How the Truth Got Out.
Truth? Do they still make that?
Bagged up and sold the last
of mine. Long time gone. Lost
value. To be fair, bag's worth
more empty. Easier to carry.
Bags? Do they stil make bags?
Unravelled mine. Picked the last
one apart. Long time gone.
Lost value to be fair. Thread's
worth more. More versatile.
Threads? No point following
threads. Not now. It's fibre
you want. To be fair, 'following'
is old hat. Fibres are worth
much more. Multi-directional.
Hats? More hats than I know
what to do with, more hats
than I can shake a stick at.
Sure, take one - thinking
about it - take a stick too.
Stick? Not really a stick,
more a needle. Here, help
me thread it. I gotta darn
this worn-out sack -
that's how the truth got out.
Sunday 15 April 2012
Thursday 12 April 2012
12.04.12
The Value of Things
I read someone else's poems
instead of writing my own.
Except for these three lines.
I read someone else's poems
instead of writing my own.
Except for these three lines.
Wednesday 11 April 2012
11.04.12
Panic Attack on Platform
The guard whispers into his collar mike.
(Fuck this city wide conspiracy. Really?)
Youth dem point from bridge. The puppet
man is shittin' it - gettin' fast outta dodge.
Sloppy chicken skin fattens my tongue,
silences the blurt. I never f'kin blurt.
Add more grease to dark stained shirt,
clean palm-heels in upward spurt of energy.
This is not behaviour, is not normal,
microspastic words splurge in skull,
wriggles and jiggles and trickles, inbred
ear bounce keeps the nonsense locked in.
Rushower drenches me in sweat. Staccatto
actors hit marks, do lines, improv, needle.
I click and tick, a nervous geiger counter,
chew the gnaws off a bloody gum and lip.
Bag it up, cling filmed, colour coded.
Number parts. Dead weight comic books.
My entire heftable life sinks like a flag
on a corkboard, even while the world crumbles.
The guard whispers into his collar mike.
(Fuck this city wide conspiracy. Really?)
Youth dem point from bridge. The puppet
man is shittin' it - gettin' fast outta dodge.
Sloppy chicken skin fattens my tongue,
silences the blurt. I never f'kin blurt.
Add more grease to dark stained shirt,
clean palm-heels in upward spurt of energy.
This is not behaviour, is not normal,
microspastic words splurge in skull,
wriggles and jiggles and trickles, inbred
ear bounce keeps the nonsense locked in.
Rushower drenches me in sweat. Staccatto
actors hit marks, do lines, improv, needle.
I click and tick, a nervous geiger counter,
chew the gnaws off a bloody gum and lip.
Bag it up, cling filmed, colour coded.
Number parts. Dead weight comic books.
My entire heftable life sinks like a flag
on a corkboard, even while the world crumbles.
11.04.12 re-write
Weekend Dad / Sudden Downpour
Hot in the car, driving towards Peartree Services,
my two girls argue in the backseat. Tangled up
in Blue starts on the radio. It gets me misty,
overlays childish bickering and the tyres' roll,
speeding along at eighty, cutting from light to heavy.
The rain hits: Big splats kamikaze the windscreen, arriving en-masse
like an out-of-the-blue crescendo. I say, Here Comes The Rain!
complete with punctuation, before drowning in my mundanity.
It falls faster than the wipers wave. I get glimpses of spray
and brake lights. The kids sing, Rain, Rain, Go Away,
giggle between themselves.
I see sun, up ahead, white glare
where light hits the washed road like forgiveness.
Hot in the car, driving towards Peartree Services,
my two girls argue in the backseat. Tangled up
in Blue starts on the radio. It gets me misty,
overlays childish bickering and the tyres' roll,
speeding along at eighty, cutting from light to heavy.
The rain hits: Big splats kamikaze the windscreen, arriving en-masse
like an out-of-the-blue crescendo. I say, Here Comes The Rain!
complete with punctuation, before drowning in my mundanity.
It falls faster than the wipers wave. I get glimpses of spray
and brake lights. The kids sing, Rain, Rain, Go Away,
giggle between themselves.
I see sun, up ahead, white glare
where light hits the washed road like forgiveness.
Tuesday 10 April 2012
10.04.12
Weekend Dad / Sudden Downpour
Hot in the car, driving back to Peartree Services,
my two wee spuds bake in the back. Tangled up
in Blue starts on the radio. Its chesty guitar slide
gets me all misty eyed, mixing chatter and poetry,
speeding along at eighty. We cut from light to heavy.
The rain hits: Big splats strike the window, arriving en-masse
like an out-of-the-blue crescendo. I say, Here Comes The Rain!
complete with punctuation, before drowning in my mundanity.
It falls faster than the wipers wave. I get glimpses
of spray. The kids singing, Rain, Rain, Go Away,
gigling between themselves.
Up ahead I see white glare
where sun hits rainslick road like forgiveness.
Hot in the car, driving back to Peartree Services,
my two wee spuds bake in the back. Tangled up
in Blue starts on the radio. Its chesty guitar slide
gets me all misty eyed, mixing chatter and poetry,
speeding along at eighty. We cut from light to heavy.
The rain hits: Big splats strike the window, arriving en-masse
like an out-of-the-blue crescendo. I say, Here Comes The Rain!
complete with punctuation, before drowning in my mundanity.
It falls faster than the wipers wave. I get glimpses
of spray. The kids singing, Rain, Rain, Go Away,
gigling between themselves.
Up ahead I see white glare
where sun hits rainslick road like forgiveness.
Monday 9 April 2012
09.04.12
Noodle Doodle
Noodle Doodle, cast about,
twist one way then another -
hanging from a leather belt
there's little to discover.
Noodle Doodle contemplate:
Is there nothing takes your fancy?
Noodle Doodle it's too late -
look how your feet are dancing.
Noodle Doodle, cast about,
twist one way then another -
hanging from a leather belt
there's little to discover.
Noodle Doodle contemplate:
Is there nothing takes your fancy?
Noodle Doodle it's too late -
look how your feet are dancing.
Saturday 7 April 2012
07.04.12
Raratonga
Gin took hold
at sun set, the sea
rip still water out.
Gin, naked as glass.
Feral dog scavenge
in bin, growl amplified.
Ghost hang, spider silk
in air, wrapped up in
not belonging anywhere.
Coconut fall, guillotined
head, jolt me out
of pacific blackout.
Dog bark, cattle stamp,
goat, pig, cock
wake the split sun
in a circle of bug-kill
powder, counting
the dead millipede's legs.
Gin took hold
at sun set, the sea
rip still water out.
Gin, naked as glass.
Feral dog scavenge
in bin, growl amplified.
Ghost hang, spider silk
in air, wrapped up in
not belonging anywhere.
Coconut fall, guillotined
head, jolt me out
of pacific blackout.
Dog bark, cattle stamp,
goat, pig, cock
wake the split sun
in a circle of bug-kill
powder, counting
the dead millipede's legs.
Friday 6 April 2012
06.04.12
A Water Cooler Moment
(After Relationship Manager)
Lee Reed closes the door to his wafer-thin-walled office,
he twizzles the nob to close the venetian blind
and walks to the corner of his room. He feel like a dunce,
feels a need to urinate, feels the lump in his throat,
the fattening tongue that has, since childhood,
signalled tears. More business accounts have closed
this month than are acceptable. His boss warned him:
first the bonus will go and then the job,
(and then the wife he is sure). Lee spends his nights
playing guitar in a rock 'n' roll band. If he plays loud enough,
for a second, the fear might go away. Tears never come.
His hands claw upwards like tight cones, his head
tips back and swells, his mouth a hat-brim circle,
his thoughts turn to liquid - heavy, cold water
that weighs down through him. Panic attack?
He tries to look down but can't. His legs refuse to move.
His skin turns transparent, like toughened plastic
and his office takes on the curve of a fish-eye lens.
He feels shrunk to the size of a child. A hand-size cave
is excavated from his belly. Help, he screams, like a bubble
escaping. A girl enters the room, acts like he isn't there,
frilling the limp leaf on his desk plant. An impulse purchase.
She walks up to Lee and takes a styrofoam cone
from where his hand used to be. Flips a nob at his belly button.
Lee feels his fear emptying, glug-glug-glug, a little.
The girl returns to the desk, waters the plant, exits. A bubble
erupts from the belly of the water cooler in the wafer-thin-walled office.
(After Relationship Manager)
Lee Reed closes the door to his wafer-thin-walled office,
he twizzles the nob to close the venetian blind
and walks to the corner of his room. He feel like a dunce,
feels a need to urinate, feels the lump in his throat,
the fattening tongue that has, since childhood,
signalled tears. More business accounts have closed
this month than are acceptable. His boss warned him:
first the bonus will go and then the job,
(and then the wife he is sure). Lee spends his nights
playing guitar in a rock 'n' roll band. If he plays loud enough,
for a second, the fear might go away. Tears never come.
His hands claw upwards like tight cones, his head
tips back and swells, his mouth a hat-brim circle,
his thoughts turn to liquid - heavy, cold water
that weighs down through him. Panic attack?
He tries to look down but can't. His legs refuse to move.
His skin turns transparent, like toughened plastic
and his office takes on the curve of a fish-eye lens.
He feels shrunk to the size of a child. A hand-size cave
is excavated from his belly. Help, he screams, like a bubble
escaping. A girl enters the room, acts like he isn't there,
frilling the limp leaf on his desk plant. An impulse purchase.
She walks up to Lee and takes a styrofoam cone
from where his hand used to be. Flips a nob at his belly button.
Lee feels his fear emptying, glug-glug-glug, a little.
The girl returns to the desk, waters the plant, exits. A bubble
erupts from the belly of the water cooler in the wafer-thin-walled office.
05.06.12 (a day late)
Margaret had a terrible fear
about being buried alive.
Asked if she'd rather be buried at sea
she said,
'Oh no dear, I can't swim so I'd never survive.'
about being buried alive.
Asked if she'd rather be buried at sea
she said,
'Oh no dear, I can't swim so I'd never survive.'
Wednesday 4 April 2012
04.04.10
Relationship Manager
I want to close my account, I say, and the boy-man agrees
too quickly for my liking. He squints at his VDU, examines
my financial hole - which faces him, not me.
There's eight pounds in the business account - if that helps,
he says, I'll transfer it to current. He tells me there's no money
in my savings - in case I'm interested.
His hands witter-witter away the notion that writing can be
a business - Of course you're closing - they say - stay away
from me - they insist. I read his name tag:
Lee Reed, I'm assured, would love to help - with his pipe cleaner
arms poking out of a cavernous short-sleeve shirt.
The extra half-inch round the collar makes him every inch a nodding dog.
For a second I want to order Big Mac and Fries (just to see).
His nails are nibbled down. He's married. Silver band. Shaved
this morning, but didn't have time to wash his Tintin-esque mess of quiffage.
His Buddy Holly's slip down a millimeter or two when he smiles
to make exit strategy (get out of my office) small talk. Firm hand
shake, coupelled with an almost bow of the head, inviting me
to examine the scene of what, in fifteen years, will no doubt be
a bald spot. Lee Reed closes my account, closes the door
to his wafer-thin-walled office, and isn't afraid of money.
I want to close my account, I say, and the boy-man agrees
too quickly for my liking. He squints at his VDU, examines
my financial hole - which faces him, not me.
There's eight pounds in the business account - if that helps,
he says, I'll transfer it to current. He tells me there's no money
in my savings - in case I'm interested.
His hands witter-witter away the notion that writing can be
a business - Of course you're closing - they say - stay away
from me - they insist. I read his name tag:
Lee Reed, I'm assured, would love to help - with his pipe cleaner
arms poking out of a cavernous short-sleeve shirt.
The extra half-inch round the collar makes him every inch a nodding dog.
For a second I want to order Big Mac and Fries (just to see).
His nails are nibbled down. He's married. Silver band. Shaved
this morning, but didn't have time to wash his Tintin-esque mess of quiffage.
His Buddy Holly's slip down a millimeter or two when he smiles
to make exit strategy (get out of my office) small talk. Firm hand
shake, coupelled with an almost bow of the head, inviting me
to examine the scene of what, in fifteen years, will no doubt be
a bald spot. Lee Reed closes my account, closes the door
to his wafer-thin-walled office, and isn't afraid of money.
Tuesday 3 April 2012
03.02.12
Dear John Poem
All these long months and years of lying
here next to you like the lip on a shelf.
All that time. Straining to keep on the level,
or tipped up, to keep you pinned back.
God forbid you should fall off; smash-up
on our bedroom floor; leave splinters
between the click 'n' lock cracks.
There's nothing much to your cocked hip,
at rest, the hilt of a knife in half-twist.
Escaping some dream you peel away
but never quite make it as far as the edge.
I will miss, perhaps, the shared dent of our lives -
how, in cold weather, we would roll together.
All these long months and years of lying
here next to you like the lip on a shelf.
All that time. Straining to keep on the level,
or tipped up, to keep you pinned back.
God forbid you should fall off; smash-up
on our bedroom floor; leave splinters
between the click 'n' lock cracks.
There's nothing much to your cocked hip,
at rest, the hilt of a knife in half-twist.
Escaping some dream you peel away
but never quite make it as far as the edge.
I will miss, perhaps, the shared dent of our lives -
how, in cold weather, we would roll together.
Monday 2 April 2012
02.04.12
A Lot Can Happen in a Day
He woke-up, found a tooth resting on his pillow,
an incisor. He quickly tongued his own.
They were present, but the one on the left, different,
a little more pointed.
He looked again, brushing his teeth, sneering
into the mirror. Odd.
Pulling on his trousers he felt an unfamiliar jab,
there was a house key in his pocket.
Not his. He put the key and the tooth to one side,
on the windowsill, and made his bed.
Climbing into his car he found the pedals too far
from his toes.
The rear-view was kinked. He got out. Climbed
back in. It was his.
At work, he found a new secratary waiting, who insisted
on calling him Sir.
Which wasn't his name, but he didn't mind. At coffee break
a woman squeezed his hand. Quickly.
While no-one was looking. She whispered When can we
get away? He said Soon.
He went to the toliet, to have a word with himself
and facing the mirror
he could have sworn his eyes were brown, not blue.
By five o'clock
he was getting used to the ring that kept appearing
on his wedding finger.
At first he took it off of course, but later daydreaming,
he would be rotating it again
around and around. On arriving home a strange woman
answered his door,
telling him the kids needed collecting from Karate
class, that she had found his missing key.
Sunday 1 April 2012
01/04/12
Here goes, day one, crack fingers and . . .
Post Office Queue
Old ladies, always scribbling stuff down on torn envelopes,
have been a half-noticed fact of my life. The rationing thrift of it all.
I remember brave resistance women, at war, piercingly anxious,
listening to the time bomb of their hearts. An underground emotion
of morse code tapped in the irrational pulse of their blood, and translated
by place, time and memory into scribbles on a second hand envelope.
Wednesday 28 March 2012
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