Summer’s not done
but the oven plinks anyway
and the sizzle of potatoes
in too much fat rattles on
regardless

We can talk about suicide
we can
no one will ever want to
but its hands wander wider than you’d think

Each tear you blink on the back of it
is wrought with confusion:
was it?
is it?
can it?
how do I?
what do I?
what should I?

But the truth is lost
like in 7.8 billion
a healthy unhealthy percentage of which
have had enough
and you know some of ‘em

So ask them, yeah?
ask them a lot
repeatedly like an annoying clock

Ask them

You need to cook

to think about what tastes good
and shop with tastebuds, textures and time in mind,
challenge your palate
with things you might not like
but just maybe through salt, fat,
sweet and vinegar
you’ll begin a journey with no end

Start with basics:
pick a thing that as a kid you loved
and muck about with it
add stuff, take stuff
reflect on heat
(too high is the trap we all fall in,
or too low, through fear)

Most of all cook, as a ritual
make victuals that force a grin
that draw friends, families and lovers in
and with greasy fingers and chins,
grand sustenance and common guilt,
we’ll smile and rise

The impulse of summer waning
sends an annual, yet always forgotten shift,
the hedgerows and fields conspire
to rewrite the scent enough
so the mind wanders to open fires
and comfort food
even though the sun still beats
scant weeks away we’ll swaddle

The world doesn’t know it needs setting right
but we do it anyway
against bucolic backgrounds,
corners of this sceptered isle
known only to types who like to ramble

point to point meticulously planned
by his draughtsman’s hand
our mouths and minds driving us more than legs
words to square away despair at the world
or delight in some magical new tech
to save it

these are footsteps I’ve always followed
always will
despite a mardy heel drag  in my teenage years
the muscle memory - one foot, then the other -
cannot be unwritten
even as knees now complain otherwise

1.
I’m heading to the sea
in a slot not big enough to fit a holiday
so I’ll day
trip

I think I’m packed:
a mind still rattled by life and lockdowns?
check
a palpable desire for vistas unknown?
check
a rucksack of memories, of sand, of wafer cones,
of wasps, of crystalline, sweet wrapper lights on mad, unsafe beach rides, on windbreaks, on digging, on seaweed and brown British waves?
check

Let’s start this engine, then

2.
Should’ve gone before we left
the irony’s not lost on me
even though I’m now the boss of me
I’ve still had to stop in local circles
cos someone needs a ***

I’ll blame the coffee

3.
Frightening fast the local roads fade
the five and ten mile loops of life
are gone
and the roots we commute and commune on
rest bone rigid, obscured

Passing Crowland
impossibly flat plains
thoughts turn to darkness
and misunderstood witches lost here
until the smirk of Cowbit assuages

Only the Welland, alongside
still talks of home
til even she changes
speaks in wider verbs
tidal verbs of ebb and flow
showing thick mud beneath

These long, straight roads are deceptive
leaving meanders to river and mind
while hiding accidents in plain sight

4.
The road sentence ended
and after chewing a space to park
shoes changed to something wholly uncool
but fitting me well
first steps on the unsure grammar of sand
reminding that syntax here takes much more effort

a dune cleft gives a known view
I’ve never seen before
and then I’m through

sky and horizon blast me

for frozen moments I’m lost,
these common seas I shrug off in my head
smirk at
as nothing against turquoise
or rock raged waves
still bring tears
against my smile

I listen at the language in the shallows,
the rush and hustle,
and feel a glimmer of foreignness as I can’t make out the message
but I get the gist

5.
To honour holidays of old
I sat a spell in Wolla Bank car park
though inauthentically the rain didn’t fall

I was forced to imagine the windscreen steamed
and had no fish paste on white
as I’d paid full price to eat at a cafe
unheard of back in the day

I did read the car park info sign
about the clay pits around
where historical sea defences were mined
and that did the job of taking my mind back

and the closing thought of petrified trees
beneath the waves til very low tide
did its best to haunt

6.
Heading home
wistful I suppose,
though I’m not sure where I got all the wist

the sea is a keeper of memories
a chewer and cogitator
so when they return to the shore
and are spoken again
what you thought you knew back then
may have changed
deepened, softened
and hopefully your youthful idiocy
is allowed to be forgotten

if you came for the ride
thanks, as ever, for joining me x

Indigo shades steeping
to Indian ink blackness
******* thought
to a beautiful, terrible singularity
where words struggle
to escape gravity
but on we fly

At the core of my being
I reckon there’s oil
and garlic and salt
and probably chilli flakes,
lemon or lime zest and juice,
or orange at my heart

applicable herbs, like basil
thyme, oregano,
always rosemary as it grows

stock cubes
or those new jelly ones
to amuse the palate
in each experiment  

all to hold off the meal deals
we know are coming

To be kind is not losing,
though bitter sadness
and lonely hours
can make it hard to see,
putting others’ shoes on
simply shows you’re not alone
and though you may not be a hero
widely worshipped, here’s the thing:
you’ll bring a mote of light
to the sometimes dark nights
in peoples’ souls,
which will shine a little back
and if we all fan these coals
with easy acts of decency,
none get lost in black,
none get left behind:
be kind

Starting fires
and suggesting that they sit
in flimsy metal pits
from hardware stores or such
is all well and good
until flames remind you
they have no gods,
no morals, just free will,
while the smoke marks you its own

I sat with another clip board, another list
welcoming those whose once small faces,
mad dashes, hot tears
and cold contempts
rattled these walls for five years

Some had beards, some hips, brio,
some adult eyes
that took two or three glances to recognise
the child still in

Almost all had smiles

Behind them, trooping colour to the tennis courts,
their summer school scions
began their own gangly rise
ad infinitum

I drove a raised road
which gave a view of fields
much different to home
though mere miles away
vast, dark-rich soil potential
where words couldn’t fail to grow
but in a syntax not my own

There, the syllables of rushes stood clear
arrogant, apparent
with no lost edges or liminal blur
where I would speak my words

Heading back, a driveway sign said:
ROSES, BEANS
and now, at home
I’m lost to what that means

I love you

from a tickle to a thrum

a bothered everything for now

for now is a time indeed

same as others gone

and others still to be

Bubbling in summer’s bouillon
my vegetal notes abound
leaf and fruit under glass
swell quick but threaten

as a base for my tin *** stews
it’ll do in a pinch
but I already yearn
for the inching roots and tubers
colder autumn brings
when sweats are chosen
and frost rimes
glamourise my grin

I think I know my breadths and depths
but the steps of these incandescent souls,
those that have given their whole
to muscle memory,
contusions, cuts and late night
doubt filled miseries
just to fight themselves,
podium or not,
teaches me that what I’ve got,
we’ve got,
is just unknown

The bull necked man
with a single thought
could only muster one retort
“****” he said
and a million Wildean thoughts
cascaded in my head
and ultimately I said
nothing

Tell me you see ice cream,
cold British beaches, amber filtered
hanging bright buckets and spades
and pebbles and sand
tight lanes through time lost green fields
with only hedges passing judgement
tell me you see *****
(the good kind)
and flabby dad *** abs
that remember the potency of other times
tell me you see the sea
tell me you see me there

1.
A certain stasis of shapeless days
backlit a little by obscure sport
leave a lot of room
for double-edged thought

2.
I’ve bought two mandolins
one cut my fingers
the other cast them too fat,
what’s up with that?

1.

I started in the shadow of one of God’s many houses,
fat plums on common ground offered themselves,
taut, bruise-purple skin still pristine
for maybe two, three more weeks

Walking on, a burst fig signaled
something
fresh green torn
scandalously showing fleshy insides
that should be kept private
for lovers, gourmands, gluttons

All the while, intermittently,
the straight line train drones by,
keeping Presbyterian hold
on passing passengers
who through unopened windows
cannot smell, hear or taste the divine

All the while the crickets sang of being

2.

All the while the crickets scored my steps
until ahead, nettle and dog rose conversations
conspired to thwart this man’s,
any man’s,
attempts to walk straight and true

A detour took me from the soft lost chaos of grasses
to tight lawns, hard front doors,
dark-ish satanic mills making wheat biscuits
and the ever sad chorus of a million tyres

Nearing home, a young rabbit’s boldness held
until too close, melted away

in the managed parkland
dragonfly truths called, m’ ducks
dragonfly truths called

One side obscene in ignorance,
the other sanctimonious
to emetic effect

In the mid ground we most of us sit
whiplashed necks crying
as each rabid side bays allegiance

shut up, breathe clear air
drink tea
read
be fair

Leaf litter sheep ****
verdant verges
flowers that smell foreign but aren’t
wet earth telling truth
moves to concrete and tarmac
who lie often
and heat is turned to memory
steps from animal tracks to animals tracked
have tumble drier breeze
mocking those prior flowers
**** smoked appreciatively
to thank the peace
as if laws don’t exist
and the lick of car exhaust
to recall poison
and then home

Green cathedral bells
are felt more than heard
though some tolls chime audible
to stomach depths
heart breadths
last breaths

I currently sleep in episodes,
brief sojourns into late night sub-genres
too niche for deep sleep prime time
starring washed up dream tropes
like public ****** and teeth falling out

I still find flickers of truth
but a mind mindlessly clicking through channels
provides no water cooler moments
for the therapist and I

As local as shoe leather,
though laced a little differently
I still feel the pull of aul boody,
aul boy,
a voice of ancient things

this impossible centre of England
with the flow of Plantagenet
of Watling
of Nene and Welland
where nothing happens
but everything has

rich in silver willow
and tannery stink
still giving cause to think,
to feel Clare’s fears
as the inexorable tarmac is laid
and each day passed
as the hedged wren and dunnock
begin to explain
green and pleasant pains

Heat goes away
and we remember our austerity
with turned up collars and rotten ideas,
grey respite seems to like us,
invites us to thrive in a familiar taste,
but real or imagined,
passion fruit and mango
stubbornly linger

This pareidolia grips me
with fingers made of nothing

Clouds can’t lie, just are
and what I choose to see is mine

Whether this weather flatters or chides
is all inside, inside

A red kite passed between the sun and I
momentarily delighting with its shadow,
a shrill cry launched at an empty sky, happy

Hot creosote of neighbours fences
smelt of care and the eighties
while my own untreated panels bleached

By the stream, illegal fishermen dawdled
while the world chose not to care
and for now this snow globe held unshook

Battered bookworms
turning a familiar turn
(always left)

For those that leave:
your threads become part of the tapestry,

a picture writ with deep love, excitement, applause,
dire fears and tiredness,

here be dragons and arrows in eyes

but despite the hamfists
of some intrusive hands,

there to see forever

Better than ****** Christmas
this six weeks that we continually justify
that stop our hands breaking,
the dying of hearts and minds

though in the middle
somewhere
when we regain our human form
sometimes storms rage a bit
and we stand, clifftop howling
at an unknown moon

on return we’ll have lost friends, loves,
yet be reborn to care, to teach,
to take the slings and arrows again
from this pauper’s fortune

I’ve never ‘got’ football,
always felt like a bruise
I wasn’t sure how I’d got
or a changing room joke that involved
small ***** or arcane bullying

Perhaps my tutelage was bad
but the pattern in my head
is gammon woven
with misogyny, bigotry
and misunderstood pride

But these boys,
with unhappiness and graft built in,
with ‘other’ credibility,
broad shoulders, tough chins,
make me think that with my time again
I’d have listened

So to them, I opine:
you’ve earned a win,
and have one

Oh, my tired sisters and brothers
I know.
Each and every step and gesture
has hidden lead weights attached
and everything lifted now hurts

You are allowed the involuntary grunt
or voluntary tear as you stand,
all eyes and ears are itchy with
tired

There is still a smile allowed
as long as we keep an end in sight

If lucky, we accrue the time
that makes us me and you
it is sublime
and wholly human too

I had to move the leaves to see it,
verdant, strong leaves no doubt,
but in the way, all the same

The subtle, spectacular beauty:
a gesture, a colouring, a quiet profound thought
nearly lost to louder voices

Some may see a seeming protection
but deep down will know:
showing, not telling, is queen

Selecting the truth is easy:
pick the bits that make you seem great
and breeze them past ears
that have no time or desire to wait
for the imminent clatter of ****,
the torrent of bitter feces
that sticks
as all the parts suppressed spew forth

#politics #ukpolitics #lies #disingenuous

As chasms open up to swallow
I’ll eye them carefully
to see if I should cling or dive

The thing about chasms is
that there might be something amazing
at the bottom, that reinvents you

Or there could be spikes and crocodiles,
or spiky crocodiles
with knives

You just never know with chasms

A slow skull, but steady
as four pull by in unison,
the river readies me for another day
with current confidences
quietly spoken

In comparison, the busy chat
of small brown birds seems rude,
but cheek and charm
forgive a lot
if not all

It’s to the bees I’ll look
for industry this Sunday,
though if their lead will be followed
is yet to be decided

Blackbirds backwards
and your solid foil to my boiling yawn
is remembered

I’ll always love you my dude

even though it’s mostly memory now
we travelled odd eighties early nineties
hinterlands
full of clear stupidities and hidden
immutable truths

but I’ll always hold
ridiculous dry heated cricket pitches,
run dark *** and loose joints
as what drove us

“What should we do today?”
“I dunno”

To crawl, the impossible crawl
to swear, the most swearable curse
to bear all the ******* they throw us
and not, leave the place in a hearse

To nod, when you just want to punch
to eat, every snack that you see
to cry, when you misplace a pencil
or meltdown when you can’t find your keys

This is our quest!
To get to the end!
Without killing a colleague,
or upsetting our friends

To still teach fractious kids
without question or pause
to stride strong into period 5
without breaking some laws

And I know that the end is in sight
so I’ll bite my lip
late July will be peaceful and calm
with a big gin to sip

And the future will not be so bad
to our heart and skills we affirm
September we’ll all start again
but for now we consign to the past
the unteachable term

Barbiturate sunshine afternoons
obscure the niggling work pile
and with fat heat, cool anger,
opening evenings to virtuous
leaf based dinners
only slightly ruined
by too much beer and ice cream

Ach, my amygdala
agglomerates ridiculousness,
a ****** laden froth
of other possibilities and lives
and loves, loves
and mitigated losses
to address the hurt

Jesus! The sweet burn of a heartbeat racing,
madly light-headed without a drop
passing lips that just
yearned
for want of a more sweaty term

inching to overdose with each reverie
while the colour drains from the now
a quick bump from a caught scent
or piqued memory

or a full on sofa session
pipe packed with young *****
(what dreams may come?)

the result’s the same:
unless you find today’s feast
you’ll atrophy on empty calories
of what was

#youhavepromptedme #flashedback #memory #nostalgia #youth

My word
nothing does love/hate
quite as poetically
as a teacher reaching holiday’s end

intrinsic guilt of ‘not having done’
bound up with seeing our colleagues
loved and hated
again

and those ******, beautiful, ugly
broken-bright
impossible-everyday kids

my words

Last dew glimmers on grass
and gives in, winking off til tomorrow:
there’s no shame yielding to this sun

Rugged boots on
hiding flesh and bone that still shakes
a little
I step forth onto schizophrenic paths
that for now are solid

Today, the verge incense sways and envelops,
intoxicating, masking the usual decay
and loss
enabling a contemplation
that holds til yappy pups cut it,
angry that no one made them bigger

Sleight of hand combined with misdirection
so you miss the moth eaten crushed velvet
of my finest stage jacket,
the flop sweat beneath the powder
I gesture to the monument of worries
towering behind me

With flamboyant flare
Presto!
The monolith of my life’s troubles
is no longer there!

You are right to give slack jawed applause
and question my technique,
just don’t peek behind the curtain
beyond the mirrors where it
all still teeters

Until the lights go out, I’m cured

Here’s my thinking:
Sir Kevan probably gave a decent plan
with solid foundations and associated cost
not loss
and all the Ricardians could see
was that it wasn’t all me, me, me
and so slashed away and thought:
those dumb enough to teach
can eat the **** sandwich
it’s not like they do anything that matters,
****** chattering classes,
now, how do we get them to do childcare
for the next six weeks
to stop the knived dead
and angry, apoplectic kids
and make sure their drone folks are on the lines
to feed our fat, fatcat selves?
I’m sure that Portia works for Ofsted...

We fight a hard wired self-hate
perpetuated three generations deep
a shut-factory broken-toothed anger
that finds no solace in shop work or service

they had more, once

so kids get to swallow it too
drink it deep and let its grim bloat leach
into blood and skin and hair

we fight hard as hell
with teeth and tongues of tolerance
and claws to catch and hold
to pause, not patronise
to see that inertia is owned

Twang of iron behind teeth
picking yourself up again, again
from a self-penned melodrama
(one with a snot-sobbing end)

Clouds part, lending a single beam
striking your heart, and you know

Dragging the back of your hand
across fat lips that creep up
for the first time since constant bowls of cereal
and giggling, cartoon mornings

Collecting everything that’s yours
in one hand, a little blood
the doorway shines and you’re gone

Mainly blue, but colours shift
as the nape of your neck smell might appeal
or the mole on your cheek
that will stubbornly never be Marilyn

This love, like bright sunlight in shallows
will dapple and confuse greens and golds
as our souls ossify in cool weeds

A swallow pair appeared
fashionably late
to legitimise the charcoal incense burned
in honour of escaping carpet
and the same ****** curtains

Other birds stuck with us through the ****
but as they are chubby, drab and common,
love’s taken for granted

The sign of these slick interlopers
with their continental drift
makes us giddy and all a-flap
at least til the bite of autumn