Young Mum, Young Dad

Nuclei board the bus in files

fledged from guttered pairings,

their doorstep love interwoven

into themes of that reality

they dreamed would be their 'Jeremy Kyle.'

Bright caps on dull heads distaste

the near-sentient pram-person;

those caps calibrated with vague

opiate excretions colouring auras:

its singularity in fact a regularity.

Non-capacious heads drole

over smiles, with tightrope pony-tails,

gaspingly swaying prams and rattles

copiously laughing and flying drug-stewed

bottles at spittle-blubbering runways.

Dense pairings, in the act of time,

substituting love for style.

Their bus rides end, diaphragms purge

- pushing prams past prams -

and they i-pod home to mum and dad.

First Sunday of the Year

A tumble in the morning

invited sepia to the bedroom,

with her hair tangled,

like her breathing,

around my ear.

Dual feelings wrought a smile,

a recipe itself of contentedness

and emptiness

- Sunday,

a metaphorical soap bubble.

We untangled and dabbed

wet cotton to our soaped skins,

replacing odours,

and as midday arrived,

roasting pork wafted in waves upstairs.

Lunch was followed by football,

the third round

as delectable as the meal.

The FA Cup.

Villa and United.

This soap bubble day,

in ascension,

could not burst and fill

with the sour air.

A perfect un-poppable sphere.

At some point, night fell,

as day was felled,

and the bubble turned invisible,

as last it floated

above Monday on the calendar.

Rain in Cardiff

Albany Road in surround sound;

it rattles in my right ear

and rolls from my left.

Raindrops drip, cultivate, drip

from these lobes.

My gait veers from puddles.

Childish grenades explode

on the surfaces

of wet brick, stone and metal.

And they land on me,

bulbs of nectar arrowing my eyes,

the sugar sticking my trousers

to my thighs, sleeves to arms.

With eyes blinking back rain,

I dodge landminds to Mike's.

125 Cathedral Road

This is a church of training.

Here, I preach education

in the art of social care.

I proffer chalices of insight,

from which the caring staff drink,

encumbered with a shoulder of

knowledge, they leave.

They spread my word,

enlighten themselves of burden,

then shape into healing hands,

and, extending from me,

perform miracles.

Newborn

There’s nothing wrong.

You lie as though

dreaming of weightlessness, with the horror of stillness in the shadowed corner.

The bili light aids your recovery, our body parts

yellow in pallor.

A respirator fills your lungs. You are so

palm-small. Breaths from

my mouth, speaking sounds neither of us understand, in your

eyes must cataract my face as I place kisses from

chapped lips onto the incubator wall. Your opened

door now lets me in. Thank you, nurse, who placed

you so delicately pale inside, illustrating neonatal hyperbilirubenemia; the

strange words as big as giants in a nightmare. I’m afraid to say your name and to look at

this reflection, shivering in the glass, it seems,

at the knees. I am

standing here unravelling.

Standing here unravelling

at the knees, I am

this reflection shivering in the glass. It seems

strange, words as big as giants in a nightmare. I’m afraid to say your name and to look at

you, so delicately pale inside, illustrating neonatal hyperbilirubenemia. The

door now lets me in. Thank you, nurse, who placed

chapped lips onto the incubator wall. Your opened

eyes must cataract my face as I place kisses from

my mouth – speaking sounds neither of us understand – in your

palm. Small breaths from

a respirator fills your lungs. You are so

jaundiced.

The bili light aids your recovery, our body parts

dreaming of weightlessness. With the horror of stillness in the shadowed corner,

you sleep as though

there’s nothing wrong.

Webcam

When we speak and I see your face,
the technology of our racing hearts turned on, I love it
how, despite the madness of ocean between us - don't question
how miracles like this can be - don't question
the impulses that drive love's insanity - how I still feel close. Just accept
what will be will be.

What will be, will be
the impulses that drive love's insanity. How I still feel close. Just accept
how miracles like this can be. Don't question
how, despite the madness of ocean between us. Don't question
the technology of our racing hearts. Turned on, I love it
when we speak and I see your face.

Watching the Robin through the window eat as it watched me, on a day of snow and lovers

You bravely bared your heart on your breast

on the silk of snowy sheets, on the bed where,

outside – your breath melting the cold air – and lying;

the clear blue sky

betrayed lovers of warmth. There was just

the transparency of glass between me and you, like the silent whispers of mistresses

fading like dying embers. I couldn’t see

what was in your mouth, because, inside, I was

unsure what was on the table. Or even

if you loved like I love. I was

watching you to see.

Watching you to see

if you loved like I love, I was

unsure what was on the table, or even

what was in your mouth, because, outside, I was

fading like dying embers I couldn’t see.

The transparency of glass – between you and me – like the silent whispers of mistresses’

betrayed lovers. Of warmth, there was just

the clear blue sky;

inside, your breath melting the cold air; and lying

on the silk of snowy sheets on the bed where

you bravely bared - your heart on your breast.

Washplant, A Workplace Engagement

My complex convection is placed

on the track, before I

disappear I have just enough time to look

up at the face of the worker deep

in thought;

insight bounces  like light in my prism;

he is thinking of April

as I move further away from him down

the moving track, nearer

to the fine-wire brushes, the hot

water to wash away the polish,

and then I am gone.

He picks me up after

I am cleaned, and looks into me for

imperfections, I show him what he wants

to see; the smile of April’s morning light.

Padding Up, A Workplace Engagement

the action is simple;

palm pads to laps so they stick

repeat

tower the laps, pile them til

they are plundered down the track

repeat

the action was simple;

you palmed pads to laps so they stuck

repeated

towered them up into piles til

they were plundered down the track

repeated

the action was simple;

palming pads to laps so they stuck

repeating

towering them up and plundering

the track with piles of them

repeating

the action was simple;

ingrained like fate to

repeat

when we were here together, Nat,

do you even remember?

repeat

I was asking for trouble

to stand in the shadow of your dawn

repeat

you padded up when you were here

and now am I

repeat

but when not, I walk by

and sometimes your ghost fades in

repeat

and sometimes your ghost fades in

but when not, I walk by

and forget what echoes of my love

repeat

Elsewhere

The news from word of mouth of bombs,

multiple explosions in my great Capital,

an attack on my freedom and liberty as

– I work the customers, deadpan –

elsewhere,

elsewhere,

blood is pouring in my great Capital.

Silence punctuated by slamming doors,

it’s quiet, no customers,

I’m inside the bubble

– through the glass, people walk by – and I –

and we – we walk and talk, laugh and work,

continue,

continue,

while anotherwhere

– they don’t walk or talk but lie in silence

– don’t laugh and work but lie in silence.

Insomnia

The darkroom sleeps, eyelids pulled closed,

carbonating air surrogating oxygen

so that the darkroom suffuses some head

– and now it’s a lightroom –

                        *

swish of tanned sand in sea,

beneath kicking feet, the sea dry

and the sun, adjacent to the sickle; cold

– the moon; dreamless.

Swizzle-stick finger in a face

like the sea, blue now green now brown;

eyes that are mouths that are lips

that are gone, ghostly hair that smells

like scattered pine needles around a base,

on a beach? No, in a still forest now,

with a gun, pink light-shaft shapes running

away from the V, tree-limbs falling,

tangling, knocking away the melting gun

in this con-temporaryscape, more trees

falling in some Neanderthal roar,

until a formulated roof blocks all oxygen

                        *

– and now it’s a heaving darkroom –

a hollow cell within something substantial,

the head tired of one pillow,

in some Niagaric mist of air and water.

Tears

I see you've been crying again,

those dry channels from your eyes

run to cheeks puffed red,

and your skin is scarred by tissues

(micro-chasms of stressed blood

run too close to the surface.)

Via The Pills, or The Lack,

the unstrung feelings unravelled,

you were taking them back,

untrapping them in each drop,

but soaking them with your

hooded pillow in the dark.

You broke The Treaty with the big D,

and cried in my eyes till I stung,

your tears more voluminous with each blink

drowning the sinkhole of my mouth

- an undiverted question mark

I had to wipe from my eyes.

But then it turned incidental,

like milk in the sun,

or a flaccid exclamation

of a love no longer valid

and a hunger to sell

our house of faded dreams.

I became an abstraction in your mind,

a distraction in your bed;

the infraction of my head,

enough to make you blind.

New Year's Eve, Old Place

As I sleep,

an hour per unit,

a chill evaporates my skin,

these friend's blankets are thin.

My eyes roll

the evening's memories,

fast forward rewind

impressionist strokes

of wrinkled high school photos,

strange sibling faces back-lit

by fireworks,

they didn't recognise me,
nor I them.