Once I met a platypus;
I took her to my heart.
We held hands by the lake at night,
And flew kites in the park.

We drank red wine by moonlight,
And closer, by degrees,
Expressed our deepest feelings;
Explored our fantasies.

And then, as these things happen,
There came a happy day:
We took an ad out in The Times
Announcing progeny.

But outrage at the outcome -
Our beloved platy-pups -
Was front page in the tabloids!
What was the platy-fuss?

We gave the papers interviews,
We gave our truth and trust -
But still my Love was slandered
Just for being oviparous!

We formed an equal rights group.
We founded charities.
To educate, to celebrate
Our ovi-parity!

We swore a solemn, binding oath,
Between the two of us
The Wedding feast and party was
Quite monatrematous!


Uncle Mallangong was tearful;
Aunt Echidna was abeam:
The Boondaburra “Moonwalking”
Was something to be seen!

There were Joeys sloshed on cider,
Wombats smoking ****;
Emus snogging at the bar -
Koalas wild on speed!

For sickness, health; for poorer,
Or for great prosperity;
I will love and hold and cherish,
Through all adversity,

My nondarwinian lover;
My mutant, duck-billed Queen!
My unconventional ******;
My monotreme – my dream!

Up in the attic
Under the bed
Inside the closet
In the boxes in our head

All the things that we were doing
To try to hide ourselves away

Old yellow pictures
Yesterday's news
Seeking catharsis
In a twelve-bar blues

All the things that we were doing
To try to hide ourselves away
To hide ourselves away

Mummy will be angry
And Daddy will be drunk
"Be careful where you're going boy
Or you'll end up like your Uncle
As the black sheep of the family"
But Daddy - the black sheep ran away

Over the hill to freedom
He lived to fight another day

All the things that live to haunt us
All the needles in our heart
The shadows on the bedroom wall
The things that make us start
Out of our nightmares
Cold and frightened
In the dark

Go to church on Sunday
Say prayers for the dead
Confess your sins to Jesus
(Though he knows them all already)

Oh for Jesus is your saviour
He will wash your sins away
Jesus is your saviour
He thinks about you every day



But prayers remain unanswered
And Daddy still gets drunk
And I remember Mummy
Stealing candles from the church

All the lies our parents told us
To try to keep us in our place
To try to save their face?

And I think of all the baggage
That we carry through our lives
I think of all the times
I've had to run away and hide

Sometimes I find myself believing
I'll be running all my life
So angel hold me tightly
And say that it will be all right...

She was old when I first knew her
To an infant, parents are timeless;
Fairy aunts are just… old.

A tiny scarecrow of a thing,
Her eyes glittered; her mouth
Never offered an ill word of anyone.

She was a good woman.  She never tired
Of talking about blind Jim – a good man –
With girlish love in her face;

One man, one love, one life
He wove wicker and filled mattresses
And listened to the wireless in the evening.

Her constant thought companion
As so many might-have-been heroes –
Gone, before I could know him.

Christmas would wend round each year,
With Meg as star guest,
Tipsy before the Queen’s Speech,

Whisky rouging her cheeks; fairy lights
Made envious by her laughter,
My mother, and hers, basking in gleelight.

I grew up there, every other Sunday,
Overlooking the Hospital and the Tay
From the safety of her living-room window,

Inventing spaceships and spies,
Dreaming of who I would be,
As my mother and Meg made small-talk.


Month by month, her daylight dimmed.
I never saw it.  She was only ever her;
Happy, constant and true.



Afterwards, I learned about the
Vying accountants and surgeons,
Postponing, year and again,

The procedure.  She told me, when finally
Her appointment was confirmed,
That when the cataracts were gone,

She was going to buy a ticket
For the number nine circular
And spend all day upstairs,

Just looking out of the window
At the city she’d lived in
For nigh-on ninety years

A week before the operation
Her home-help found her in bed, with Jim;
Smiling as they danced through the daisies.

She seemed no older when she died
Than when I first knew her.  
A good innings, they all said.

Not enough.  
If only by the length of a bus ticket –
not enough.

(By Sir William Topaz Crawford-McGonagall, Poet and Tragedian, Grand Knight of the Pink Garter)*

'Twas a Monday morning, in late February
When the clouds were covering London, thick, dark and heavy
(A beautiful city, when the sun is shining,
But not if it rains when people are out dining)

And waking up in the morning and looking at the sky
I felt quite sad, and moved to sigh
Because not only was the weekend over
(Which, having to go to work, I easily did discover)

But alas! the darkness made to sink my mood
(And that was not very good
For being in a low mood takes away my joy
And makes me feel like a grumpy and unhappy boy)

An Lo! The forecast was for more to come
Until Saturday or Sunday, at least, no chance to see the sun
I tried to think of things to do
Which would, perhaps, make me feel a little less blue

Despairing of the weather, I set to work
(Because in order to earn money to pay the bills, one must not shirk)
And bent like a Trojan to my labours
Hoping that happiness would be repaid as a favour

And slowly - oh joy and great day! - my mood it turned
And the harder I worked, the brighter it burned
So now I do not worry about the weekend
Because after the week which it subsequently sends
Another weekend itself there appends
And it all seems to work out quite well in the end

A message in a bottle
To a boy long cast adrift,
Would talk of Pride, and eloquence,
Of confidence, and gift.

Kiss a beaten forehead,
Stroke away a frightened stare;
Evaporate the anger
With a ruffle of his hair.

If I could write that letter
And cast it back in time,
I wonder if you’d wonder
If the words were really mine?

I’d sing about the miracles
A grown-up boy can feel:
The highs and lows, the joys and woes,
The velvet, and the steel.

I’d tell you not to worry,
Not to panic, not to reel,
To trust your inner judgement;
To believe in what you feel.

If I could write that letter
And cast it back in time,
I’d tell myself to love myself,
Find balance, peace; and *shine

What’s cute about my little cutie
Is his beauty, not brains
Old father time will never harm me
While his charm still remains

Just cos you grow old, baby
You don’t have to be a cold baby…

How I love my catamite
Rising proudly like a stalagmite
He keeps me young and beautiful
The way I want to be loved

Never fails to work his fluff
My delicious, golden powder puff
Keeps me young and beautiful
The way I want to be loved

Though I’m old, there’s no need to be placid
And if ever I feel slightly flaccid
I indulge in benign flagellatus
With my puer delicatus…

He lends me all his charms
When I’m tightly bound within his arms
Keeps me young and beautiful
The way I want to be loved

Though he’s not going to win any prizes
For his essays on Nietzsche or Kant
You have only to glance at his thighses
To see why I keep coming back…

I adore my catamite
My delightful little sodomite
He keeps me young and beautiful
The way I want to be loved

Gordon is a spider
He lives in my bathroom
I feed him up on house-flies
And chocolate Macaroon

Gordon is a spider
He lives behind the bin
He hides away when people stay
- it’s very kind of him

Gordon is a spider
(At least, I think it’s him –
Oh no! What if a bigger,
Meaner Gordon did him in?)

If Gordon Two ate Gordon One
My throne is surely cursed
No second toilet-mate could share
The manners of the first!

If Gordon's really bought it
I don’t know what I’ll do
I’ll have to write a notice
For my guests upon the loo:


**WARNING: SAVAGE SPIDER
BE CAREFUL WHEN YOU POO!
HE ATE HIS PREDECESSOR –
HE COULD BE AFTER YOU!

…rain, rain, red rain, scarlet rain, ochre rain, incarnadine rain, rain driving in torrents unseen in millennia, pounding the desiccated earth in a frenzy of hydration...

I... I never dared hope to see this.  In the last days...  let me see now...  this is so difficult that even my recollection grows dim...  

In the Last Days,  Council met and planned.  We exhorted the brightest, challenged the greatest minds.  We sifted through aeons of knowledge and philosophy, searching for the key to our salvation.  Plans were made and discarded.  Theories expounded... and proved false.  In time, we came to the inescapable conclusion.  

Our seed had grown thin.  Hundreds of generations of advancement, fine-tuning, and engineering had taken its toll on our people.  We had become threadbare; the canvas of our soul stretched beyond the limit of its frame.  We had become a doomed race.

(...rain from pole to pole, reaving nature through force of Will, rain into rivulets, rivers cascading into falls, scouring terrified hillsides, on an unstoppable charge to the lowlands...)

The inevitable demonstrated beyond doubt, some lost all reason.  Others chose their own end;  marching calmly, in ones and twos, or in families, into the hopeless portals of Ra’k Tanar.  A few of us chose to carry on, in the hope that something might be salvaged.

(...rain like the fury of a spent people, a whirlwind railing against futility, rain coursing and surging, hungrily rediscovering its soil, its flood-plains, its oceans, rain urging defiance, blood-red rain on blood-red clay, a million screams and a million years out of time...)

And in a way, we forged a kind of victory.  Ruined as we were, we were not without Craft.  Our best we gathered to the Hall of Treasures, under the icon you have only just uncovered.  We laboured hard, so that even with our passing, the land would not forever wither.  The seeds of your future were planted long in our past.  You are coming into your inheritance:  now, under the deluge...

(...rain like a thunderstrike echoing through the centuries, life-giving rain, angry rain, rain like the tumult and violence of all the wronged and lost, breathing, raging life into possibility all around, and with one last, weary, sigh, I leap into the heavens, rise up, become one with the sky, one with the rain, and fall in a billion crimson teardrops

close your eyes and
picture the garden beast –
you know the one

cold tail in poison
head, elder icon, circle
snake devouring its self

when you close them
what do you see?
adam?  peace?  hope?  release?

when i close mine
i see an infant
reeling against the wheel


onan over ophid
i choose lovers
but never mothers

i offer love
but always i
tender my seed

at the altar
of a warm
and fruitless god


this wheel
will turn
no further

this wheel
will turn
no daddy


enough
enough
enough.

I’m sorry, Sir,
I know you said
I had to write out
50 times

“I must improve” - but
50 times
a different thought
came to my mind

i must look after myself properly
i must eat more
i must drink less
i must make time for myself
i must get the test
i must organise the divorce
i must sort out my job
i must sort out my head
i must get the car serviced
i must tidy this ******* place up

i must give up the ****
i must phone my friends more often
i must become a better person
i must take control of my life
i must find a therapist
i must hoover
i must grow up
i must calm down
i must sing more
i must accept myself

i must finish that poem
i must challenge ‘must’
i must find a new balance
i must raise my self-esteem
i must put on weight
i must get to bed earlier
i must return those calls
i must take up meditation again
i must get to the bottom of this paperwork
i must ease off the whisky

i must read more classics
i must remember how to feel good about myself
i must print those t-shirts i keep talking about
i must feed the fish
i must organise my finances
i must rearrange the living room
i must look into a mortgage
i must pray to the god of small things
i must hold good people close to me
i must burn out my cynicism

i must stop spending more than i earn
i must stop pushing people away
i must stop feeling icky about her past
i must stop being a drama queen
i must stop beating myself up
i must stop putting it off
i must stop going through the motions
i must stop looking for the answer in others
i must, i must,
i must
stop substituting poetry
for action

Thursday.  My Indian GP sees me.  Gives advice about my moods.  Nods.  Is sympathetic.  Writes my prescription. Warns me to be alert and careful, if I am weaning myself off the medicine.

Friday. I crack a lame joke with the black girl in the chemist.  Half-asleep, I apologise for mumbling;  mutter something about it being Friday.  Realise it’s the first time I’ve spoken today.  I pay, pick up the tablets, walk off.

It’s a beautiful morning;  cold, azure, crisp; real.  The kind of morning when you remember why it’s worth being alive.  The kind of morning when the traffic shuts up, and you hear the thrushes.  The kind of morning when you realise you can do anything.  Cumulus start to bubble up over London.  You feel like you can fly through the clouds.

A thunderhead eclipses the sun.  Six foot tall, fifteen stone;  broad and handsome.  Close cropped hair.  Black boots, black shades.  Tight, sleek, black jeans.  George Cross embroidered over his heart.  ******* stitched to the arm of his black NF jacket.  Walking with the confidence of a man who knows he is Chosen.  

I stumble.  

*the thrushes fall silently out of the sky

instant fat loss yours for one low fee
monthly installments if you please
foolproof bio-active japanese fat-blockers
shatter the weight-loss barrier
- we’ve made it easy for you

39 steps to a thinner you
melt off those excess pounds
lose fat flab and cellulite
amazing before and after pictures  
next-generation antioxidant extracts
- genuine testimonials

lifestyle weight-control program
rub in our miracle gel
- this time you cannot fail
no calorie-counting
get slim and stay slim
[click here for order form]

the truth about weight loss
at a price that makes sense
just one teaspoon
and you’re on your way to success

ever wish there was a magic pill?  
ken lost ten pounds in two days
michael was sick and tired of being fat –
he just turned off the hunger switch

F-plan G-plan colon-cleansing He-man
EZ-detox capsules buy one get one free…

i started dieting at the age of twelve
hopeless puking and desperate
i call this year my miracle year

blissful as a bar of chocolate
that’s when I decided
**** thin happy wins

1:   Ah’m the Boss Man.  Me.

2:   Dinna ****** swear.

3:   Go tae Church.  OR ELSE.

4:   Mind yer lip wi the Auld Dear.

5:   Nae ******!

6:   Keep yer hauns tae yersel.

7:   Whit isna yairs, isna yairs. Dinna forget.

8:   Dinna fit nae ****** up fir whit they didna dae.

9:   Keep yir ehs aff her nixt door…

10:   …an yir ehs aff thir gear, as well.



Mind now!

Dapping on the surface
Trailing a wake of
Rehashed hard luck stories
Mis-spent dreams and
Might have beens
Heedless that he is out-depthed
He holds to his line
And works the bar

Tied by a master
Plumage plucked to order
Starling blue, sparrow dun
Two fine threads
Gold and black
Crosswound, tied off
Sealed with honeywax -
Stealthy weapon of deception

He feels the shifting currents
He reads the weather-gauge
Spring tide, autumn flood
Both echo in his veins
Gnarly and half-sodden
The old fly baits his game
Past his best, yes - but
Potent all the same

*The fish are wary
But the fly is patient

I have taken you already,
my love - many times;
my heedless husband surrogate.

His (your) teeth at my breast,
drunking my head,
my belly close to –

lungs coursing in time
with his (your) tongue;
yet wresting (just)

his name
from sodden summer sheets.
Breathlessly my

eyes slam closed
as he preens pretended prowess.
Hollow, but composed, I smile;

reach out (to you, to you…) to him
and speak the wooden line
the scene demands.

Sunday
is a good day
for making love.

Worms surrender noiselessly,
as blackbirds shush each other
dozing dogs ignore cats curled up
by the embers of yesterday’s fire
napping as the mice enjoy a lie-in

No bustle or hustle
no papers to shuffle
no breakfast and shower and
dress and drive...

...just half-asleep
and half-alive;
floating in the hazy bay
of last night’s lazy chardonnay.

A day for calm –
no plans, no demands –
a drive, perhaps?
a walk in the park?
or maybe just toast and apple juice
and not getting dressed all day.

But for now, just turn over, snuggle up,
and kiss her behind the ear.

Yes.

Sunday
is a good day
for making love

i sinned and came
across a page

across this page
my penance

She, betrayed, in histrionic flow,
Heart akimbo, flailing at the sky,
Fired with voyeuristic need-to-know,
Rages at the outing of a lie.

He, defensive, understanding, sure,
Accommodates the outburst in his stride.
Lassoes her with a practiced sinecure;
Instinctive gesture, expertly applied.

She, bewildered, aimless and morose –
(He, distracted by the barmaid’s hips) –
Casts aside the guilt-effacing rose;
Repealed devotion scrawled upon her lips.

Clear the busy crowds away
They are too many
Sweep them aside
I cannot see

Bring down the shutters
Ring the last-orders’ bell
Drive the late-night rowdies home
Let me seek

Pack away the houses
Roll the rainy pavements up
Put the cars to bed
They do not matter:

Somewhere
In a sleepy town
From a restless dream
She starts awake and thinks of me