Cats and Dogs

The light was black and sugary,

with a bowl of milk in the sky

as Tom stared out the window

at the cats and dogs at play.

Then the sugar began to fall,

the wind spooned it round and round,

and soon enough the layers grew,

and the cats and dogs were drowned.

The Quiet Room

Empty bottles now full of air

on sideboards and magazines,

with just-polished polystyrene

carcasses of chips and chicken goujons.

Up late with the playstation on,

we rev the controllers,

engine noise empties the silence

into the bags of sweets;

they rustle in protest, a rally met

with hi-fives when the cars cross the line;

victory music soundtracks the key

turning in the lock;

the one he’s been waiting for

returning in decibels of laughter.

The dial of the room turns;

in the ambience, bodies share warmth,

talk turns to shouts above the tv,

ears sting, sleep pulls but is lost.

Drama has its foothold

in the ice shaken from shoes,

the questions of unanswered texts

and the unburdening of alcohol.

~~~~~

New light fades out of the gloom now;

her face softly peeled unto him

as she sleeps on the sofa.

Last night, at last, when the crowd

sowed silence with their sleep,

they were able to hold on to each

others’ kisses; an orchestra of breathing

and drumming hearts; breath in the windpipe

exchanging notes as sheet-music

tried to collaborate,

as treble clefts caught on tongues.

He listens now to her breathing;

in his ear in the night it tickled

- stomach lurches with desire a-sudden,

yet was steadfast during conception.

He took her arms for granted in the dark,

her interlacings with his,

cravings somehow sated too easily

in the comfort of mutual heartbeats.

In absence, his heart will wring

its clanging blood-bell,

a kiss lingering on a cheek only a temporary respite

before settling back in the armchair.

He listens now to the walls;

in the staging of life they listen

but do not record; he hears nothing.

Flutterfly

Inactivity becomes moving minstrel

sounds of natural music,

muted by distance, from a shell

appears an imago, perfect.

The chrysalis of blooming colours;

reds and pinks and pearls

so white of pure crystalline wine,

aged and cracked with time.

It’s a grammalogue of nature;

hibernating morphosis

from ugly duckling to Cygnus:

the painted fly of butter.

Flutters the wings from leaf to leaf,

it seeks its hardened siblings.

Then, up, camouflaging with the sky,

chasing forever its new life.

Goodbye

We avoided the living grief of failed love,

like household chores delayed a day,

or more, dirty plates piling

around thoughts unsaid;

my silence;

your chatter.

Our impending sentence,

writ by your departure,

loomed,

a black hole,

a day of darkness.

Too easy to say it's too hard

to say goodbye;

even here in the afterglow

of this empty house,

this half-bed,

wishing the goodbye had been better.

We justified that.

I left the room of this poem just then,

feeling blindly the walls and the floor,

fetching a tissue to blow my nose,

noticing nails in the walls

like the framed birthday card you kept,

‘til now;

just fodder for the recycling bin

and a restless night.

Open Seams/Closed Seams

Love’s sleeve’s wet and torn,

                strands of cotton stray and catch

on barbs, blooded scratches may not match cuffs;

collar tight as tie too drawn;

                ink-stained fingers toughened red, rip

salted organ parts; that stomach-heart

switching of places; the muted ache.

About this, no bliss will counter-balance,

not prior, now or then; Zen’s sutures

                will dismiss the wet and torn

                and the collar drawn to tight;

exsanguinate in cold bathtub light,

sew stitches with antiseptic needles

and tattooist ink, replace the places switched.

Song Lyrics: Slow Down

With scenes of my life running by too fast

And everything seeming not to last

Growing up here is such a sudden blast

I want it to slow down

Slow down, slow down,

I don’t ache to see tomorrow’s sun

I don’t want to be forgotten

I don’t think I’ll be the one

Who celebrates every birthday

Slow down, slow down

No early, mid or late for me thanks

I’ll just take it with unloving grace

Not disappear without a trace

Crush the candles beneath my feet

Hold on to youth with hands still as sweet

As the innocence of children’s belief

I want it to slow down

Slow down, slow down

I don’t ache to see tomorrow’s sun

I don’t want to be forgotten

I don’t think I’ll be the one

Who celebrates every birthday

Slow down, slow down

I don’t wanna be married yet

Children filling my life with debt

Eyes looking at me as though I’m dead

Slow down, slow down

Slow down, slow down

I don’t wanna be married yet

Children filling my life with debt

Eyes looking at me as though I’m dead

Slow down, slow down

Slow down, slow down

Nobody Else (right now)

It’s the absence of hurt (right now)

where perhaps there should be some,

that in sitting down and ticking on

the simplicities glow neon

- I can accept that I must wait

- and too that waiting may be in vain.

My chair is static,

     my knees tucked in,

my belly full,

     the room quiet and dull.

In the absence of any sound,

my voice whispers to my heart;

     wait and see

     the illusion that she may fit you perfectly

     may not be a trick of the light

The calm protects it with steel

and with a seal, it’s locked, for now.

On the Nature of Snow-Angels

It’s time I wrote my saving grace

my fallen epic-centred skit,

for in this race too oft-dismissed

my time may yet be deftly cut

and missed, and wishes left

behind the curtain, better

left behind the curtain, may

yet be cut too short.

But what of the turning grace,

that one desired hook and

line to turn a face to crumpling

skin and bone?

Let loose my poet’s lust,

let it out of my control and see

what temptations come about.

Shrug off the shackles of iambic

and the frantic search

for rhyming gambits, you poetic

Romantics. And scrap syllabic

counting, free the poetry’s

potential.

But what am I really releasing?

It is me I am setting free.

It is me, this poem is,

set in the safety of my mind,

dispersed across the page and

blown like winter leaves

(just one poetic cliché, please)

across the minds of my dear

desired readership, hip hip

hooray!

What a day for leasing others’

poem’s unoriginal themes. What a

day for anthologies.

Seems snow is a famous one,

every other incorporated it,

and apt, it is, for snow

has come, and at Christmas too;

drops of flashing colours twinkle

through the gauze on peoples’

houses; homes snow-

born bereft and caged, their

families inside and trapped,

where nothing stirs, not even a

mouse...

I fancy the ideal’s corrupt,

the snow-angels remain outside,

remnants of them kicked from

shoes and melted once inside.

But that is how it goes,

in the search for imperfection,

‘cause there are no absolutes

in the duress of our relations,

and it’s folly to molly-coddle

the resolutions of the old;

keep moving and expanding,

building potential from the snow,

so when it melts there remains

the solid grounding of your growing,

moving, plate-tectonic shifting,

perma-idealistic psyche.

For a further grounding in reality

see the symbolic tree as it grows

in my arboretum, the sum of its

branches like the thoughts of poets,

and Creatives, and such-like;

such that the tree grows as

though drawn, not by sun,

but by soughing after sparks

as thin as air, disparate

sparks of originality,

daring to drink, think and be.

I’ll take this and bed it now,

and like it but never love,

smile at it quietly.

Bargirl

In this bar works the girl with the superpowers;

waiting on drinks, she walks past,

rendering tunnel vision

- the world a shadowy eclipse

around her smile -

and as the night goes on

her drinks poison

with cotton-mouth.

Words stick on the tongue

with her super-glue;

but if only she knew

she could be free,

if only she would reveal

her secret identity.

Being

Feet shuffle trolleys closer and closer

Beings on stilts move further and further

From the ideals of the omniscient

And so-called trinity magnificent

On the heels of the morosely mundane.

The creator of this must be insane.

Though of course just look into their faces

We are beings with gene imperfections

Just caught up in life's trivialities

Single thoughts and single realities.

Then he looks at the old woman and cane

Grey-haired and eyes darkened by years of pain

He sees his mother in her fallen grace

Wipes a tear from the essence of his face.

Emotion is the meaning of all this.

Devotion is the reason to exist.

His phone beeps in the pocket of his jeans

Did a god mean for us to text unseen

Like strangers easily falling in love?

No one foresaw this, removing his glove

The trembles of his hand just like his heart

As he read the text, smiling from the start.

Beings shuffle trolleys to the cashier

Their faces still morose from standing here

But twice today already his being

Has felt the force of this almighty thing.

Lyrics of sort: Godless Hymn

Take your time don’t rush yourself

Take the time to take the right path

See the truth before you’re grey

If there was a god, he’d say

What have you done?

He’d ask the questions of us

That we would ask of him

What was it that we

Forgot to sing in our hymns?

Ask yourself the questions you’d ask

Ask yourself those questions and see

That you have the answers all along

That today this god doesn’t belong, here

Where has he gone?

He’d ask us what’s happened

To our international faith

Well where has he been

Since the world started to shake?

Be strong, be united

See the world undivided

Have faith instead in the kind of man

That needs no great beyond

Who sees no great beyond.

Song Lyrics: Strangers

Take the bus today

see the strangers sitting down

their faces washed with sorrow

as the sorrow turns around

their frowns turn upside down

we can see who we should follow

Chorus

We are always looking at strangers

looking for the signs of danger

looking for the latest lover

waiting for the one

who will look into our eyes

see the lies

in the light of the sun

as the truth we try to hide

~~~~

We stand now at the turning point

it could be time to disappoint

let ourselves go or leave.

We must find our heart’s home

see what the stranger’s shown

take a leap and believe.

Chorus

Flightless Starlings

In the eaves of my nightly factory,

perched on insulated pipes are starlings;

my vulnerable birds whistle quietly

to the songs the radio is playing.

The shift progresses with each raised eyebrow,

flutterings take flight from within my heart.

On the ‘telephone wires’ the whistles grow;

a brown cloud above develops and parts,

breeds the makings of my lust’s exponent

- on the anniversary of our kiss -

the moments of your tongue’s searching movements,

the gentle nibbles on my lower lip;

I pay my respect with an hours silence,

an act that breeds more of these flightless birds,

- my heart filling the eaves in remembrance -

becoming a cacophony of words;

a bitter mix of your sweet distraction

and the torture of our reality;

never needed that kiss so much as this,

yet you’ve never felt this distant from me.

Sigh of the Oppressed

The air was full or sermon,
it swam in hot breaths

of oscillating tides
from oval lips,

until the air moaned "Amen"
beneath the weight.

Its layered sediment
glued child's eyes,

waxed lyrical in ears
fossilised in lungs.

Porthcawl

The sand stings here.

It is dry, cloud-soaked,

lifted feathery

and sucked inland on sharp

sea exhalations.

Fluffing debris from hair,

pinging cheers chime

with teddy-bear bells

as I part money in jest.

Waltzers dance behind.

Screams scowl down the rails

of rolling cages

as lights tanned by age

and sand

flash, flash and clash

with long shorts,

tank tops, sheltered shops

with spades and flip-flops.

Wind wraps around

the sound of falling tuppence,

and prying child-arms.

Arriving at Talland Bay

From the womb of the hill

I slip down the road,

blind at corners,

drowning without

stereoscopic eyes

or forceps.

Mother waits in the light,

all dripping

salty sweat

upon the rocks,

and sighing

as she crashes.

Exhaustion,

like the gown

of flat sand

crumpled and creased

by the power

of her movements;

pooled with still

tranquillity

after birth

– too still for

me and my beating heart

to know.

The Double Bed After You Left

This is the side you slept on,

this is the pillow that smelled of you,

these are the eyes that saw you undress,

this is the thought that keeps me awake.

This the hand that came undone,

beneath the shirt that fell apart.

These the fingers that felt so dead,

ten minutes later, and on and on,

that got cramp it went on and on and

these the lips that touched to yours

were fire, not ice, like now,

that touched to you were quivering,

like my tongue, like you, like the bed.

This is the tongue I tasted with

that licked your belly-button stud

(how many had done that?

                                          No matter.)

That played with your sweet one.

So this is me, who held you here,

……… Here………

this is the chest you lay your head on,

this is the bed I loved you in.

You are everywhere, we are everywhere,

this is the pen I serenaded you with…

The Windmill Pub

Salt-bashed skin

walk into The Windmill pub,

at the end of the sun-day,

skin after skin

of rosy white and

clotted pores.

The sun-flesh sacks

sit in seats

sipping drinks.

From wallets blushed,

prices paid;

prices of beachy convenience.

Cream on dotted walls

cage them

at teak tables,

beneath breathing bronzes

and coppered hunger,

guilded thirst.

Cars and Empty Spaces

You napped

eyes bringing dreams

lips parted and wet

so productively

I shopped

cars on the road slow on ice

winter racing

Christmas chasing

shops packed the parking spaces

found one

all the way to the top of the

multi-storey

a vacant space

of a frozen grail

gobbled like chocolate oranges

parting through the shoppers

staging the economic foundations

for another year

presents sought

none bought

bound for you again and again

the time treacled through my

fingers

cars stacked as dominoes

unfalling and snowing now too

I teemed

til the driveway came into view again

a rectangle of tarmac

stamped into the snow where your car

had gone

insides empty too