Peace
I don't sleep.
I wrestle the darkness.
It smothers my skin; vicious
Visceral oil.
I kick and drown.
Kick and drown.
The bastard won't release me,
Even when rabbited by passing cars.
The duvet cements
me to the sheets
Like melting marshmallow.
The pillows, like 16-bit ghosts,
Attack and retreat
Attack and retreat.
In your absence I am less than usual
(as usual).
I long for the door to creak;
To feel you clamber over me.
Your scent, silvery skin,
Warmth.
Ah, at last,
Peace.
Wednesday 22 September 2010
Friday 3 September 2010
Help the (Middle) Aged
Old enough to know better
We lay out in the crisp, damp grass
In our Sunday best
And made no mention of the clouds
That looked like Groucho Marx or flamingos.
Instead we let our toes toy with the idea of touching;
Coyness getting the better of them eventually.
Instead I marvelled at her eyes
(Two neighbouring discotheques competing for custom).
Instead we talked and we listened in turn.
Half a lifetime away
And we may have danced through the fountain
Fully clothed
Or turned cartwheels
Until the flamingos turned pink and took wing.
Perhaps we are too long in the trousers now
To fall for Cupid’s trickery twice.
Perhaps Freya and Radha and Kama
Can see that we are middle-aged
And able to handle things on our own for once.
It’s difficult to say for sure
It is a foreign land to me it seems,
Virgin territory.
It would appear that my compass was broken before
And my map had been held upside down.
But wherever this is we find ourselves
We seem to speak the language.
Wherever this is that we are
The customs suit us well.
Whatever this country turns out to be
We’ll be fine; they welcome the middle-aged.
We lay out in the crisp, damp grass
In our Sunday best
And made no mention of the clouds
That looked like Groucho Marx or flamingos.
Instead we let our toes toy with the idea of touching;
Coyness getting the better of them eventually.
Instead I marvelled at her eyes
(Two neighbouring discotheques competing for custom).
Instead we talked and we listened in turn.
Half a lifetime away
And we may have danced through the fountain
Fully clothed
Or turned cartwheels
Until the flamingos turned pink and took wing.
Perhaps we are too long in the trousers now
To fall for Cupid’s trickery twice.
Perhaps Freya and Radha and Kama
Can see that we are middle-aged
And able to handle things on our own for once.
It’s difficult to say for sure
It is a foreign land to me it seems,
Virgin territory.
It would appear that my compass was broken before
And my map had been held upside down.
But wherever this is we find ourselves
We seem to speak the language.
Wherever this is that we are
The customs suit us well.
Whatever this country turns out to be
We’ll be fine; they welcome the middle-aged.
Bukowski
I’m amazed
More people don’t write like Bukowski.
Everyone is bitter
Everyone is selfish
No one gives a shit about anyone else
On reflection
Perhaps everyone does
And the city is festooned with
Nests built from poems of sadness
More people don’t write like Bukowski.
Everyone is bitter
Everyone is selfish
No one gives a shit about anyone else
On reflection
Perhaps everyone does
And the city is festooned with
Nests built from poems of sadness
Sunday 4 July 2010
Sunday 30 May 2010
TIME OF THE MONTH/FOOTBALL POEM
I'd always been a Coventry supporter
strange, everyday for a month
to hear me shouting
"COME ON YOU REDS"
strange, everyday for a month
to hear me shouting
"COME ON YOU REDS"
Thursday 27 May 2010
There is nothing better than a truly beautiful sky
The moon has been in a fight tonight
And the bruise spreads across the sky;
Yellow and purple. I think maybe
The mountain is broken.
We’ll need to get that fixed
And hope it sets.
You are leaning on the fender
Skirtucked and leatherbooted
Foot tapping to the melody
Of Sam Cooke singing
The sounds of dignity
In the face of oppression.
The whiskey bottle
Catches the headlights
Occasionally
And your face;
Your face.
And until tonight
I stood firm on the fact
That there is nothing better
Than a truly beautiful sky.
And the bruise spreads across the sky;
Yellow and purple. I think maybe
The mountain is broken.
We’ll need to get that fixed
And hope it sets.
You are leaning on the fender
Skirtucked and leatherbooted
Foot tapping to the melody
Of Sam Cooke singing
The sounds of dignity
In the face of oppression.
The whiskey bottle
Catches the headlights
Occasionally
And your face;
Your face.
And until tonight
I stood firm on the fact
That there is nothing better
Than a truly beautiful sky.
THE FLY
it is late and on a windowsill
like a spark of electricity
after seven short days of life
i hear the death of a fly
i weep more than for others i have lost, still
i never did understand the futility
of peoples lack of love for life
i suppose some people deserve to die
Pandora's Box
When all you have left is hope
Locked away
In a jar
Hidden under the bed
Sucking in dust
Perhaps it was a good thing
You let go of all that hate.
Locked away
In a jar
Hidden under the bed
Sucking in dust
Perhaps it was a good thing
You let go of all that hate.
Saturday 15 May 2010
Saltwater
When an ocean cries
For the loss of love,
In grief,
What seeps from its eyes,
The swell of every wave
Beneath?
For the loss of love,
In grief,
What seeps from its eyes,
The swell of every wave
Beneath?
Tuesday 11 May 2010
Damned Chemistry
Do you remember I used to sit next to you in biology class?
And I would study you rather than the texts.
Everything I gleaned about the human eye
Was from careful observation of yours.
I dissected your navy blue jumper
And weighed each breast in the palms of my mind
Ran my hands over your skin
And kept samples on slides
To examine under the microscope
Later.
And all I learned about reproduction was purely
From the thought of you
With me.
And do you remember during physics
I was always caught in your gravity?
Your mass would draw me closer
Than the teacher would allow
And I would spend most of the lesson
Outside
The Headmaster’s office.
I was always picked last in games
As I would simply stand and stare
Across the football field
To the tennis courts
And watch your thighs shimmer in the sun
Below that tiny blue skirt;
Your breasts like tennis balls
Fastened to heaven
With sports tape.
And I never took my eyes from you,
Ball in hand,
Bottom of the scrum.
In History I dug for evidence
Of my initials
Scrawled across your exercise books.
In R.E. I worshipped you alone,
Discounting all other options.
I imagined kissing you in French.
Worked out the odds of being yours in Maths.
And in geography
I would map out the contours of your body.
It was just my bloody luck
The only thing we didn’t have together
Was damned Chemistry.
And I would study you rather than the texts.
Everything I gleaned about the human eye
Was from careful observation of yours.
I dissected your navy blue jumper
And weighed each breast in the palms of my mind
Ran my hands over your skin
And kept samples on slides
To examine under the microscope
Later.
And all I learned about reproduction was purely
From the thought of you
With me.
And do you remember during physics
I was always caught in your gravity?
Your mass would draw me closer
Than the teacher would allow
And I would spend most of the lesson
Outside
The Headmaster’s office.
I was always picked last in games
As I would simply stand and stare
Across the football field
To the tennis courts
And watch your thighs shimmer in the sun
Below that tiny blue skirt;
Your breasts like tennis balls
Fastened to heaven
With sports tape.
And I never took my eyes from you,
Ball in hand,
Bottom of the scrum.
In History I dug for evidence
Of my initials
Scrawled across your exercise books.
In R.E. I worshipped you alone,
Discounting all other options.
I imagined kissing you in French.
Worked out the odds of being yours in Maths.
And in geography
I would map out the contours of your body.
It was just my bloody luck
The only thing we didn’t have together
Was damned Chemistry.
Sunday 9 May 2010
Poem of Uncertainty
To think
We wrote all those stories
In just one day
Remember the one
Where you dressed as an injun'
And you hunted me, the bear?
Or the one
Where we were married on the beach
With a greyhound as our witness
And a preacher that told terrible jokes?
And You were so beautiful
Like the ocean
And I was the beach
You pounded me into submission
With every swell of laughter
Washing me in and out like sand
With every breath
And children now hold the broken pieces
Of my heart to their ears and listen
To the sounds of you
And yet I'm so afraid, my love
What if we have read the last line
And sneakedapeek
At the ending
Too soon
Having missed all the twisty
Turny
Bits
That make the story worth reading?
What if we never discover how happy
They turned out to be:
The greyhound with the chicken bone
And the priest
Who wouldn't sing
We wrote all those stories
In just one day
Remember the one
Where you dressed as an injun'
And you hunted me, the bear?
Or the one
Where we were married on the beach
With a greyhound as our witness
And a preacher that told terrible jokes?
And You were so beautiful
Like the ocean
And I was the beach
You pounded me into submission
With every swell of laughter
Washing me in and out like sand
With every breath
And children now hold the broken pieces
Of my heart to their ears and listen
To the sounds of you
And yet I'm so afraid, my love
What if we have read the last line
And sneakedapeek
At the ending
Too soon
Having missed all the twisty
Turny
Bits
That make the story worth reading?
What if we never discover how happy
They turned out to be:
The greyhound with the chicken bone
And the priest
Who wouldn't sing
Chewing gum kiss (for Vicky Kytzia)
You took the gum
From your orange segment lips
And folded the sticky sweetness
Into shapes between your gentle fingers
So delicate yet so strong
And pressed it onto the bus ticket
From our first adventure
Next to the gum I no longer wanted
That will forever be the moment
The only moment
Of regret
In my life
But instead
Of seizing you
In my embrace
And planting the first seed
Of loves most wondrous question
I took your discarded gum
And spittle
and mine
And wrapped them
up together
And slipped
This chewing gum kiss
Into the pocket of my leather jacket
I will carry it with me
This chewing gum kiss
Until we meet again
And on days when my heart
Can no longer bear the pain
Of your stark and monochrome absence
I will peel away that bus ticket
From our very first adventure
And I will taste your orange lips
On mine
Just To see me through
Until the bus comes
From your orange segment lips
And folded the sticky sweetness
Into shapes between your gentle fingers
So delicate yet so strong
And pressed it onto the bus ticket
From our first adventure
Next to the gum I no longer wanted
That will forever be the moment
The only moment
Of regret
In my life
But instead
Of seizing you
In my embrace
And planting the first seed
Of loves most wondrous question
I took your discarded gum
And spittle
and mine
And wrapped them
up together
And slipped
This chewing gum kiss
Into the pocket of my leather jacket
I will carry it with me
This chewing gum kiss
Until we meet again
And on days when my heart
Can no longer bear the pain
Of your stark and monochrome absence
I will peel away that bus ticket
From our very first adventure
And I will taste your orange lips
On mine
Just To see me through
Until the bus comes
Friday 30 April 2010
Just Because (For Rupert Anson the last scoundrel in Speke)
I
He grew his hair and a beard
When I lost faith with my youth.
He kicked down fences
To show the vandals how it should be done
And smoked grass for the first time
As an octogenarian.
Just because.
He rode a tricycle to town and back
Everyday
When he reluctantly gave up his engines.
And he sat on benches
With WET PAINT signs
Still being written. Villagers aghast.
He used letters from King George
To mop up puddles of oil
Bled from the contraptions he made in his shed
Out of junk found in the wastelands
Spewed out by a dying Mersey.
And any wound could be healed
With pressure and spittle
Pressure and spittle
Pressure and spittle and patience
And he built kites for his Grandson
That didn’t fly.
There was blood on his bayonet
And he drove his wife mad
And he never believed in God.
He turned the concrete patio
Into a vegetable patch
And didn’t understand flowers at all.
He was as deaf as a house
And could do a hundred push-ups
As an octogenarian.
Just because.
II
Chew your food, she says,
He has forgotten again.
And his eyes are like swimming pools
Moss-empty and leaf-wet.
She misses him and that thought
Destroys her every time. After all,
There he is.
Bag of bones. Broken human being.
There will be no letters from the King this time
To soak you up, wring you
Back into the tin for later.
Slicked back hair. Grease the hinge.
And surely now her faith must waver?
But it never did.
Mr Anson, the photographer said,
No, he’s gone again.
And his mind is being pulled further away.
He doesn’t believe. So he ain’t coming.
Rupe, she says lovingly,
Placing a hand on his.
And in an instant like magic;
Eyes alive. Strength and love.
And the unwavering faith, for her,
Was repaid as a gift of moments with him.
And I found faith there too.
God is love, they say.
Maybe he believed after all.
III
That was the last time we saw him. Nana, maybe a few more times. But it was his last chance to see her, I think. When we cremated him we wanted to wear vegetables in our lapels, but we weren’t allowed. We talked about him in exasperated tones and everyone was laughing at the wake. That’s how I want to go. And if I should lose myself in the memories of my childhood and forget everything else. Let me remember you. Let me, like him; come back for you on our anniversary.
Just because.
He grew his hair and a beard
When I lost faith with my youth.
He kicked down fences
To show the vandals how it should be done
And smoked grass for the first time
As an octogenarian.
Just because.
He rode a tricycle to town and back
Everyday
When he reluctantly gave up his engines.
And he sat on benches
With WET PAINT signs
Still being written. Villagers aghast.
He used letters from King George
To mop up puddles of oil
Bled from the contraptions he made in his shed
Out of junk found in the wastelands
Spewed out by a dying Mersey.
And any wound could be healed
With pressure and spittle
Pressure and spittle
Pressure and spittle and patience
And he built kites for his Grandson
That didn’t fly.
There was blood on his bayonet
And he drove his wife mad
And he never believed in God.
He turned the concrete patio
Into a vegetable patch
And didn’t understand flowers at all.
He was as deaf as a house
And could do a hundred push-ups
As an octogenarian.
Just because.
II
Chew your food, she says,
He has forgotten again.
And his eyes are like swimming pools
Moss-empty and leaf-wet.
She misses him and that thought
Destroys her every time. After all,
There he is.
Bag of bones. Broken human being.
There will be no letters from the King this time
To soak you up, wring you
Back into the tin for later.
Slicked back hair. Grease the hinge.
And surely now her faith must waver?
But it never did.
Mr Anson, the photographer said,
No, he’s gone again.
And his mind is being pulled further away.
He doesn’t believe. So he ain’t coming.
Rupe, she says lovingly,
Placing a hand on his.
And in an instant like magic;
Eyes alive. Strength and love.
And the unwavering faith, for her,
Was repaid as a gift of moments with him.
And I found faith there too.
God is love, they say.
Maybe he believed after all.
III
That was the last time we saw him. Nana, maybe a few more times. But it was his last chance to see her, I think. When we cremated him we wanted to wear vegetables in our lapels, but we weren’t allowed. We talked about him in exasperated tones and everyone was laughing at the wake. That’s how I want to go. And if I should lose myself in the memories of my childhood and forget everything else. Let me remember you. Let me, like him; come back for you on our anniversary.
Just because.
Thursday 29 April 2010
Story of my life (For Mike Leeman)
When the last poem I shall write
Is scrawled into the sand
Or sprayed onto a pillar of the
Underground NCP in Basingstoke
And the final memoir of a dying poet
Rages into anonymity once more.
Will you be the one eroded by the ocean,
Washed away by the power hose,
Holding my hand and tripping our way
Into the light?
Is scrawled into the sand
Or sprayed onto a pillar of the
Underground NCP in Basingstoke
And the final memoir of a dying poet
Rages into anonymity once more.
Will you be the one eroded by the ocean,
Washed away by the power hose,
Holding my hand and tripping our way
Into the light?
Good Enough for Me
Never destined for great things
Perhaps
We came closer
Than the historians would have
Other people’s children believe
We were one of those moments
Perhaps
The exposition
In the movie of our lives
Delivered by someone ill cast
But in an incredible feat
Leaving
Every physicist
Scratching their heads
And drawing up new blueprints
We lifted one another
Leaving
The unyielding ground
Far below our feet
Like only drunkards can
And though this imperfect poem
Remains
The only legacy
From our searching
Union of misplaced sadness
The unerring truth
Remains
Me being not
Quite good enough for you
Well, it’s good enough for me
Perhaps
We came closer
Than the historians would have
Other people’s children believe
We were one of those moments
Perhaps
The exposition
In the movie of our lives
Delivered by someone ill cast
But in an incredible feat
Leaving
Every physicist
Scratching their heads
And drawing up new blueprints
We lifted one another
Leaving
The unyielding ground
Far below our feet
Like only drunkards can
And though this imperfect poem
Remains
The only legacy
From our searching
Union of misplaced sadness
The unerring truth
Remains
Me being not
Quite good enough for you
Well, it’s good enough for me
Saturday 24 April 2010
Geometrically Speaking
The poets would have us believe
That love and logic are constantly at odds
With one another. If that were so,
No mathematician would ever feel the thrall
Of that very first
Kiss.
The obvious escapes imagination
That true love is in fact a triangle,
Made of only three sides. Her mind,
Her body and her very soul
Are all along
The vertices.
The whole must be equilateral
For the truth is clear to me now
Anything other than one-eighty degree
Perfect symmetry
Only ever results in being
An isosceles.
(And nobody wants to be an isosceles.)
So my darling, you can sit there and apply
Any theorem that you wish
To make us seem more interesting;
We will never be a scalene
No matter how much you try
Being obtuse.
I simply have to accept that, together,
It all adds up to the same length
In the end. And you need to realise
That there really is no shame
In being just a
Regular Polygon.
That love and logic are constantly at odds
With one another. If that were so,
No mathematician would ever feel the thrall
Of that very first
Kiss.
The obvious escapes imagination
That true love is in fact a triangle,
Made of only three sides. Her mind,
Her body and her very soul
Are all along
The vertices.
The whole must be equilateral
For the truth is clear to me now
Anything other than one-eighty degree
Perfect symmetry
Only ever results in being
An isosceles.
(And nobody wants to be an isosceles.)
So my darling, you can sit there and apply
Any theorem that you wish
To make us seem more interesting;
We will never be a scalene
No matter how much you try
Being obtuse.
I simply have to accept that, together,
It all adds up to the same length
In the end. And you need to realise
That there really is no shame
In being just a
Regular Polygon.
Saturday 17 April 2010
Fumbling with the Mathematics
The night terrors take over
Sweatyshakes and screams waking neighbours
And starting a chorus of foxes;
Crying like panic into the night.
The very odds against meeting you
Are simply astronomical
At best.
Seven billion people
Halved by sex
Divided by geography
And still I never fancied my chances.
And then the formula,
(Beyond Einstein, beyond Hawkins)
To figure out the particulars…
The Where’s and the How’s and the When’s.
Even this does not compare to the complication
Of the common denominators of our compatibility
Sub-divided by how beautiful you are
Times how ordinary I feel next to you.
I have held meetings with quantum physicists,
The greatest minds across our history,
And I have asked them
The simplest question:
Will one plus one ever equal two?
They shrug their shoulders, unknowing,
Just like the rest of us.
But then I wake
And you are watching me
And the love in your eyes is bigger than the cosmos
It is as unfathomable as life’s biggest mystery.
You are more beautiful than God, I think.
And you kiss me on the lips, like heaven descending,
“lucky bastard”, you say.
Sweatyshakes and screams waking neighbours
And starting a chorus of foxes;
Crying like panic into the night.
The very odds against meeting you
Are simply astronomical
At best.
Seven billion people
Halved by sex
Divided by geography
And still I never fancied my chances.
And then the formula,
(Beyond Einstein, beyond Hawkins)
To figure out the particulars…
The Where’s and the How’s and the When’s.
Even this does not compare to the complication
Of the common denominators of our compatibility
Sub-divided by how beautiful you are
Times how ordinary I feel next to you.
I have held meetings with quantum physicists,
The greatest minds across our history,
And I have asked them
The simplest question:
Will one plus one ever equal two?
They shrug their shoulders, unknowing,
Just like the rest of us.
But then I wake
And you are watching me
And the love in your eyes is bigger than the cosmos
It is as unfathomable as life’s biggest mystery.
You are more beautiful than God, I think.
And you kiss me on the lips, like heaven descending,
“lucky bastard”, you say.
Wednesday 14 April 2010
LOVE SOMETIMES LURKS BETWEEN THEM
They are captives to cynicism,
Slaves to the bitterness of experience.
Longing for the innocence that was once theirs
And loathing the innocence of others;
Happiness they now call naivety,
Love, a misunderstanding.
Removing their clothes like tired old excuses
They slip into a freshly made bed
And surrender themselves to the inevitable
With a sigh
Only to find the bedsheets are made from linen
And love sometimes lurks between them.
Slaves to the bitterness of experience.
Longing for the innocence that was once theirs
And loathing the innocence of others;
Happiness they now call naivety,
Love, a misunderstanding.
Removing their clothes like tired old excuses
They slip into a freshly made bed
And surrender themselves to the inevitable
With a sigh
Only to find the bedsheets are made from linen
And love sometimes lurks between them.
A MERMAIDS TRICK
She used on me
A mermaids trick
Singing lullabies and ballads
And haunting laments
Carried over seas
By the winds and waves
The beauty of which
Took me to sail
And I
Like many sailors before me
Have found myself now
Dashed against her rocks
Shipwrecked upon her shores
A mermaids trick
Singing lullabies and ballads
And haunting laments
Carried over seas
By the winds and waves
The beauty of which
Took me to sail
And I
Like many sailors before me
Have found myself now
Dashed against her rocks
Shipwrecked upon her shores
Untitled III
It was unremarkable
Our first meeting
Except for the birds singing
The sun setting
The heart bursting
The Earth turning
Anticlockwise
It was unremarkable
Our first greeting
Other than the time stopping
Ears popping
Stomach knotting
Throat garrotting
Sweaty palms
It was unremarkable
Our first meeting
Except for you
Our first meeting
Except for the birds singing
The sun setting
The heart bursting
The Earth turning
Anticlockwise
It was unremarkable
Our first greeting
Other than the time stopping
Ears popping
Stomach knotting
Throat garrotting
Sweaty palms
It was unremarkable
Our first meeting
Except for you
Big Bang (innuendo not included)
Awake now eternal
I consider the conception of the universe,
And how,
From the nothingness,
Life could grow;
Expanding still.
It is the same for me.
A void; an infinite emptiness; explosion; (you).
And then;
Heart started beating,
Love did grow;
Expanding still.
Christmas Tree Poems (for Naomi)
I
In the winter air,
Our breath,
Mini clouds,
Form shapes
And hang there
Like silver decorations.
It mingles
With steam
Rising quickly
From woollen hands
Holding spiced wine
And cinnamon sticks,
And dissipates
Amongst the mistletoe.
Your cheeks
Are like
Toffee apples,
Hair like ribbons.
Your lips are gifts
I want to unwrap.
And I wish it could be Christmas everyday
Love is my Religion (From Keats To Fanny Brawne, 13 October 1819)
I
You have ravish'd me away
By a Power I cannot resist,
I become humbled,
The nearer to your grace I exist.
If Love is my Religion
Then you have become my Christ
And, until the ever turning
Hands of time desist,
I worship your body, mind and soul
Your ever-faithful priest.
II
Born again,
I am an ex-smoker
Exhaling virtue.
Your love has become my religion
And there are posters of hyperbole
Stuck up outside my church.
I can now often be found in shopping centres
With a microphone and your photograph
Shouting into the wind.
I knock on doors and tell strangers
All about you
Offerings of tea becoming more and more rare.
Each poem I write now
Is a sermon
To you.
III
Reasoning against the reasons of my love
For you
I may as well be arm-wrestling God
For all the good it will do us
IV
My Love is selfish and it is cruel. It will not let me sleep until my eyes have the outline of your body, which is curled up next to me like a spider in a bathtub, burned indelibly, so that when I close them, my lids become cinema screens, playing your movie on a loop until the sun bleaches the morning
And you stir, and reach for me.
My love is selfish.
And will not let me be
My love is selfish.
(Just
as love
should be)
You have ravish'd me away
By a Power I cannot resist,
I become humbled,
The nearer to your grace I exist.
If Love is my Religion
Then you have become my Christ
And, until the ever turning
Hands of time desist,
I worship your body, mind and soul
Your ever-faithful priest.
II
Born again,
I am an ex-smoker
Exhaling virtue.
Your love has become my religion
And there are posters of hyperbole
Stuck up outside my church.
I can now often be found in shopping centres
With a microphone and your photograph
Shouting into the wind.
I knock on doors and tell strangers
All about you
Offerings of tea becoming more and more rare.
Each poem I write now
Is a sermon
To you.
III
Reasoning against the reasons of my love
For you
I may as well be arm-wrestling God
For all the good it will do us
IV
My Love is selfish and it is cruel. It will not let me sleep until my eyes have the outline of your body, which is curled up next to me like a spider in a bathtub, burned indelibly, so that when I close them, my lids become cinema screens, playing your movie on a loop until the sun bleaches the morning
And you stir, and reach for me.
My love is selfish.
And will not let me be
My love is selfish.
(Just
as love
should be)
Sunday 24 January 2010
Friday 22 January 2010
UNDERPANTMAN
Forgive me now as I may very well offend those amongst us who have Virginia Woolfe posters on their walls and Germaine Greer texts on their coffee table. Now, I’m aware that at any poetry evening the chances of this being a disproportionate percentage of the audience is very high but there is a very serious matter that I need to bring to your attention.
Whilst I am a man, who will never understand the pain of childbirth
Nor the discomfort of your monthly cycle
The imbalances of power in the workplace, unfair wages etc
There is something in our world,
The world of men, that far outweighs the disadvantages of Femininity
Namely, The problems with delicate and ineffective Jizm
That’s right!
There is no excusing,
No refusing,
No declining,
No denying,
Mine (and yours, by the looks of it) terrible plight.
Some of our underpants too tight!
Or, if our boxer shorts are too loose,
We risk doing harm to our kiddie-mousse
Oh, Do not spurn
The damage to my sperm.
As we speak
My semen are becoming weak.
Every future child
Is growing wild.
I can hear the scream
Of each of my baby cream,
So, If you see a man in a funk
Understand he has insufficient spunk
Woman, spare a thought
For his dying white-aquanauts
Have some faith, Men,
Listen well to me,
Throw your undies out
And set your semen free.
Whilst I am a man, who will never understand the pain of childbirth
Nor the discomfort of your monthly cycle
The imbalances of power in the workplace, unfair wages etc
There is something in our world,
The world of men, that far outweighs the disadvantages of Femininity
Namely, The problems with delicate and ineffective Jizm
That’s right!
There is no excusing,
No refusing,
No declining,
No denying,
Mine (and yours, by the looks of it) terrible plight.
Some of our underpants too tight!
Or, if our boxer shorts are too loose,
We risk doing harm to our kiddie-mousse
Oh, Do not spurn
The damage to my sperm.
As we speak
My semen are becoming weak.
Every future child
Is growing wild.
I can hear the scream
Of each of my baby cream,
So, If you see a man in a funk
Understand he has insufficient spunk
Woman, spare a thought
For his dying white-aquanauts
Have some faith, Men,
Listen well to me,
Throw your undies out
And set your semen free.
Tuesday 19 January 2010
BELGRANO BOY
Excluded from your erogenous zone
For the final time
I turn to walk away in defeat.
With my white underpants
Waving around my arse
Like a flag with no wind
You take aim and fire.
For the final time
I turn to walk away in defeat.
With my white underpants
Waving around my arse
Like a flag with no wind
You take aim and fire.
THERE'S A LITTLE YELLOW JERSEY (to the North of London Town)
I understand it now
As I never have
It's about befriending the wind
It's freewheelin' the downward slope
After the struggle of the climb
It's the still-frames of scenery -
The granite mountains
The yellow-purple skies
The English hedgerows
The cities, towns and villages
The people
The being alone and the people -
That you keep in your mind
Long after the ride is through.
And it's been an Honour.
It's something you buy into
An involvement of the soul
It's the cuts and bruises
Sometimes you ride in their slipstream
And sometimes
They ride in yours
It's the sharing of the glory
A podium of infinite pain and joy
And it's been an Honour.
And I know I can say this now
Before the next race starts
Here's to the man
Who stands on the side-line
But here's love to the man
Who loves to take part.
And
Its been
An Honour.
As I never have
It's about befriending the wind
It's freewheelin' the downward slope
After the struggle of the climb
It's the still-frames of scenery -
The granite mountains
The yellow-purple skies
The English hedgerows
The cities, towns and villages
The people
The being alone and the people -
That you keep in your mind
Long after the ride is through.
And it's been an Honour.
It's something you buy into
An involvement of the soul
It's the cuts and bruises
Sometimes you ride in their slipstream
And sometimes
They ride in yours
It's the sharing of the glory
A podium of infinite pain and joy
And it's been an Honour.
And I know I can say this now
Before the next race starts
Here's to the man
Who stands on the side-line
But here's love to the man
Who loves to take part.
And
Its been
An Honour.
SHIT ON YOUR SHOES (a love poem)
Written on the back of old bus tickets
Is the poetry of our lovemaking.
Scribbled on the front of my school textbooks
Is the script of my emotions.
I have painted murals on palaces,
Drawn in chalk the epitome of my knowledge
On Sunset Boulevard and Tibetan Mountains.
I have hidden prose for you
On the underneath of snails,
In the bellies of Great white sharks.
Painstakingly unravelled the mummified Kings
And written you a three mile poem,
Minuscule messages on the thread
From a silkworms arse.
My love for you gets everywhere
Just like shit on your shoes.
Is the poetry of our lovemaking.
Scribbled on the front of my school textbooks
Is the script of my emotions.
I have painted murals on palaces,
Drawn in chalk the epitome of my knowledge
On Sunset Boulevard and Tibetan Mountains.
I have hidden prose for you
On the underneath of snails,
In the bellies of Great white sharks.
Painstakingly unravelled the mummified Kings
And written you a three mile poem,
Minuscule messages on the thread
From a silkworms arse.
My love for you gets everywhere
Just like shit on your shoes.
BACK-SEAT BRENDA
I was in love with back seat Brenda
We all were.
But I was at that age
Where I still called my friends lesbians
Because I did not know what it meant.
I was in love with back seat Brenda
And how could you not be.
She had a peardrop smile
And eyes that twinkled like gobstoppers
After
Twenty
Minutes
Of
Sucking.
8:15 at her bus stop
And fifty homemade hair-do's
Turn to watch her hipsway
Inhaling the medicated shampoo
And her mothers stolen perfume
Which batted away the heavy smell of boyhood Brut.
I fidget and fumble
(still)
Shifting position of my satchel
From hipside to crotch
Concealing my growing admiration
For that High-school crest
Displayed magnanimously on her heaving chest.
There was an eternity
between
The hem of her bottle blue skirt
And the summit of her knee-highs
That I would gladly suffer.
Her bra strap always showing,
I thank God for the French.
4 o'clock and
We were all in love with Brenda
The world could have been hers,
And silk cuts are the greatest cigarettes
Because her lips are fellating one.
I shift uncomfortably,
Readjust my satchel once more
And allow Alison to sit beside me.
We all were.
But I was at that age
Where I still called my friends lesbians
Because I did not know what it meant.
I was in love with back seat Brenda
And how could you not be.
She had a peardrop smile
And eyes that twinkled like gobstoppers
After
Twenty
Minutes
Of
Sucking.
8:15 at her bus stop
And fifty homemade hair-do's
Turn to watch her hipsway
Inhaling the medicated shampoo
And her mothers stolen perfume
Which batted away the heavy smell of boyhood Brut.
I fidget and fumble
(still)
Shifting position of my satchel
From hipside to crotch
Concealing my growing admiration
For that High-school crest
Displayed magnanimously on her heaving chest.
There was an eternity
between
The hem of her bottle blue skirt
And the summit of her knee-highs
That I would gladly suffer.
Her bra strap always showing,
I thank God for the French.
4 o'clock and
We were all in love with Brenda
The world could have been hers,
And silk cuts are the greatest cigarettes
Because her lips are fellating one.
I shift uncomfortably,
Readjust my satchel once more
And allow Alison to sit beside me.
COMIC POEM 4
Mr Fantastic must have been a patient man
to love the Invisible Girl
but when she finally disappeared for good
something inside him snapped
to love the Invisible Girl
but when she finally disappeared for good
something inside him snapped
love will find a way
Annihilate the world
With the smallest of atoms
And life will find a way.
Scorpions survive
The greatest of temperatures
Woodlice and ants
The toughest of creatures
Will go on living
The earth
A flattened
Scurrying
Void
My love can be your insect
It will endure
The most inhuman devastation
With the smallest of atoms
And life will find a way.
Scorpions survive
The greatest of temperatures
Woodlice and ants
The toughest of creatures
Will go on living
The earth
A flattened
Scurrying
Void
My love can be your insect
It will endure
The most inhuman devastation
Monday 18 January 2010
THE TOAD THE HEART AND THE VALENTINE GIFT
It is Valentines day
and you are sad.
Because you have no cards
you say nobody loves you.
MORNING
15 FEB
shops are selling half price valentine paraphernalia,
you go down
stairs
to find my heart, its dancing partner
a wartbacked spawneyed toad
stepping out for you a fantastic waltz
You do not understand my valentines gift
and quite frankly, neither did the toadPretty little Innuendos
“Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos”
(I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.)
Pablo Neruda – Love Poem XIV
I want to do with you
What the moon does to the ripples on the lakes
I want to do with you
What dreams can do to those that wake up screaming and
Those that wake up glistening
I want to do with you
What airports can do to those departing and those arriving
I want to do with you
What the wind does to the desert sands
What the Sidewinder does to the dunes
I want to do with you
What the orbit does with the moon
I want to do with you
As the running of the last one hundred yards
Of a marathon
I want to do with you
As the first taste of cinnamon
I want to do with you
What Dudek did in Instanbul, 2005
What Gerrard did against West Ham, Milan, Olympiakos
I want to do with you
What the bee does with the Sunflowers and the Dahlias
I want to do with you
What the oil does with the water
What the butter does to the popcorn kernel
I want to do with you
What the light bulb does to the moth
I want to do with you
What Tom Waits singing Ruby’s Arms does to my heart
What James Brown does to my feet
I want to do with your clothes
What the autumn does to the leaves on the trees
I want to do to you
The same thing that you do to me
Online Love (for Jen Lewis)
You are surreal and ethereal
Phantom, immaterial
Totally unbelievable
(And that’s because you’re a 56-year-old widow from Belgium, really)
You are my online love
You tick all my boxes (literally)
Friends with Megan Fox
Favourite sport is kickboxing
(Though you’re never off the sofa)
You're my online love
You‘re a nurse and a mother
Bendy like no other
Ultimate_anal_lover
(Well, that is your login name)
My online love
My inbox is in a mess
With sticky promises of flesh
And filthy group sex confess
-ions (And you’re never 18, you stole that photo from a copy of Razzle, I know, I read that edition, I found it in a hedge)
Online love
You scored 97% sex appeal
I only wish you were real
We could finally strike that deal
(I’d be yours and you’d be mine)
And we’d take our loving
Offline
Venn Diagram
And what if we had never fallen in love?
Our lives would have been like
The middle part of a Venn diagram
Shaded in grey, incomplete.
There would have been parties and opportunities
But the moment would have passed.
You would be in the kitchen,
Me on the stairs.
Our trains would have passed on the track
We would have stopped and looked and smiled
Across the station
As others boarded.
But I am glad we took our moment and ran.
Now my life it is yours to fill.
Let your circle overlap mine
Colour me in until the days stop.
Prometheus and Andromeda
Reaching into the sky and pretending to touch the sun
Is not the same as evaporating.
Your solitude is just a bone wrapped in glistening fat,
A false promise of a freedom,
When really you are chained and bound
To an idea that you are free.
But what if I was the rock you were tethered to
And my love were midnight ravens
Pecking at your heart?
And in the morning you would wake, your heart anew.
And the chain that binds us together could stretch the world twice over.
And at night you would sleep safely in my granite arms.
And I know now that wading in the shallows
Is not the same as diving the depths.
My apathy is the monster that swims around my feet each day.
I suffer from a virginity of the soul,
My bondage is the knowledge
That I have never truly loved.
And what if you were the rock I was tethered to
And your love was like Perseus, Gorgon-slayer,
Sent by the Gods?
And in the morning I would wake, my heart anew.
And the chain that binds us together could stretch the world twice over.
And together we could return to our own tiny Ethiopia.
Poem for a cam girl on an instant messenger service
1
Love got broke
Took a hiatus
Met you and fell
Changed my Facebook status
2
You got an alert
It scared you a bit
You told the whole world
Via a tweet, I'm a twit
Love got broke
Took a hiatus
Met you and fell
Changed my Facebook status
2
You got an alert
It scared you a bit
You told the whole world
Via a tweet, I'm a twit
Sunday 17 January 2010
THE UNMAKING
I close my eyes, and for one brief moment
Wish you away.
Just to see what life without you would be like.
And within that uncreating,
That most unholy of events
A universe implodes within my heart,
BOOM !
There is an absence unprecedented,
An emotion not yet defined.
I open my eyes, and you lie beside me
Half drowned in sleep
Unaware of my sado-masochistic adventure,
Unknowing that for a moment you did not exist.
THE BATH THAT KEEPS OUR PAST ALIVE
As disgusting as it may seem
my bath still holds the water
in which we bathed all those years ago.
I will admit that it has left a thick film on it
and the dead skin left on the rim of the bath
could almost be alive again,
small animals have even found a home there
but it is a part of the house now
I just cannot pull the plug.
And somehow, after all these wave-less nights,
the roses are still living and bobbing
like lifebuoys on the grimy surface
as if markers of our sex.
Every nowandthen
in those mindless moments we all have
when we slink off into our pasts
and allow ourselves to go frivolously free,
I bathe in the scum of our lives
and when the cold soaks through my clothes
I play with the chain that could suck it all away
but I just cannot pull the plug.The Space Between All Things
Evil can only be measured against the good deeds of men
As we measure our successes
Against the times we are less than successful
And so we compare our loves to those we despise
We judge our pains by our pleasures
Our days are contrasted by our night-times
This planet which we ride
Is the gap that divides
One particle of nothingness from the next.
That void that occupies the space between one atom
And another
Is as busy as all eternity
We are separated by a distance
Even when we touch
Immeasurable by the human eye
And each and every moment between being loved
And not being loved
Is simply a question of how far away
You are from me
Thursday 14 January 2010
Panchajanya
I walked the shore alone
To watch the waves coming in,
The breakers crashing down,
The ocean going berserk, foaming at the mouth.
The sky was the colour of lead,
Gulls split the clouds,
Shrieking as they scrapped for food.
Sitting on a rock, pulling at the barnacles, I felt nothing
The storm subsided
And the shore was littered with carcasses;
Sponges, jellyfish and sanddollars;
The remnants of an aquatic massacre.
Then you appeared.
Smiling, you picked up one empty shell after another;
Razor clams and moon snails, periwinkles and wentletraps,
Chestnut cowries and a flamingos tongue.
Watching you approach,
You seemed so out of place there.
The ocean would never have discarded you;
It buries its treasures in its fathomless depths instead.
Reaching into your bag full of shells
You pulled out a Queen Conch
“This is Panchajanya1,” you said,
And held it to my ear
And suddenly
The world was full of sounds
And the clouds
Rolled away
1 The God of Preservation, Vishnu, is said to hold a special conch, Panchajanya, that represents life as it has come out of life-giving waters.
Consulting the Auricle
In the garden
Awash with summer
Pregnant with Purple Sunshine and Windflowers
A fly buzzes by
You flick your hair aside
Revealing
Your surveillance equipment
Perfectly formed
And petite
You catch my star
ing and lean across
To whisper to me
“They are for listening to tiny things”
You say
“Dust colliding,
The beating of the Blue Damsel-fly’s gossamer wings
Skimming the pond,
A raindrop sliding down a window.”
You look me in the eye,
“The skipping of your heartbeat.”
Oh, to know such things
And not be driven to madness.
How wonderful, how sublime
To exist
For once
Wednesday 13 January 2010
Christmas Tree Poem II
II
Christmas Fayre
A sea of bobble hats,
Wobble along beside us.
We stand beneath the evergreen
Reluctantly enjoying the carol singing,
Clinging to the cynicism we once craved,
That kept us from loneliness and kept us safe.
A swirl of wind
And the sky above
Begins to fill with an infinity
Of geometrically symmetrical shapes
And you wonder, as do I, is there perhaps
A grander design than we had previously imagined.
And we watch as our world turns white and illuminates.
Time to leave.
The stalls are closing.
Only a rainbow of lanterns
Now cast their magic spell across
The path we walk, as we return to the station
Like a silent wintry disco meant only for we two.
And the chronicle of our dance will remain until the morning,
I hope,
At the
Very least.
HEAVEN MUST BE A COLD AND LONELY PLACE
Heaven must be a cold and lonely place
white and friendless
bald and endless
a bit like Milton Keynes
white and friendless
bald and endless
a bit like Milton Keynes
Stargiver
The curtains seem closed on the heavens
It is coalmine black
Before diamonds had formed.
The whispering of trees to the wind the only audible sound.
We are wrapped up in blankets
And I can barely make out your silhouette,
A tangle of hair like canary grass on the Mara River,
A flash of teeth and eyes, fireworks reflecting in the waters.
I wish that I could see your face for a moment
And feel that carnival of joy
As I fall in love with you again
Just as I do every single time I see your face.
Reading my mind you slip into the night like a vampire
A tartan cloak follows
There are animal sounds;
The snuffling of a wolf, the whip of delicate wings.
Returning, you carry with you a cardboard box
And set to work in the gloom
A flurry of frustrated “fuckfuckfucks”
Are muttered in the distance somewhere
Then suddenly; Light
I am dazzled by a throng of fizzing fireflies,
A phalanx of shimmering faeries
A hundred balloons each carrying a sparkler on fishing wire
Rise like swords clashing mid-battle and illuminate you
There stands my Titania sometime of the night,
My Asrais, my infinite stargiver
It is coalmine black
Before diamonds had formed.
The whispering of trees to the wind the only audible sound.
We are wrapped up in blankets
And I can barely make out your silhouette,
A tangle of hair like canary grass on the Mara River,
A flash of teeth and eyes, fireworks reflecting in the waters.
I wish that I could see your face for a moment
And feel that carnival of joy
As I fall in love with you again
Just as I do every single time I see your face.
Reading my mind you slip into the night like a vampire
A tartan cloak follows
There are animal sounds;
The snuffling of a wolf, the whip of delicate wings.
Returning, you carry with you a cardboard box
And set to work in the gloom
A flurry of frustrated “fuckfuckfucks”
Are muttered in the distance somewhere
Then suddenly; Light
I am dazzled by a throng of fizzing fireflies,
A phalanx of shimmering faeries
A hundred balloons each carrying a sparkler on fishing wire
Rise like swords clashing mid-battle and illuminate you
There stands my Titania sometime of the night,
My Asrais, my infinite stargiver
ON THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FANTASY AND REALITY
Elephantiasis of the testicles
Can't be much fun.
Sitting on your bollocks
Instead of your bum.
Can't be much fun.
Sitting on your bollocks
Instead of your bum.
Puedo Escribir (tonight I can write)
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'I have never felt the convincing waves
Crashing over the rocks of my heart'
Or, 'this night I have watched a thousand suns dying,
Extinguished from existence in the obsidian sky'
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Only in loving her does the puzzle seem complete.
For only after being in the midst of chaos
Is it possible to comprehend the nature of peace.
Our souls have danced together underneath a waxing moon
Though she slept in a distant place sharing the same sky
And I have understood her with just one look
And she has loved me a centuries worth in a heartbeat.
This love and understanding; it is all of existence now.
The sky is nothing but a cord that connects us, a song she sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. So simply.
Without fear of losing my soul to the underworld.
Her song. It is her song that will keep me,
Keep me willingly caught in her cage,
Keep me from writing the saddest lines
Yet ever having to feel their pain again.
Though these be some of the first words
I write for her…
Nothing is more certain within my soul
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'I have never felt the convincing waves
Crashing over the rocks of my heart'
Or, 'this night I have watched a thousand suns dying,
Extinguished from existence in the obsidian sky'
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Only in loving her does the puzzle seem complete.
For only after being in the midst of chaos
Is it possible to comprehend the nature of peace.
Our souls have danced together underneath a waxing moon
Though she slept in a distant place sharing the same sky
And I have understood her with just one look
And she has loved me a centuries worth in a heartbeat.
This love and understanding; it is all of existence now.
The sky is nothing but a cord that connects us, a song she sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. So simply.
Without fear of losing my soul to the underworld.
Her song. It is her song that will keep me,
Keep me willingly caught in her cage,
Keep me from writing the saddest lines
Yet ever having to feel their pain again.
Though these be some of the first words
I write for her…
Nothing is more certain within my soul
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