To sneak up upon it
And FERWOOSH it moves
Faster than our eyes can track
Our own rocket ship
We’re hoping not to make it
And it does not. It hits a cloud
And our ears explode
My eyes are on fire
With blue and green and white
I look across
5 people, their faces painted blue
And then into shadow
Their is an excitement in the air
And we go back inside
To kill it with beer
TO THE MIRROR
she hold up
her breasts
as if,
for the first time
realising what they're for
lipstick smeared
across the floor
like the trail
of some dying slug
doubled
an entering
and exiting, in
her hot breath
she writes
her temporary name
the glass is cool
against her finger
there is the sweet
smell of her
and her perfume
condensing upon
all
all shown is shadow
all is red in the room
and in shadow
her breasts
as if,
for the first time
realising what they're for
lipstick smeared
across the floor
like the trail
of some dying slug
doubled
an entering
and exiting, in
her hot breath
she writes
her temporary name
the glass is cool
against her finger
there is the sweet
smell of her
and her perfume
condensing upon
all
all shown is shadow
all is red in the room
and in shadow
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A FURNITURE COPYWRITER
Mahogany veneer upholstered in applecake green
The wood baked like applecake
Smell it, you’ll see.
No, I would not suggest sitting in it.
Why? Because you’ll never get out of course.
An executive Francis meeting table,
Confident and Modern.
Run your hands along it
Let your mind run with it
Where are you going?
Bring your mind and eyes beneath,
Don’t you think these legs
Are like a woman’s legs?
Yes, I knew you would.
It’s a trader’s desk, robust and tough
Punch it, try and wrench somethi-
Exactly, nothing doing. It’s the heavyweight
It’s so heavy; it’s a juggernaut, the rules of inertia
Prevent it from not leading the desking market.
Something to put your morning coffee on?
Mario Putzi designed this.
Italian formalism with a coked finish
Mmmm yes, there’s not a Director
That doesn’t fall in love with this;
But can you afford the high price?
Can you?
SCORCH MARKS
She is in amongst the
Ivy blushing autumn
Against the garden
Basement's wall
I had not noticed it
In the black dress
The night was wearing
But that soon came off
There are volcano down here
Letting everything off &
Hissing content in the rain
Scorch marks where she were
Where she is not
Seagulls screech above and
Below, sound being now
Ivy blushing autumn
Against the garden
Basement's wall
I had not noticed it
In the black dress
The night was wearing
But that soon came off
There are volcano down here
Letting everything off &
Hissing content in the rain
Scorch marks where she were
Where she is not
Seagulls screech above and
Below, sound being now
The only thing left unhardened
4 HAIKUS FOR MY 5 FAVOURITE THINGS (BIRDS, CATS, MILK, BEER AND HAM)
The empty night
Puts a cloak
On the cold sparrow
The cats tongue
Held fast
In frozen milk
Cool cans of beer
Freeze
The alcoholic’s pennies
Thunder forks
A slice of ham
From the ash tree
NATURE IS OFTEN HARD TO FOLLOW
The boys ran off hand in hand
Away from Mother, Father, Step-
Mother, step-father, sister and the rest.
‘Stay in the field
Of vision’
They said, all blind, all unknowing
The forest was a deep one
And they never came back
The same.
I watched from afar the green
Envelop them
Fold itself over, lick itself like a cat
With milky paws
You or I might enter with clean knees
And leave with dirty red black ones
(Or dragging yourself out
With the caps bitten off –
Nature is often hard to follow)
Their shirts beat them back to their keepers
Blowing across the yellow plain
Drenched in the brown spittle of the forest.
The boys arrived later, naked and bearded
With the end of autumn
The naked trees shivering;
The green sheared off to the brown bone
‘Here come the beginnings’ they said
‘Of a cold snap.’
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