Milk!
MILK!
THERE IS NO MILK!
well I'm not
getting out of my pyjamas,
so the cat will have to go
..........
One p.m, a week's ***** dishes in the sink
mind like a bog
.....

& the new radio
doesn't work
.........
MILK!
THERE IS NO MILK!
.....

& I want my coffee
but my purse
has had enough
of spending sprees
a POUND it says?
YOU WANNA SPEND
A QUID?
You *****!
You *****!
Forget all about that!
You spent everything
on coffee yesterday, remember?
hanging out in posh cafes
& all for what?
There is no milk!

It's only a broken mirror
that shows a perfect reflection

She found herself in moments,
in the cracks between the pavement,

staring at her moonlit reflection,
twisting the time left to her to perfection,

aged thirty & counting
clouds passing above,

she kissed a couple of frogs
one of them, a Mr Prince Jnr

20 years older, who she hoped
would leave her a fortune

instead, he left her out on the street
smashed up, in the soup kitchen she moaned

about his new, younger lover
getting angrier with every hit

then aimed a shiny gun
at him to prove her point but missed

one day a preacher came along
that showed her the error of her ways

' Come to him, our Lord, child' he said
& she did. People heard her sing gospel out in the street.

It turned out she had quite a voice
& this sweet gift did not go unnoticed

now she's a rich singer of great repute
a happy end you can't refute

We are modern Origami sprawl
gritty boxes, evolving
on a blighted sea of sprinkled dusk.
Witching this Epoch hour
where will I find you
jeans throng a poison prescience giant
like a fill-in-the blank Bell
soon to be bird-like & quivering
a Clinging beyond ourselves
electronica loud-mouthed
beep beep
a motorcycle dazzle
some drop in the heat
oh Che Guevara
nothing's changed
nothing's real

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

I seek your legalized ghost -
fold autumn's changing leaves
into my meagre words
& acorns & chestnuts
the way the starlight
dreams of the winter cold
the mill wheel of ***** Mills
the cafes with their chatter
all the things you can no longer see
& the kitchen radio is blasting ' Queen'
your favorite band with their hit
' Will somebody find me somebody to..'
I switch off at the last word
suddenly, just the way you switched off your life

I sang ' Here's to you Mrs Robinson'
downed a pint of Thatchers
while the guitar played

& in the empty streets
there was the Moon
coarse & incomplete

these strange suburban nights
bring back memories of loss
& of the coming of agelessness

I never learnt how to drive
& still rely on the bus
unable to graduate from life

yet I hope my torn sunsets
& wasted loves
have made me wiser

whispering mantras
not afraid of being the outsider
forever drawing maps




*Thatchers is a cider from Somerset, England.

I.

Ich gehe durch die jardin des oiseaux
ya i ti v kopkane no tyebe vsye ravno
how do these things rhyme, I ask in awe

( I walk through the bird garden
  you and I are in a trap but you don't care
  how do these things rhyme, I ask in awe)


I.I

Ne pas les choses
die sind dies das
are long,long gone
kogda mi smotrim
v dal and pick and choose
another muse to fall.

( these aren't the things that are those that are long, long gone
when we look into the distance and pick and choose another muse to fall)



III.

Ni kliuch
non, non
die sind nur Traume
that we don
over and over

(no key, no, no these are but dreams that we don over and over.)

We dine on Tuna & Merlot red wine
a single car's headlights shine

                                                          ­                                traveling down a road
                                                            ­                             so many stories untold
you're selling your old flat
in the Georgian house

                                                          ­                                              we all lived in
                                                              ­                 back in the colorless nineties

when the music was bad -
Westlife, Take That, Spice Girls

                                                          ­                                               & everyone
                                                        ­                             wore either black or blue
it seemed, on this Island
& your boys were still small

                                                          ­        & my family holidayed in Cornwall
                                                        ­    & I didn't yet know I could write poetry

when you move away
I shall be sorry to see you go

Sugar-loaf burns
the clock strikes midnight
I look into your eyes
outside the snow is falling
the last train has stopped running
& your friends have just sung ' Let it be'
this could be the night
to make or break a heart
you ask me to stay
I leave

In my next life I want a pomeranian puppy
& to stand again on the Roaches

& to be able, unlike now, to swim
& to (once more) fence on Thursdays & tap dance on Saturdays

In my next life I want to see a Hurricane
with my own eyes & write a song about it

In my next life I want to be an astronaut
remarking how in Space, there is no rain

& to read tabloid newspapers
in Orbit for the gossip & want this

In my next life I do not want
to be a poet, unless it means

unlike now, being with you
because without you, these poems mean nothing.

Sometimes in the dark
you stumble
before the morning lark

calls out to the smart
you mumble
sometimes in the dark

faintly beats the heart
sensing trouble
before the morning lark

calls for the day to start
we blunder
sometimes in the dark

trying to make their mark
our thoughts rumble
before the morning lark

All is but a house of cards
& about to crumble
somewhere in the dark
before the morning lark

Alas, poor venison salami, I knew ye well!
You were a dear, dear friend
But then you met your sorry end
at my fair cat’s royal command

I'll sing a dirge & sound the Bell
I'll tip my hat & say farewell
to your sweet, succulent delight
may we ne’er lose it out of sight.

I am living without you
as without a lover

as without the sun
or the moon

my being is an empty,
cold house

through which only the wind blows
occasionally you come to me

dimly as a ghost in a dream
& I wish never to wake

only to feel you rule me
shake me, quake me

or not feel, rather
but only dimly remember

Apples & plums high on their boughs
autumn is not far off now

nearby, red brick houses
sleep in the after-shower sun

only a few more days
& summer's done

the cyclists are speeding
on their way from work

along the Bristol-Bath cycle path
also ' railway path' called

& with a three year old laugh
a child in an anorak unsteadily sways

I've walked this way in the night
with the moon shining up above

& seen a fox run out in plain sight
into the middle of the path

the street lamps either side
amongst the trees, shining on it's red fur

& in the early morning light
watched a mysterious toad blink it's wide eyes

& walked it all the way
to Bristol town & back

& also to the old Steam trains
out past Warmley

dressed in my old boots
waiting for the sunset & the dark

calling up ghosts
musing on Rousseau

listening to birdsong
& wanting nothing more

Better get ready to make a fool of myself again

" Du Kannst Mich am Arsch Licken''
'' Kiss my ***''
the 1 litre cider bottle's out
he takes a swig
then throws his old head back
simulating electric chair death
throws, silence permeates
the wary room
'' Baby....don't....go''
'' Long live Rock n' Roll''
in his thick German accent
before that he asked
'' Who is Allen Ginsberg-
really, Howl, poetry?''
someone afterwards says
'' It's like seeing the ghost
of Bukowski''
the room doesn't say much
but I feel a warmth
for him, reminding me
of my heart's home:
Berlin. Yes, the Germans
they're like this,
they don't take any ****
their hearts
are made of grit
& their drunks
are different from ours,
yes, they talk
of Nijinsky
& the *Ballet Russes
intellectuals
even when they're plastered
'' You may be my enemy
but with a drink you are my friend''
he said & echoes of the War
permeated the dark
& faded time back to the present
opening the night
to better things

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

And the Moon said
'' Give me all
your paper
airplanes''

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

The night gathered around
that suburban house,

amongst the dreaming cedars
& the telephone rang

I picked up, said I'd be there
so I caught the bus all the way to town

Berlin at 3 a.m
was a beautiful stranger

especially Lehrter Bahnhof
moonlight shining through

it's half-completed arches
like through the dead ribs of a Whale

out that late by myself
& at first not a little afraid

looking over my shoulder
aged seventeen

I was still feeling younger
you were catching that plane

& we friends were to meet
you to say goodbye again

& I, hello to the beginning
of the slow journey to the end

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

My moustache it tells me you did it. Don't argue.

Feel the psychedelic beat
it makes me complete
gives a lazy Sunday
a new kind of heat

hate  ol' Sunday
no good 'xcept for gin & old ladies
but now there's
this psychedelic beat

give it to me, Momma
sock it to me, Pappa
let me feel the heat
of this psychedelic beat

turning the world
into acid rainbows

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

Railroad track
in ole' tall grass singing
small crickets chirping

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

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.

My love for you is like
a hot air balloon
from which you can
suddenly see everything
I always did have vertigo
so I fly in it with closed eyes
also, I fear that if I opened them
I'd see that our lives
are two separate rivers
that never reach the same Ocean
& that I cannot change this
no matter how much I try
& that I have to let you go
when we both land

She readies the tomatoes & radishes
fresh lettuce leaves & green onion
then finishes with salad cream as a garnish
& puts the evening’s fish pie in the oven

The salad sings sweetly to her
of the bygone days of childhood summers
fast cars on winding country lanes,
the way her grandfather would say

something to his sheepdog
& watch it rush away again
in the sunlight’s  warm
grasp,  before the rain

wandering fields & farms
or out by Thor’s cave
always with a pair of binoculars
for counting birds & bats

& how he’d sleep in his armchair
in a red brick stack of a house
& how the dazed garden air
always smelt of tea roses

many years have gone past
& she keeps all the old photographs
under lock & key in Europe
& old birthday cards in their envelopes

Every Christmas the phone rings
out above a coal-filled fireplace
& the call goes to the answer machine
all that love gone to waste

* Thor's Cave is a cave in Manifold Valley in the county of Staffordshire in the UK

The exit is right behind you
but the key doesn't fit.

Close your eyes
the Sea is waiting.

A reticent fox slinks by beneath
the trees

that still have leaves
conversing for now

the change in colors
sleeps still, unannounced

the rain smells of ploughed earth
& freshly hung-out clouds

& wellington boots
Autumn's child cries it's first word

& inside a low-lit pub
a crisp old cider's poured

September's dreams
fermenting

***** with me
let me feel the beat
that will make us complete
***** with me

***** with me
let us tear down this wall
and ignore all the fools
***** with me

***** with me
before our teenage dreams
fall apart at the seams
***** with me

***** with me
forget all their wars
I'm all yours
***** with me

The city's shrouded in smoke today
smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes

& I know, I know.
       I should be writing in form,
in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima
      some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like
everyone's jumped on the bandwagon
       yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme
                 but sometimes this is just the tune
                                    your heart sings, a broken smile
                                    & the way the images build up
                                        waiting to sail like ships in the harbor


& besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted,

the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse,
talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch

& the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked
behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic

glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn
& dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds

like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging
on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening,

searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life, 
changing countries like some change bed sheets,

others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling
for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet

childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets,
picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds,

spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol,
writing poems of unrequited love to poets

far better than us, while Elvis croons
in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds

in the Russian town of my ancestors
& an open air film plays in black & white

& this colorless summer is nearly over
& they still haven't lifted their sanctions

them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry,
always lining up the next undesirables :

you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes
you the believer, you the dreamer of visions

Oh pity them, the children of smoke,
blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover

lost children always seeking out the same roads
the city is shrouded in smoke

& I wonder if it's not always been there
& if we're living amongst blind men

ones that never read poems
or else how could all this happen

& 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

It is upon us, then, the mystery
of frankincense & myrrh

two planets merge
& we gather listlessly

to glimpse the sign
of him, our Lord

like long ago
the great star shines

albeit in summer heat
we gather close

& tell the tale
that makes the world complete

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