Buy fish! Fresh fish! Sir, you drive a hard bargain!

For Rembrandt, love of my life.

Rimbaud,
were you next door
with Verlaine
or in a bar
or in a church
when the tables
were turned by
an invisible hand
against us
my heart was snatched
from our star
& stuffed down
a chimney stack
full of eyes &
knock knocking
on a door & a cry
as a pistol shot
rang out in sepia
do you believe
in women made of paper
folded into dancers
for suit-clad spiders
by doses of poison
if so hold this song
between your fingers
say a prayer
or just curse science
or the shadows
of a trashed childhood
any in memoriam
will do right now
when I still love you.

I'm folding origami birds
from old envelopes

                                                      ­                           with stamps from the US
                                                              ­                   as if hoping they'll fly back

there & greet my friend
& blowing bubbles in my tea

                                                            ­                                     Yesterday I heard
                                                           ­                                 Yuri Gagarin's voice


for the first time
& thought it strange

                                                        ­                                       that such a simple
                                                          ­                            sounding man should've

been allowed into Space
rather than picking a Poet

                                                           ­                                   who could've made
                                                            ­                               more of it than him
the last three letters I sent
to my friend

                                                               ­                                      didn't get there
                                                           ­                             so I don't trust the Post
anymore & rely
on e-mails & phone

                                                          ­                       sometimes we don't write
                                                           ­        or speak  for months or even a year

& then when we get
back in touch

                                                          ­                                                 it's just like
                                                            ­                                  hearing from Space

Wiling away someone else's
restless hours as they serve you
your elegant cafe au lait
you're flicking through newspapers
or maybe waiting for a friend
or a lover
or maybe contemplating
your next masterpiece
scribbling or drawing
on a folded napkin
or in a notebook
& watching someone
get out slowly out of a taxi
as someone rides by on a bike
& the first umbrella goes up
& it starts to rain
& the music is jazz
or blues & you're
dreaming of something
just people watching
& the hours pass
by almost invisibly
as if afraid to disturb

This is what comes of it, living abroad
you become used to programmes
talking about what it's like to shop
somewhere & the upkeep of capitalism

that very much has downsides
just as back home, communism had.
And now your prime minister is cutting
aid to the sick, disabled & the poor

& is almost shouting
' Arbeit macht frei'
from the Westminster rooftops
& calling in psychiatrists

to label those unwilling
to work as 'mentally ill'
e.g  one step from ' undesirable',
which is, ironically, a similar thing

to what they did back home
while an aged Lord takes drugs
with prostitutes & an MP
claims hundreds of thousands in expenses


'Arbeit mach frei' ( germ) - a **** slogan, roughly translates as ' Work gives freedom'.

Get rich quick: go and set up a flea circus!

It is Summertime
like in the George Gershwin song
the grass is waving, tall
& my step -father's rich
& my mom's not bad looking
(still despite being in her late years)

In a mansion house
that is a museum
someone is polishing
a large copper ***
& dusting the books
in the old library

A vagrant locked out
of childhood haunts
in my dreams I walk
along a country road
The grass is waving, tall
it’s summertime
like in the George Gershwin song

Railroad track
in ole' tall grass singing
small crickets chirping

Wings like eyes flickering, breathless soul bared to the world

I'm watching an old Soviet movie
one without English subtitles
the whole day it hasn't stopped raining
the opening shots are of a foggy

seafront, a lone figure walking
a guy on a bicycle holding a puppy
riding past someone leaning on the corner
of a house in which the light

suddenly comes on & a couple appear
later on, a budding romance
between two holidaymakers in this, the Crimea
slow-paced, this movie reminds

me of an Aki Kaurismaki
& I want to share it with the world
& muse on how the Crimea
saw Pushkin, Chekhov, Mayakovsky

amongst others visiting it's shores
the whole day it hasn't stopped raining
& I don't know if I feel even more English
now or Russian or whether it's all just a trick

Our Buddleia is now in bloom
as a ' Butterfly Bush' also known
The water gathers on the purple flowers
from July's  slow, sultry rainy showers
Oh what a lovely summer sight!
When in the sun, butterflies take flight
& land upon the bush in their glory!
The Buddleia stands abandoned today
the Sunday city lies beyond
it in the distance & I'm reminded
this is such an English day
the kind we don't see on postcards
( though is talked of much)
& has to be lived through & felt
A day breathed in in great lung-fulls each
time you come back from being away
in case it disappeared & left
you reeling & sank into your memory
like Atlantis sinking eerily
into the restless Sea's waves
the Buddleia knows of this
& calls me to admire it in the rain

It's just the Moon
that isn't there that watches
us and grins on slowly

Tell me do did Dylan
ask same question
when he still lived :

Is it drink that is
driving me to poetry or
poetry to drink now

Afterall, we all think we are angels sometimes, don't you?

Better get ready to make a fool of myself again

What is the point in ten word poems, tell me.

It's time to stop living like this
don't you know

My life has shrunk
to fit the skin
of this small town

to live inside
the microcosm
of it's streets

to tell it's sad tales
of love & loss
& bygone travels

to walk the ways
I've known
since childhood

even the guest
that came last night
is from the street

I lived on
when I went
to college

& who was
also labelled 'mad'
here by the docs

this is a town
like any town
that locks it's dreamers up

& spits them out
to live branded
& afraid of their own shadows

a town
I want to leave
a town that once I loved

You want to drag me to the Sea
I want to write poetry
'It's too late for such a trip today'
I say & sip my tea
You still want to drag me to the Sea

Hello, Midnight
with your ragged stars
hidden behind clouds

Hello, Midnight
a *****'s salute
to restless thoughts

Hello, Midnight
a girl flashing her skirt
in the red light district

Hello, Midnight
calling with ******* & ket
at people's doors

Hello, Midnight
guarding the silence
in the dim suburbs

Hello, Midnight
whispering poems
to writers & poets

neon light of slow
revolving doors in this
dumb, silent sleep

The poet stirs the
rain drops, the sky bends and folds
an old cat stretches.

It's raining again
& I'm writing poetry again
fresh coffee in my cup

what to write, what to write
about childhood, love or human rights
the rain is falling outside

& I've done all that before
so I'm searching for the poet
inside myself & looking for

odd lines that may take my fancy
meanwhile, the rain is falling outside
& the sky can't be seen for clouds

' I'm just another poet
on a rainy day'
I whisper

the sky doesn't answer

We go to Ikea having taken
the road through the allotments
& the Park which dates back

to Victorian times.
Inside the store
we grab at rugs & bowls

lie on the beds
until someone frowns
at us & we leave to

sit in the restaurant
with Swedish apple cake
& coffee, reminiscing

of the road we used to take
on the M48 bus to the store
which was near Spandau

one of the earliest settlements of Berlin
where the first Slavs
settled & lived

& how we had
back then a family card
to give us free coffee


before it all fell apart

You are
cherry blossom
an oval
a fish-eye
you keep
mosquitoes
in a matchbox
& pray
to Buddha
we part every now & then
so we can meet again

You write you're gonna look for a girlfriend
once you're done writing your poems
& I hear the garbage truck calling my name
asking to collect my heart & dreams

( Poem follows below after this short introduction) So this is a warning for anyone who believes in mental illness & thinks that psychiatry is helping them rather than harming them & to remind them how it is a potentially dangerous tool for oppression & medicalization of normality. In 1850, a US Doctor came up with this diagnosis to claim that slaves that wanted to run away/ran away were mentally ill because he a) believed black people were inferior to white people b) that any desire in a black person to be free must be mental illness as they were born to be enslaved. I am not kidding. This really happened.

Drapetomania

So you see it has a name
this singing in my veins
the wish to be free of my chains
is apparently insane
for by my skin I was born to serve
those who would whip me
those who would trick me
of my birth right
to stand free in the sun
No, apparently, if I run
I am sick
tell me quick
doc what do I do
& tell me how do
you sleep at night
being so cruel
to your fellow man
is there a name for what
you do, I could think of a few
I can only come up with
' *******'

Like a Japanese
lucky nodding cat
she has a round face
& a tortoiseshell pattern
on her back
she sleeps beside me
talks in queer chatter
as if to ask me
what's the matter
why aren't you
playing
feeding
petting
no room for writing
or forgetting
my small friend

Dear poem,

When will you knock?
What color aura will you have?
Will you play an instrument?
What will your voice be like?
Will you like pink flamingos?
Will you be afraid of mice?
Will you be a Preacher?
Will you campaign for human rights?
Andy Warhol was a fake, you know
no artist should get others
to do the hard work for him
I don’t know your opinion on that
Will you play scrabble with me?
Will you be my love
or just abandon me
just as we’re getting started?
                                                    yours truly

Birds sing in sunset
never measure it
a task unspoken

I've never writ
a Haiku before
how about this

I leave you in the middle of town
I hope you have a map
to get back to the bus station

Over a cider in the posh end of town
which probably cost us both more
than we could afford

after our afternoon's talk of Tolstoy
& a shared love of Enid Blyton
& musicians we both loved

we talked of what the current government
was doing to the British poor
& you told me of your own

straightened circumstances
as a child, relying on food parcels
from the Church to stay alive

& I told you how in the Soviet Union
& during the Perestroika
there was never any food in the shops

for anyone & how my mother
queued for hours to get a single pint of milk
not knowing if she'd get it

& how our life changed
when we came here
for the better

we come from different worlds,
each has had their problems
this & Poetry is what connects us.

They say
you will be extinct
by 2032

the Queen of Hearts'
favorite past-time
the joy of summer

a sign of class
& breeding
in your time

brought over
from France
during Charles II's reign

the memory
of playing you
in that mansion house

across the  river gorge
amidst the roses
will stay with me forever

as a sign of the Britishness
I lost abroad
& when he left


* Queen of Hearts - from ' Alice in Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll

So just how much *******
are you prepared to believe?

Lets see, take a seat
we've got half an hour

or maybe even better
you're locked up

at my mercy
& my team

are giving you drugs
for a diagnosis

I've given you
before we've even talked

& hopefully the drugs
are curing you of life, love, hope

& any despair you're feeling
at being stuck here

what's that?
you've ballooned in weight?

all you do is sleep?
your feet are turning inward?

You're nearly diabetic?
Your hands are always shaking?

I'm shrinking your
unwanted little brain?

A small price to pay
for the promise of freedom

my little puppet
on a string

lets see just how much
******* we can make you believe

I'll make you say it
' I'm ill'

or I'll never let you out
it's just my little whim

you're one of the chosen few
whose life will be shattered in two

kiss goodbye to your emotions
What? You're angry? That's atrocious.

You are dangerous
it's good we locked you up

and what?
You say you're in love?

sheer Erotomania, my dear
we will cure it, never fear

Talking of fear,
I'd say you have paranoia

MHM, Psychosis,
that's right, Momma

Happiness is mania
Sadness is depression

having said that,
you'll hopefully want to **** yourself

after our little session
to confirm my treatment of you

I'm an expert
I've got a degree in *******

no-one has ever
dared to say I'm wrong

so don't you start
I do, you know have a heart

& it beats only for me
so if you want to be free

you'd better **** it up
& suffer

( or also entitled : Just How Much ******* Are You Prepared to Believe)

Confidence - grandiosity
Hope - Delusion
Ambition - grandiosity + delusion
Love - Co-dependency
Unrequited Love & romantic hopes - Erotomania
Sexuality - Hypersexuality
Happiness - Manic mood
Sadness - Depression
Shock - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Emotional - Bipolar
Fear - Paranoia/psychosis
Distrust - Suspicion ( e.g paranoia)
Loneliness - Neediness
Needing connection to others - Co-dependant
Existential doubts - suicidal
Spiritual awakening - psychosis
Sarcasm - Aggression
Loner - socially-withdrawn
Messy - self-neglectful
Angry - dangerous/violent
Faith - dangerous Religisiosity
dubious combination
of some of the above : Schizophrenia

Note : All of these need drugs to 'cure' them so the drugs companies can make a fortune & pay you a premium. Where did you think the money for your salary came from?

& now I know we share Oscar Peterson in common
I want to love you all the more,
till the world ends
Let our beloved rain fall
Let our days howl of our Ginsberg
Plath, Eliot & Dylan
& others, more obscure
Let us buy that Edward Hopper
we both love
& let us sleep in your car
out on the Yorkshire Moors
You're the milk in my coffee
Let me be the billboard
you advertize our love on
lets be breathless metaphors
of each other
the quotation marks
around each others words
high on the ******* of stars
& always read
each others poems
drag each other to open mics
& drink too much
let's make Cupid jealous
of the fiery arrows
we use to stab
one another
if it doesn't work out
& make the Angels
jealous of our heaven
if it does
lets be a restless breeze
that blows
through the world
& stirs each leaf
with our words
lets just be us
fellow hermit
fellow poet
Soulmate
that's
the word

She chases the white rabbit
in the afternoons

plays blackjack
with the doves of youth

her innocence
is colored Pink

her queer dreams
are made of silk

she is the Queen
of sunny afternoons

her heart
is like stained glass

through
which the light appears

and fades


*blackjack - is a card game played in American casinos

The dreaming watch
is always set to one o’clock

                                                                                                 she talks to stones
collects animal bones & birds eggs

drinks green tea
counts the rain drops  
                                                                                          
                                                                       her aged husband always knocks
before he enters her

her younger lover
never does

                                                                                               the Samurai sword
hangs on the wall, expectantly

the dreaming watch
is always set to one o’clock

I found a missing angel today
he asked me for a ***

& then walked away
in rain and snow he has

nowhere to go
& he sleeps beneath

the endless stars
each night his lullaby

is the sound of passing
cars & the voices going by

he likes the girls
he likes the noise

he hides his wings
beneath his shirt

he sings & smiles
amidst the dirt

he dines
on the night air

& hope
my missing angel

of the North

She wakes up at 4pm
leaves the house
only at sunset

she talks
in feline nothings
to her cat

& reads
Rousseau
in the afternoons

10 years ago
the last time
she saw her friend

not her fault,
the distance
of course


sometimes
she goes to the pub
where she doesn't

know anyone
& drinks
half a guinness

comes home
drunk on the night
& it's thousand stars

I summon you Kerouac
from your travels
your sad sofa days
show me the way
to the stars

Beware
this poem
is very long

I'm restless again
six years in the same place

taking refuge in plane
trips to the same place

I look at the Atlas
& stick pins

in all the spots
that she has been

my mother
the accidental explorer

China, America
Japan, Italy

France, Germany
& Spain

rewards
after a life

behind
the Iron Curtain

going on field trips
even then

Mongolia
Siberia

I grew up
in freedom

yet have
never been

past
my past

I'm still chasing it
can this last

Six years
in the same places

Capital city gal
turned small-town child

I want to go wild
spin the earth round

in my direction
change my reflection

feel my feet
on new ground

I'll stick pins
in all the places

I could find
myself in

& write
self-addressed

envelopes
to send postcards in

because
you never know

what the day
will bring

I bring to you
serenity in a cup

time at
a standstill

material
for fortune-tellers

shadows
of the Empire

you drink
a bit

then spill
it

on your paper
the stains

spread
like a sunset

blotting out
bad news


* Empire - British Empire

We meet by the lockers
at break
I'm still amazed
that this school
has Cheerleaders
that basketball
not rounders & netball
is the sport played
that we study
the Cold War
' Of Mice & Men'
& the War in Vietnam
that we have 'Hitzenfrei' days
that our German teacher
always forgives our mistakes
that boys & girls
hang out together
that we put on musicals
I've never heard of
That we celebrate the fall of the Wall
that we take school trips
to Concentration Camps
that there's no uniform
that the teachers
rarely explain anything
that the word ' rubber'
doesn't mean ' eraser'
here but something else
that there are stereotypes
like 'nerd' & ' prom queen'
that we welcome grafitti
that we believe in Love
above any kind of Study
that we have the freedom
to pick & choose our failiures
without being sent
to the Principal's office
that we read Kerouac
Carl Sandburg & Ginsberg
that nearly everyone
has lived in at least
two or three
different countries
that we rarely fight
that my crush
plays trumpet
in a ska band
that we go
to the nearby Lakes
on weekends
& the English language cinema
on Tuesdays
that we celebrate Halloween
bit by bit I nearly forget
my All Girls school days
in soggy Britain
where I had no friends
where we sang hymns
every single morning
where we didn't practice
the Love we preached
where our future
was crumbling old Oxbridge
where we had a coat of arms
where we had houses
named after the merchant ships
of our Founder  from the 1600ds
where we didn't dream
of becoming Presidents
or Astronauts but Academics
forever lost in musty books
the flower of our youth, wasted


Hitzenfrei days were days in summer when we were let off school because it was too hot.
Wall - Berlin Wall

i.
Tread lightly
for you tread upon my heart
those nights the Angels
want to tear you down
those nights you want to talk
about Modernism
those nights you're Kerouac
under the ageless, drunken Moon
those nights on which
I discover that
we both like Columbo
& both have watched '' The Reader'',
'' Russian Ark''
& both Virginia Woolf adore
tread lightly
for you tread upon my heart


      i.i
Tread lightly
for you tread upon my heart
those nights when you are
just too smart
for your own good
& wit & kindness
seem to well up
in your every word
those nights you talk of
Northern thunderstorms
when down South
we have none
& Bronte's Kathy
haunts you
Tread lightly
for you tread upon my heart


      i.i.i
Tread lightly
for you tread upon my heart
each time you
make the stars seem dimmer
by your absence
when the broken night's soundtrack
is your ' Joy Division'
Those nights you write poetry
at 2 a.m just like me
Those nights I realize
you'll never see in me
the jazz that I found in you
Because you never looked
Those nights I want to tear down
the Angels for keeping us apart;
tread lightly for you tread upon my heart