The boy pressed his palm on the glass,
It seemed warm against the hand of his father,
Who stood on the platform,
Looking at the face of his son,
Perhaps for the last time.
Be well! he shouted
Look after mama!
His son called back
He heard no words,
But understood as thin arms crossed a chest,
Heaving with sobs.
The man could not bear to think
He would never hold that small body again,
Never lift it onto his shoulders
Never see it grow.
His pretence of bravery,
Conjured by his smile,
Deserted him as the train lurched forward,
Then stopped cruelly,
Revealing the desperation in his heart.
He swallowed his tears
And shouted again,
Goodbye my boy!
There was no respite this time,
The carriage accelerated away,
Taking his son to a new life,
A new history.

We meet in the night
And we talk of this and that,
Of people’s voices in the street,
Of such things we talk when we meet.

How fortunate we are to meet like this;
How blessed to have the company
Of someone whom we hold so dear,
Of someone whose loss it would be hard to bear.

Perhaps that is the deal we have to make
When we find true love;
Someone to meet, to love, to talk to, to lose
That is me and that is you.

We met once in the night
And we talked of this and that.
We were the voices in the street
How lucky we are to talk and meet.

We Didn’t

I sensed that you would have if you could have but you didn’t.
I felt that I could have if you did but you didn’t.
I looked away as I spoke but you didn’t.
You brushed your hair from your face but I couldn’t.
You might have if I’d asked but I daren’t.
I liked how I ate as best I could have but you didn’t.
And, as you ate, I said what I said but shouldn’t.
You touched me twice as I did but I didn’t.
As you left I wanted you to stay but you didn’t.
I wanted to hug you but you kissed me twice so I couldn’t.
I felt that you might have if you’d stayed but you didn’t.
So – we could have and maybe we should have but we didn’t

I cannot explain to myself
What you have done to me
But I feel -I feel the connection,
Across the land, across the sea.

I wonder, as I wander,
Do you feel the same as me?
Can you feel it too
Across the land and the sea?

No, you are “almost young”
And I am old,
It is the child inside
That has taken hold.

That child longs for affection,
All he wants is to lie next to you,
Watch you smile;
That is all he wants to do.

What have you done,
To induce me to write such things?
What have you done?
Nothing. Everything.

I am sorry that I surprised you
But at the time I did not know
That you were one of them;
I did not know.

It may have been in my head,
This piece of information
But not yet in the right place
For dissemination.

This seems like a lame excuse;
It is not indeed to be,
My mind is struggling too,
Struggling to be free.

I am sorry that you were hurt
But glad you walked away.
It meant that in spite of it all,
You enjoyed a better day

It meant that you were further from me
But perhaps you did not care,
Perhaps it was a part of me
You were not eager to share.

I am sorry I surprised you,
I think I did not know
That you were one of them,
I did not know.

What is love, my love?
The kiss in the morning, the last touch at the end of the day,
The liberation of our thoughts, the words we do not say.

What is love, our love?
Letting go and turning away head to the wall,
Confusion, anger, spite, laughter, that is all.

What is love. Their love?
Walking alone but thinking only of her,
Thinking only of him; the loneliness a blur.

What is love, my love?
You, you are my love, my isolation, my fear;
No longer a blink, a silence, a tear.

And when they ask us,
And they are certainly going to ask us,
Why did we love, my love, what shall we say?
That was before, this is today?
No, we shall walk each of us into the shadow of the band
And dance slowly, gloriously until we can no longer stand.
That is what is love, my love.

Who am I?
A man of principle
Who would not wish anyone to come to harm
Least of all through his own acts, words or deeds.
Or am I a predatory sloth
Waiting in the shadows
For another unsuspecting female
To walk by
Whereupon, I would slither out
And try to entice her into the darkness
To share some loathsome activity
Under the heading of Art?
Am I the merry idiot whose sharp asides
Are the very essence of wit
Or am I thinking, planning, scheming
An unacceptable attack on the virtue
Of young virgins attracted by my fame
And yet mollified by my illness.
Yes, who is this man who is desperate to shed his clothes
In order to reveal the real him
The naked babe in the cot
Before sin permeated his disgusting mind
So perverted that even his wife cannot bear
Even the tiniest suspicion of a caress?
I speak of him now in the third person
Even I cannot own him.
Who is he?
Nothing.
A battery operated *** doll
Drugged out of his mind
Who can hardly speak or walk in a straight line
Let alone stand tall and *****.
I have told you who he is.
Now, you tell me
Who am I?

Who am I doing all this for,
Now that I am reaching the end?
I just want it to be quick;
No Huckleberry Friend.

I took you in my arms,
They knew your shape so well,
But I am not the man I was,
I am an empty shell.

I want to make a move
But you pat a message on my back,
So I stand easy
And wait for the dial to turn black.

I see ahead the end of the path;
There is nowhere else to go,
No cosy spot in which to rest,
I hope that it is not too slow.

Birds wheel and clatter in the air,
Dark against the morning sky,
I want to hear the applause,
Not listen to them cry.

Now that it is almost over,
I ponder what has gone before.
No answer to the question,
Who am I doing all this for?

Who was he?" she enquired of me
A man I knew, a man of many parts
A soul who stirred both gender's hearts
"He owns an open and honest countenance" said she

Open? Yes but he could shut it tight
"That I find difficult to believe" she remarked
"That a face of such design be moved to dark"
Dark? Yes but his true self was reborn in the light

"How so?" She was now both perplexed and wise
I and others have seen him turn a page
Or speak a line upon a stage
"Ah now!" she laughed "I see it with my eyes"

Words written and quoted were the butter on his bread
He could comprehend and play
Darkness or light any day
About a man so open and honest as he, what better could be said?

There is a small cupboard beside my bed
It is called William.
That was a joke
It s called a bedside cabinet.
It has a brass handle on the drawer
The drawer is central to this poem
Because of what it contains
Without its contents it would merely be a drawer
Now you want to know what the drawer contains don’t you?
No?
Well I shall tell you anyway
Inside the drawer is a metal nail, some toothpicks, some pills
A pair of ear plugs and a small piece of toilet tissue
Or lavatory paper as my mother would prefer to call it.
The paper or tissue doesn’t mind what you call it – it is simply a tissue
It has no mind no feelings
Let‘s not waste our time speculating about the offence caused to a piece of tissue,
Alright paper  
But going back to my point about the contents of the drawer being central to this poem
Why is that so?
I could make it easy for you but why not work it out yourself?
Think about it
A metal nail.
Toothpicks
Pills
Ear plugs
Toilet tissue
Alright, mum
Lavatory paper.
What do these tell you?
ABSOLUTE **** ALL

Words,
Whisper them into the half-light
Words that describe me, define me, identify me.
They are limiting;
They do not allow for anomaly, contradiction or freedom.
Or the depth of the water in the well
That seeps away slowly in the heat of the morning.
I am one person,
I repudiate the others;
They fill my head with thoughts that I rejected long ago.
I spurn them still
But they crowd in, they bill and coo and **** on my morality.
I am weak and defenceless
But I fight them with words,
Words whispered in the half-light.
I draw my silver sword,
I thrash it left and right,
Sinew and muscle jar as the blade hits its mark.
But the surgeon’s scalpel
Draws foreign blood;
It is mine that must be shed,
Mine that must paint the town red.
A sword? Why, I can hardly kick a football.

There was a bow,
On a hook,
By the door,
By the green door.
It was a ribbon of red silk
I was not afraid,
I saw your white skin,
In the surf  
Under the grey sky.
Why am I writing these words?
I didn’t want it to happen,
I didn’t want my life misshapen,
I didn’t want another sister
To replace her,
But there was a bow,
On the hook
By the door,
By the red door.
She unravelled the ribbon of red silk;
She held it tight between both hands
Across her mouth.
I saw the fold of skin behind her ear,
It was too late;
She had gone.
That is why I write as I do;
To tell the truth.
To say categorically,
I am not your brother,
I will not be your brother,
I never was your brother,
I long to touch you.
And so I say these words of love
To reach out,
To touch you.
There.

You
I saw
You.
I did
I saw you
Saw you give,
To me
To others
To sisters
To brothers
I saw kin
I saw slim
I saw mild,
So fast
It was wild
How did I see
So much
So free?
What is it
To me
To you
To him
To them?
Begin
Again
I saw you
What you do
What is it for
What I saw?
What did I see?
Me,
I saw
Me.