IN THE AFTER-TIME

" Alice thought she
had never seen such

a curious croquet
ground in all her life; "

It was somewheres near
Roswell

18 something and something
there or there...abouts

& Billy the Kid &
the boys have just

...paused:

in their croquet
for a tintype photo.

Billy's the guy
in the cardigan sweater.

Him & his gang
( the Regulators )

are posing like
they were a prototype

for
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

or the band
THE BAND.

Pure Americana.

Billy the cardi-cowboy and
his gang of croquet playing outlaws...

Not exactly how
one would have  somehow

imagined them
. . .passing the time.

One of the outlaw...eh...gentlemen

points out that
Billy

" . . .the Kid has spooned
his shot!"

A ricochet of tobacco coloured
spittle hits a spittoon.

Silence congeals
about the accusation.

Now, whether Billy has
merely pushed the ball

silently through rather than
soundly hit it

is:
neither here nor there.

A cold revolver
clicks &

"I says I hit it...I hit it
get it?"

The other gentleman outlaw
begs to agree.

"Ok, Billy boy...keep yer
cardi on!"

And so, we leave them
there

in the croquet craze of
1878.

Time like a yellow ball
hit through hoop after

hoop until: it arrives
at this

present...NOW!

And a photo found in a store
for a dollar or a few dollars more

repays the expense
by morphing into

the 5 million dollar
photo.

But I hit the ball
back through hoop after

hoop after hoop

until it arrives back
at Billy's boot.

And a voice cries:
"Ok, kid...play!"

EVEN NOW, NOW, VERY NOW...

here your laughter
fastened to the air
with a little twistof memory

Time
spell stopped
as it were

your laughter
pinned to this
particular place

this
little scrap of sky
and field

that to an unobservant  eye
would mean nothing
...nothing at all

but see,your laughter
unfurls its flag of self
snapping in the stiff wind

of what's
lost is
lost

this
simple second
alive for ever

I pick it as
I would a flower
untouched

by either
time or
death

*

The title is from Othello...


“Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.”

Guy de Maupassant

THE LAST PATCH OF DARK

the night had come & gone
pulling up its last patch of dark
gone like a carney in the morning

now there was
just a patch of dry grass
the sun sitting on it

the night had left
behind it a few scattered condoms
beer cans and a discombobulated *******

now that the day held sway
it was hard to imagine
the night had ever been

the ******* had blown away
children caught condoms on a stick
only the beer cans remained

soon the day
grew tired of itself
shadows gnawing at its sunlight

and so the night returned
whether it was a new night or the old one
was difficult to tell

*

The night before laughter spilling out into the dark as performers strutted their stuff...clowns fell over themselves and then just the gone-ness of it all leaving just the ******* and whatever was left behind. It seemed as if humanity had been wiped out...desolate was the word.

WE ARE LEGEND...WE ARE MYTH

"Donall
Seanie...
SeanieDonall!"

My uncle & me
we are legend
we are myth

escaping from my auntie's voice
tracking us down
I sitting in the saddle of his neck

his curls my reins
traveling the world
on his giant shoulders

my uncle hearing
voices in his head
afraid of other humans

who hunt the thoughts
he's thinking
wanting to keep himself for himself

our beings fused
into one joyfulness
uncle & boy morphing into centaur

we are legend we are myth
we hide in haystacks
from her hounding voice

roam fields where ever empty spaces
takes us until there is only us
he more little boy than even I

"Keep me company!"
he pleaded
his thoughts all curly like his hair

we now one another
the last lost centaur
galloping off into a time

that no longer exists
we are legend
we are myth

*

and the boy grew out of my head
where I had stuffed him on my shoulders
and I became his walker of worlds

galloping across fields
running away from the voices
inside my head

that eat my thoughts
this boy I uncle
has become my mind for me

minds me
soothes the voices lies to the voices
tells them  I have vanished

into the mystery of myself
and the voices fall for it
I watch them retreat

I move my feet n giant steps
the boy growing out of my head
sees the world for me

tames the world for me
so that I can laugh whinny & neigh
like the human horse I have become

no longer confused
fused into one being
him & me

drinking in a sunset
sniffing rain on the wind
galloping across time time.

. . time
time. . .
out of mind

I FOREVER HIS GRAVE

he stares at the German
the German stares at him
one of them is dead...he hopes...it's not him

the German's blonde hair
streaked through
with mud and blood

he could be looking
almost at himself
they share the same face

the same moustache
the same mole
on the left cheek

Death's little joke
it looks like he has
killed himself

he's surprised
to find himself
still alive

"I had to **** him
in order to be in
the next moment!"

"Odd to think
that your death was necessary
for me to be alive!"

the wallet shows
a typical family...a typical wife
her name is Hildegard

they long for him
to come home
to them

"I've no one
waiting for me
not even myself!"

here he remains
buried in my mind
I forever his grave


*

This comes from a nice old fellow I used to look after and he told me all his WW2 stories and of his Da's in the First World War. He told me of his Da having to **** a German in hand to hand combat...the first man he had ever killed and how much physically they had both looked like each other so much so that he thought he was killing himself. He had to **** many more men in his war but this first man was the one he always remembered. Not only because they could have been twins but because this was the taboo of killing broken and the next time and the next time didn't matter. They came through a misty graveyard and both soldiers were surprised and startled to see each other. Later the graveyard was bombed and the long dead and the recently dead were thrown up into the air. After experiencing such horror....real life back at home...could never be the same. He said he was forever killing that one German.

SONG OF THE SCYTHE

my uncle
sits cross-legged
the shiny sickle

of the scythe
held in
his hands

as if he had pulled down a moon
wrestled it to the ground
tamed it

he looks like a friendly
Death
having a tea break

nothing dies
in these seconds
the world holds its breath

the scythe winces
with light
so sharp it can cut thought

it cuts through
what I am
thinking now

the whetstone sings
to the curve
of the metal

it cuts through Time
sharper sharper each time
my mind bleeds

it cuts through each successive
second so that each second is
separate from the rest

the song the whetstone
sings to the scythe
scares me

my Uncle
takes a horsehair
from Dolly’s tail so

softly she thinks it’s still there
the scythe eagerly
divides it into two

Dolly whinnies
nuzzles him
affectionately

he runs his thumb
along the blade
blood sings in the open air

he ***** it
“Perfect! ”
he smiles

“Perfect! ”
the world
catches its breath

*

Waiting for my turn to go on at Brighton...my poems placed carefully upon the table didn't realise how near a nite light was and up go the poems in flames. A barman had to come down and put me out with a tea towel. Just then I'm called upon to read and there is just enough of the poem left alive for me to read!

ALWAYS

stillborn
you are still
our little girl