Much too late
for thoughts
of what her father
might say

Fay went with you
to the Globe cinema
in Camberwell Green
a right fleapit of a place

but the film
you wanted to see
was on there
Daniel Boone

all about the Old West
and after it was over
and you came out
into the bright sunlight

your eyes felt
over whelmed
after the darkness
of the cinema

what did you think?
you asked
Fay said
yes it was good

not the sort of film
Daddy would have let me see
well he won't know
you've seen it

will he
you said
unless he asks me
then I'll have to

tell him the truth
she said
why would he ask?
you looked at her

standing there
with her fair hair
and lovely blue eyes
he might ask me

what I have done today
she said
her eyes beginning
to show signs of fear

maybe he won't
you said
just tell him
you've been studying

American history
she looked at her hands
he doesn't like America
or Americans

she said
well you don't have to
like something to study it
I have to do it all week

at school
you said
maybe he won't ask
she said softly

looking at you
fiddling with her fingers
distract him
tell him something else

talk about a butterfly
you saw on the bombsite
she looked at you
and smiled

you don't know him
he'll ask me
what sort of butterfly
and I won't know

and he'll know
I've been lying
and that will mean
being punished

she looked up the street
toward the bus stop
we had better be getting back
she said

he'll be home soon
ok
you said
and took her hand

and walked toward
the bus stop and waited
for the bus
if I told my mother

the truth all the time
she'd have a nervous breakdown
it's more kinder
to keep her happy

in innocent bliss
of what I get up to
Fay looked haunted
and was silent

she still held your hand
a fading bruise just visible
on her upper arm
where her dresses sleeve

moved
how about some ice-cream
when we get back
I've got a Shilling

given to me
by my old man yesterday?
she hesitated
ok I’d like that

she said
and when the bus
came along
you both got on

and sat next
to each other
downstairs near
the conductor

watching the scenes
of passing people
and traffic go by
but a special place

in your mind and heart
of Fay
next to you
quiet and shy.

Janice of red beret fame
with fair hair
to her shoulders
and dressed slightly better

than the rest
of there about
invited you
(with your mother’s

permission
and her gran’s invitation)
to tea after school
in the upstairs apartment

not far away
what did you want
for eats and drink?
Janice asked

bread and jam
you replied
bread and jam?
she repeated

as if you’d asked
for caviar on toast
no you must
have more than that

she said
Gran what’s for eats?
and her gran
came into the lounge

where the cosy furniture
was set out in place
neat and tidy
with a canary

in a cage
on a stand
and her gran related
a list of things

you could have
far exceeding
what you usually
had at home

cheese and cress
sandwiches
you said
please added on

as an afterthought
and Janice
had the same
to be like you

and her gran went off
and Janice said
she likes you
says you have more breeding

than some round here
o
you said
thanks

and you pushed
your hand
through your hair
and pulled

your school jumper
in place
and tightened
the tie

we’re going
to the fairground Saturday
will you come too?
you hesitated

and took in
her fair hair
and her fine features
and prim gaze

I’ll have to see
what my mum says
you uttered
o she won’t mind

Gran’s already
mentioned it I think
Janice said
well yes then

you said
I’d like that
she smiled
and spoke

of learning French
at school
and the teacher
who took her

for that and history
she’s a dear
and positively a beauty
I’ve got Ashdown

and she’s plump
and has an arse
like a hippo
you said

Janice choked
and sputtered
with laughter
all at the same time

that’s so rude
she said
putting her small hand
to her mouth

gosh don’t let Gran
hear to speak like that
or you’ll be off
her good boy list

as swift as lightening
you sat bemused
when her gran came in
with two plates

of sandwiches
what’s so funny?
she asked
putting the plates

on the table
o nothing much
Janice said
Benedict told me

a little joke
o well as long
as it wasn’t rude
Gran said

o no
Janice said
and looked at you
o no

you muttered
just a innocent joke
from school
her gran went off

to get the drinks
if Gran heard me
say thinks like that
she’d tan my backside

and no mistake
Janice took a bite
of her sandwich
and you ate yours

listening to the canary
sing and the bell it
rung inside the cage
and her gran singing

from the kitchen
in a soprano voice
and you took in
Janice’s light blue eyes

wherein you thought
but did not say
some good part
of beauty lies.

After morning matinee
and after dinner
of sausages and mash
and baked beans

you met Helen
by the post office
at the end
of Rockingham Street

she had on
the red flowered dress
you liked
and held Battered Betty
her doll
by an arm

her hair was held
in plaits
by elastic bands

and her thick lens spectacles
were smeary where
she'd touched them
but not cleaned them

where are we going?
she asked
how about London Bridge
train station?
you said
we can watch the trains
come and go
and watch the porters
rush about with luggage
and things

she gazed at you
through her thick lens
shall I tell my mum
where we're going?

sure if you think
she'll worry
you said

be best if she knows
Helen said
don't want her to worry
where I've gone

ok
you said
and so you both
walked back
to her mother's house
and she told her mother
and her mother came out
and looked at you
and said
ok so long
as you're with Benedict

and so you walked back
along Rockingham Street
and got a bus
to London Bridge
railway station

and sat on the seats
downstairs
by the conductor

and this guy with glasses
and a thin moustache
gazed at Helen
from the seat opposite
his eyes moving over her
his gaze focusing
on her knees
where her dress ended
he licked his lips
his hands on his thighs

Helen looked away
pretending she didn't
see him looking
you stared at the man
watching his eyes
dark and deep
they say it's rude to stare
you said

the man looked at you
kids should be seen
not heard
he replied

and you're seeing a lot
you said
he muttered something
and got off
at the next stop
giving you
a hard stare

Helen said nothing
but seemed relieved
after a while you got off
the bus at the railway station
and went inside

there were crowds
of people
and the smell of steam
and bodies washed
and unwashed

and the sound of trains
getting ready to leave
and voices and shouts
of porters and rushing
and going and coming
of people

and you sat
with Helen
on a seat
on the platform
she with Battered Betty

and you with your
six-shooter in your
inside pocket ready
to get any bad cowboys
who came your way

and Helen said
why was that man
staring at me
on the bus?

just a creep
wanting a peep
you said

peep at what?
she asked
I'm not beautiful

yes you are
you said
anyway it wasn't
your beauty
he was looking at
you said

what then?
she asked

oh something
he oughtn't
you said

and a loud blast of steam
echoed around
the station
and a voice called
and a whistle blew

and you all
sat watching
Helen
and Battered Betty
and six-shooter
carrying cowboy
you.

The way Mrs Dillinger had
of making it
seem so simple

even that time
she said
come round
one afternoon

and we can discuss
your writing or politics
or whatever you like

but she didn't mention
that her husband
was out
or that she

was after your body
and wanted to hear
you read your work

only after
a good session
in her bed
but your pecker

wouldn't perform
wouldn't act
like some circus horse

and so of course
the politics
didn't get discussed
or your writing craft

maybe next time
she said
in any case

my husband
maybe back soon
and I don't want him
getting in

on the act
of discussing politics
or your art and craft

and so
you went away
your art
and craft intact

and your politics
undiscussed
and your pecker

breathing a sigh
of relief
well this time around
at least

you thought
the wilful
bashful beast.

Outside Oslo
in the base camp
after showering
you met Moira

in the cafe
for breakfast
and coffee
she was in a mood

about the Yank girl
and having to share
a tent with her
(when she wasn’t off

someplace being screwed
Moira said)
and always chewing gum
and those panties

she wears
I’ve seen more cloth
on a finger cut
she said

I’ll take your word for it
you said
she pouted
and stared at you

the finger cut I meant
you said
by the way
are you into

Oslo today?
you asked
mind if I hang along?
sure as long as you don’t

talk about the Yank
or football or Mahler
or whoever else
is hid up

in that brain of yours
she sipped her coffee
and ate her breakfast
saying nothing more

and you watched
as she ate
her eyes dark
and deep

her hair frizzed up
after the shower
her tee shirt
holding tight

her tits
and her blue jeans
hugging her thighs
as you’d like to do

later in Oslo
you toured about
the streets
saw the sights

had a beer or two
while you sat
with her
in some bar

she talking of Glasgow
and her job
and her brother
and his girlfriend

and how
she had this awful
wiggly arse
and floppy breasts

and large eyes
like cow pats
soft and brown
and she laughed  

and you liked it
when she laughed
it made her seem better
more human

less grumpy
less critical
and had you been
more brave you might

have kissed her
there and then
but you didn’t
you just ordered

another beer
and talked of Nietzsche
and Mahler
just to watch

her lips move
and incidentally
bore her.

Tucking Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
into the bedside cabinet
of the cheap

Paris hotel
having cleaned
the greasy sink
and bidet

you walked out
on the street
breathing in
the Parisian air

smelling the perfume
of the restaurants
on the side walks
seeing the sights

taking photographs
as memoirs
drinking the wines
and beers

and that fish
with eyes still there
putting you off
you tried to get out

of the cheap cafe
but paid for the meal
you couldn’t eat
the fish eye

gazing up at you
dead eye
battered fish
and the Left Bank

and night
and you taking in
the sights and lights
and those whores

sitting in windows
like gifts
to have wrapped
but not take home

or the sexy films
you never
went to see
in those cinemas

you just walked by
or the Eiffel Tower day
right to the top
the view splendid

the sight historical
or those rides
on the Metro
riding the wrong carriages

looking out
for the train inspector
pretending to be Aussies
giving it the yak

and later
in your hotel room
taking out
Dostoyevsky

and entering
the Russian world
of murder and deceit  
and being followed

you imagined
by the detective
looking out
onto the Parisian street

from the open window
of your room
gazing at street corners
and shadows  

or remembering
that French girl
in the cafe
who served you

with bright eyes
black and white dress
and white apron
the fine long legs

and wiggling behind
recalling the old priest
who once said
too much sex
will make you blind.

I’ll not get over George,
Alice said, not manage
to get him out of my skin
or memory. Her psychiatrist

said she might. Twat. Her
word. Heard it someplace.
Not sure where. No, George
she misses. Known him for

years, ever since the work
house closed and they were
dumped in some home for
homeless.  He was partially

blind, saw badly, spoke in
a jumble of words. But she
was drawn to him; first out
of pity, then deeper out of

love. Possible, her psychiatrist
said, love may help whatever
it is. Arse. Her word. Heard
it somewhere, not sure where.

She kissed George first; then
he kissed her. Each carried the
work house haunting with them.
Young staff at the home for the

homeless, smirked, spoke behind
their hands. George seeing her
poorly imagined her better maybe,
she didn’t care, at least he was

kissing her and he was right there.
Once they almost did it, but
George fumbled and they lost
concentration. And they gave

that up as a bad job. Best not to,
her psychiatrist said. Knob. Her word.
Heard it someplace, not sure where.
Then George died; stiff in bed, his not

hers, heart gave out, the doctor said,
poor Alice, loved mostly, cared much,
all gone, not wed, she alone, missing
George, in her single noisy spring bed.

She holds the dead child
her arms heavy with the loss
grief leaks through fingers.

Early morning
book on Schopenhauer
under your arm
cigarettes

in your pocket
you sat in one
of the cafes
in Dubrovnik

having ordered
a coffee
and lit up
to smoke

the book
put on the table
the ashtray
set so

you observed
the passing people
the females mostly
the gentler sex

as is said
the sway of skirt
or dress
the fine legs

the shape of foot
the figures
slim or plump
the mental study

of the shape of ass
the tightness
of tits
and all the while

at the back
of the mind
the idea of God
the faith required

seemingly lacking
the St Augustine view
wanting to be saved
from sin

but not just yet
the waiter
brought coffee
and cake

just the nibble
for the breakfast’s sake
and you thought
on the night before

the walk in the City
the lights lit up
the passing crowds
the concert

some pianist
playing Chopin
you and your brother
side by side

taking it all in
making the most of
and the indulgence
of wine

and the chatting up
of the waitresses
at the hotel
with no success

and you opened
the Schopenhauer book
the print of page
the scatter of words

ideas too deep
for the morning sun
you closed it up
and sipped the coffee

took a drag
on the cigarette
viewed the cute ass
as it passed you by

summer dresses
short skirts
tight tops
in all colours

shoes or bare feet
to please the eye
and the idea of God
observing

listening in
secretly pleading
maybe you do
or do not

to be absolved
from sometime
the deeper sin.

No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as

Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when

The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.

You watched her run
the bread
and butter knife
along

her inner arm
blunt blade
gesture only
enough to give

the nurses
something
to think about something
to make them

take the knife away
and sigh or curse
beneath breath
she walked about

the locked ward
in her light blue
nightgown
no shoes

or socks
or stockings
sometimes she’d search
through the men’s drawers

for razor blades
or something sharp
no doing
you said

I’ve looked already
she said
heard you tried
to string yourself up

in the john?
had those damn nurses
wetting themselves
and banging

on the locked door
and god
how they nigh
wet their panties

with it all
she said
almost managing
a small smile

bags
under her eyes
her pale skin
thin lips

sans lipstick
how do you think
it’ll go?
waiting

your next chance?
maybe
you said
she touched your hand

ran a finger
along the wrist
and scar
her gentle skin

setting fire
to tired flesh
then after tea
after the sandwiches

which Big Ted
brought up
from the canteen
watching

the sky
turn blue
to black
you knew

the dark was approaching
and the Black Dog back.

He holds the tiller
of the boat with
his left hand, white
pants and tee shirt,

boater just so, and
the young dame there
reclining to one side
dressed to the nines,

yakking away, hat
plonked on her head,
him thinking of the
one that got away,

his arms stretched
out wide kind of fish,
the other guys so
impressed when he

said, but the dame,
all she yaks of is how
long it for took her
to chose what to wear

and what went with
what, and does my
ass look ok in this?
or she talks of what

one of her next-door
neighbours said or
did or didn’t do or
she yaks of shoes

how she saw this
pair to die for O,
she says, you should
have seen them,

my eyes were oozing
eyes of joy just to see
them, but he, letting
her words drift by,

thinks of the boat he
almost bought, the
one he saw in port
the other day, god

how he loved it, the
size and colour, the
way it was set out in
the water, floating

there, bobbing slowly,
like some beautiful
dame ready for the
off.  Sea breeze moves

the boat, wind shifts
the sails, she still sitting
yakking, her lips opening
and closing, fish out of

water kind of thing, he
wonders why he brought
her along, why he didn’t
set sail alone, the whole

horizon of sea and sail,
and not her constant
yak and miserable moan.

It took you some time to get
Where you are; no overnight
Fall or idle thought to drop out
Or taste how the other half lived,
Although now you know,
But a collection of erroneous
Decisions or the wrong people
At a bad time, or maybe that child
You lost and husband quitting,
Was all too much for you
To soldier on in the complex
World of the here and now.

Shelter is shelter, you mumble,
Sipping the warm soup, the memory
Of the last good supper long forgotten
Or put aside in that room marked
Verboten, and the trainers, yes,
The trainers fit the feet well,
Best for ages, you smilingly mutter,
The rest are rags, but they keep me
Warm at the best of times, which
Are few, you add, sensing the chill
Of the wall against your back;
Maybe Buddha would not pass by
Unnoticing, maybe he will give
Smile or coin or kind words
Like oil for rusting joints.

You sit and stare and muse
And feel the wind whisper,
Sense the passers-by look down
At you, feel their eyes, their
Muttered utterances, their shakes
Of head, their tut-tutting, and just
Remembering now your mother’s
Soft hand brushing your childhood
Head, soothing the poverty from brow
And cheek, maybe that’s what you want
On this street, maybe it’s her that you seek.

The dance has exhausted,
the muscles pull
and become taut
and tense.

She remembers
Marcel’s taunt:
she could not dance
after such a night

of sex. She leans over,
ties tighter
her shoes, her
fingers fumbling,

her back aching,
limbs trembling.
She looks up,
sees the other

dancers in line,
pulling at dresses
and tights,
hair in place.

She rises, pulls
at her dress, tidies
her hair, stands
in line, trying

to focus, mind
on the now, not
last night, not on
the sex. Damn,

maybe Marcel
was right.

It was the year
man first walked
on the moon

but the third year running
you and your brother
walked the streets
of Edinburgh

and stayed
at the guesthouse
where the Yank guy
told you how
he was mugged
in some bog
at Waverly Station

I was in the stall
on the seat
when there was a banging
on the door
and someone yelled
open up I’m going to puke
so I did the
Yank said
and some guy
stole the wallet
from my pant’s pocket
and ran off

your brother sat
at the breakfast table
bemused

why did you open
the door?
you asked

well I guess I thought
it would help
the Yank said
holding his coffee cup
with both hands
you know
kind of threw me
off course

I’d have told the guy
to go puke elsewhere
your brother said

but he seemed desperate
the Yank said
looking at your brother
with a Humphrey Bogart gaze
won’t do that again
he said
sipping his coffee

you studied the guy’s plump face
his bulky frame
his sausage size fingers
the gold ring
on his third
right hand finger
his I LOVE AMERICA tee-shirt
his blue shorts

no matter
guess we all learn
from our mistakes
you said
next time
someone bangs
on the bog door
tell them
go puke on the floor

the Yank nodded his head
his Bogart impression
faded
to a saggy dog face

and you thought
gazing at
his blonde hair
there
but for the grace of God
go I  
and your brother smiled
and winked a blue eye.

It was cool
inside
the Burgos Cathedral

the people pious
and otherwise
was in rows

either side
the priest
was up front

muttering in Spanish
the people
muttering back

and you stood
trying to find your place
in the book of mass

tucked in the seat
in front
what are they saying?

Mamie said
why is that old guy
giving me the eye

she was sitting
beside you in one
of the pews

her short skirt
showing plenty
of leg

her tight bust
pushing
to be free

is it Latin?
she asked
no Spanish

you said
she dragged
her finger

down the page
muttering words
you watched the priest

hands raised
his hands open
to the heavens

some old senora
was giving you
the evil eye

her dark eyes
like prunes
in a basin

of dull cream
searched you out
that old guy

is still licking me
with his oily eyes
Mamie said

you smelt the incense
the stink
of bodies unwashed

her perfume
her bust close
to your arm

pressing nearer
her hair wild
and bushy

was held in place
by a red Alice band
the old guy looked away

he’d had his fill
his eyes watery
aged

sucked elsewhere
like aged slugs
Mamie closed

the mass book
put it back in place
and folded her hands

in mock prayer
like pose
her eyes drinking in

the scene
the priest
the altar

the windows
the statues
her voice soft

in your ear said
when can we
get out of here?

I need to pee
the priest held aloft
the host

the Christ
the Lamb of God
she pushed her hands

between her thighs
squeezed her knees
in anxious pose

ok you
said moving
from the pew

better go
before you wee
I suppose.

Father knew fuck about Vietnam,
Says Bill, other than what he heard

On the radio or the newspapers or
All that other spiel from red necks

Or dumb heads, he knew nothing
About the real war or the reasons

Behind the death fields. Bill inhales
On his cigarette and takes in the

Young feller undressed and laid
Out on the bed with his thin arms

Behind his head, his penis hanging
Limp like something dead. He watches

As the youngster looks up at the ceiling,
A cigarette held between red lips, his

Pale blue eyes like ponds of shallow
Water. We pulled out of Vietnam quicker

Than a whore drops her draws in the end,
Although we in the know knew it’d come

To that even before the politician could
Pull up their pants and put on the public

Faces. The youngster sniggers, pulls on
His smoke, some private joke, Bill considers,

The shallowness of youth, remembering
Young soldiers in Vietnam and elsewhere

In later years blown up or out or dead or
Fucked in the head. The youngster gazes

At Bill wondering if this guy was some secret
Government agent who could fuck as good

As he could kill, whether it was all just talk
Or whether the guy could walk the deadly

Walk. Bill smiles, the innocence of youth,
He muses, stubbing his cigarette butt into

An ashtray, remembering the young kid
Whose throat he slit in Mexico some years

Back as he sat and shit, some double cross,
Some dark deceit, Agency orders, job done,

Neat and clean, unknown, unloved, unseen.

At the fountain
by Nelson’s Column
you met Julie
in mini skirt

and bright
red top
her hair hugged
into a ponytail

a copy of Sgt Pepper’s
under her arm
you in jeans
and open necked shirt

came across to her
standing there
looking into the fountain’s water
sorry I’m late

you said
missed my train
no problem
she said

bought my own Beatles' LP
and she held it out to you
friends say it's neat
and way out

she added
as you scanned
the sleeve
where we going?

you asked
drink I must have a drink
she said
how’s things

at the hospital?
usual stuff: treatment
drugs to get me
off drugs

therapy
psychiatrists
nurses
and so on

you?
she asked
I’m ok
you said

ok is crap
ok is boring
is mediocre
life either fucks

or it’s exciting
and over the top
she said
the Square was crowded

people
and pigeons
and water
and sun

and sky
and mixture
of perfumes
and bus fumes

let’s get that drink
she said
and so you went off
to a bar off

Trafalgar Square
and ordered two drinks
and sat outside
in the sunshine

I think the fat nurse
on my ward suspects us
she said
suspects what?

you asked
you and me
and that small room
o that

you said
she took out
a cigarette pack
and took out

two cigarettes
and gave one
to you and lit
them both

think she’s jealous
or envious
Julie said smiling
free love

makes some women angry
Schopenhauer said
somewhere
that wives and whores

despise women
who give sex
away free
it undermines
their contracts

how’s Jamie?
you asked
still locked up
she said

they claim
he was supplying
but he wasn’t
they screwed him up

she inhaled
and searched
your eyes
you still playing

your saxophone?
yes
you said
I practice everyday

annoys
the neighbours
sometimes
but got to

keep up with it
and hone the skills
she sat legs crossed
her thighs exposed

her footwear bright
her fingers holding
the cigarette
the lips red

her eyes
like small mirrors
small tits pressed
against the red top

the memory
of that small room
off the ward
she and you

and brooms
and boxes
and such
and kisses

and sex
and on edge
for the door to open
but not overmuch.

You can’t get the stink
Of the hospital
Out of your mind, that
Aspect haunts as
Much as the mindless
Moron (who handed
You your dead baby)
Who had icy eyes
And a hint of so what
Written there framed by
The blonde hair, the blue

Eyes and all around
Inside your head the
Buzz of flies. You can’t
Get the colour scheme
Out of your turned back
Memory, the walls
And doors and window
Frames, the nurses and
Doctor’s faces a
Whirl and buzz, and you
Holding onto your

Dead baby’s name there
Amongst discarded
Other names, wanting
The hold to last, to
Feel the soft parcel,
To want her then to
Open eyes, to breathe,
To prove them wrong, to
Feck them in their chilled
Cosiness. You can’t
Get the baby out

Of your hurt mind, can’t
Forget the last hug,
The wanting for her
To cling on, to take
Your dug and suck and
Suck, but she never
Did, never moved, not
Opened eyes; that’s when
It aches the more, that’s
What brings the deep cries.

The baby is never far
From your thoughts; each
Passing pram or pushchair
Nudges you into looking,
Into remembering, aching.

You try to turn your head
When some mother feeds
From breast some baby in arms,
You hold back the tears, when
Reflecting on how the small

Mouth opens like some frail
Fish out of water and you want
It to be yours, your breast
The baby latches onto, your
Eyes that the babe searches

In wonderment. Often nightly,
You tiptoe to the phantom cot
And gaze at the ghostly image
That ought to be there, never
Far from your thoughts, never

More than a fingertip away
Is the memory of that last hold,
That final gaze, that eased out
Wheeze and you left out in
Grief’s dark corridor and cold.