Tell me please
does the grey granite faced
northern heather scarp
or the smooth enchanting
Carrara marble cherub
move you to awe?
Does nature only
wintered weathered
sheer and simple
eclipse the man made
man handled
alabaster angel?

Bleak beauty

Tell me my friend
does your head turn
as the high cheek-*****
short haired
practical passes
a flash of scarlet
lipped?
Or do you arrest
as a foundation creation
glosses across your horizon
loping on heels and too knowing?

Bleak Beauty

I must ask you
my brother
When you cause to sleep
does your angel
appear
and does
the gentle
perfection of her
supra-sternal notch
ever stay with you
til morning?

She was intricately
deliberate
with textures
& attitudes
& colours
combined

Conciously
random
when bathing benignly
in media
materials
& moments

Strong
yet so vulnerable
in just the right
measure
ethereal
but grounded

Beautiful
blue wide eyes
opening
to order
& closing
to sleep

Satisfying seasonal
sensibilities
bushy bright
and so dressed
with ceremony
and love
being celebrated centre
of attention
baubled and draped
with gaudy glitter
trusted with gifts
but only for a day

As mood and
circumstance change
no longer loved
or needed  
left to thirst
age and die
coldly discarded
in a road side gutter
thin and losing dignity
then shredded into mulch
or hacked to ugly pieces
and burned
so goes another commercial
Christmas

A myriad
of subtle stuff
a deep and long sigh
a strangely
well chosen tune
considering his history
the right wine
(full bloodied)
in the right light
(half)
with the right aroma
(lavender and ocean)
And view
(a sunset)
With sounds and sights
(gulls and grasses)
and the touch of
thick well worn cotton
culminating in a memory
I keep close

Dysfunctional
this is not functional

Functioning badly
at best
not clear why
of course
until after the
functioning has ceased
long after

Uncle John’s gone
Heart
on Sunday
in his shed
He left his stamps
to Sam
He’ll sell them
and his neatly folded
nicely worn
shirts and sensible slacks
will soon appear in Age UK
And Auntie Lynn
will maybe have
twenty years
a widow

People take ownership
of your words
your memories
and make them
theirs
  
Subtle shifts
in intonation
detail and substance
Not untrue
not really a lie
but not yours
Not anything that
has your essence in it
And they weave you
into them
through those fond
‘remembered’ words
and false
fabricated moments

Taking something
from you
labelling it
in their own hand
blotting the ink
dry with integrity
absent or not
they parade
that part of you
appropriated
Like a head on a stick
a scalp on a belt
or a heart on a sleeve
depending on their need

And you can’t reclaim
something stolen as softly
and stealthily as that
it would be churlish
it would be cruel
Perhaps their desire
to have you
as a jigsaw piece
of their making
in their sky
is the greatest compliment
and is worth
becoming part fiction
condoning a myth

I over heard
a doctor
on TV
who said that we
don’t really die
we just rust away
from the inside
which was news
to me
but on reflection
it makes such sense
so best we all eat
anti-oxidants!

Thank you
For not remembering
for not sending vouchers
for me to choose
something I like
or cash
for same

Thank you
For not dropping in
and presenting
hollow sentiment
before leaving for
something
more important

Thank you for
not forgetting
For finding a bright penny
from my birth year
for good luck
and that book
I once mentioned

And thank you
For spending time
understanding its value
and gifting me
your smile
a birthday
treasure

I’ve been picking away
metaphorically
I think
at the edges of my skin
for a while now
trying to find the end
of the coil of string
that I dream about
Excited by the thought
of that moment
when I begin to extract it
slowly
very slowly
feeling it unravel
collecting it between
finger and thumb
slightly damp and ******
still white  

I see others
scratching at their surface
trying to find the same thing
I am guessing
trying hard to experience the removal
the extraction of something self
yet other
I walk behind the crowd
amongst their cigarette butts
wrappers and chewing gum pellets
I see
yards of string
some knotted
some platted
and some rolled into a ball
I collect them all
dry them
and box them

I still dream
of my skin
the string
and that feeling of
excruciating pleasure
not sure what it means
if anything
not sure what I learned
but the tactile
facile
act
of drawing out
that which is within
unseen
itching and coiled
stays with me
and by inches
satisfies

Think about it
The breadth
Depth
And length of it
This human condition
All of the buried skulls
Had smiles
All of the powdered hearts
Loved
We haven’t invented anything human
Any new thoughts
Something close to your every line
Has been said before
Many times
In many languages
We flatter ourselves
Many fold

Out of time
to do that thing
you always wanted
to do
because
that other thing
that you should have
had checked
is serious
and those people
who meant so much
have passed on
moved on
or moved away
out of time

Paying hapless homage to your gods
to your demi-gods
to your latter day all saints
With your Primark prayer flags
gloriously wrapped about you
You wander through empty streets
empty High Streets
Towards the stained glass sanctity
of your worship place
Your prayer less
Hedonistic
Playground
High on powders
Pills and potions
Drunk on over priced beer
Shot for shot
for shot
Laughing like madmen
Crying like angels
Dancing like tomorrow will never come
Flashing your white teeth
Trainers
and eye *****
at the moon
Howling
for some kind of salvation
for some kind of future
Angry for the promises broken
marriages and hearts too
Finding time to spend time
on doing nothing
Finding energy to enjoy
what could be your last kiss
what might be your first love
And all the while knowing
That someone let you down

The cicatrise of damage
Slowly softened
Worn smooth
By wind and weather
Water and tenderness maybe
Was once raw red and obvious
Now blended
Into your skin map
Your patchwork of encounters
With knife, heat and gravity

Some strange nobility
And ownership imparted
Not in your DNA
Inherited
Or chosen
But somehow valued
Like an old photograph
A Braille memory
Absentmindedly revisited
With evocative touch

Collective memory
Reclaimed from drives, discs & sticks
Because we own it
We are it

Immovable cultural concrete
Vast empty spaces
Where industry was

New even smaller devices
For making things easier & quicker

The very same love
Awkwardness & despair

A new neat way to eat
Retro hetro metro
More yellow
& probably less meat

How would it be
if I filled my lungs
stepped forward and blew
Would you fall apart
and drift away in the breeze
a dandelion clock
exploded by little

Would you bend but not break
and return
Would you sway
to avoid the draught?
Or become a musical note?
Resonating
Resonating

Would you turn the other cheek
blushing
Would you find me ridiculous
or become a wave
across a field of corn?
Would you make wind chimes speak
or windmills turn
Would you be extinguished?

And if I blew
Just enough
to move your lashes
just enough
to move you
Would you wait
for the words to follow?

You misunderstood the remit
The toolkit for brilliant
You will never be
perfectly blond, brown or red

We are not cartoons
or icons
Ignore the urging
air brush big brand market

Unique is what you are
Celebrate your difference
Paint yourself your own colour

I sometimes let you fall
Not far
Not hard
But far and hard enough
That my hand
In the small of your back
Around your upper arm
Or waist
Feels heroic
At least
That’s what I hope  

I sometimes fall silent
Not for long
Not for effect
But long and with affect enough
That my words
When spoken
In our space
And your presence
Have weight & substance
At least
That’s what I wish for

You’ve changed
imperceptibly yet obviously
since the last time

You’ve changed
something has shadowed
your sunshine
Clouded things

You’ve changed
you dress impeccably still
and wear your heart on your sleeve
embroidered with care
into the fabric of you

You’ve changed
I see age creeping into the corners of your eyes
edging into the mirrors
framing the light
claiming you

You’ve changed
the things we shared
are now past
distant
and our language
of intimacy
forgotten
shifted
to polite familiarity
lacking finesse

I’ve changed
Moving quietly away
from the totem
that was you
re-evaluated what it was
reviewed assumptions
in detail
in colour
and learned
evolved

We’ve changed
lost our polarity
the semblance of kindred-ness
that we celebrated
valued and cosseted
we have let go
moved
realised
and grown

I’d like a black poets’ suit
single breasted
poets’ uniform
a suit
& where would I acquire
the suit
I now desire?

Is there a specialist tailor
dressing
the bards of our nation
so similarly
selecting incorrectly
the size skilfully
artfully adding angst ridden
creases

Around the thighs
Shaping bulging pockets
As if a tome of verse
Had just been removed
and ensuring that the sleeves
Were roll-upable
For pub gigs

I’d like a poets suit
in black
well weathered from
earnest waiting
nay celebrating
rail sides in winter
& the last train home

I’d like some Doctor Martens
black & comfortable
for performing in
and neutral fashion wise
in the eyes
of those that look
beyond the book

And I’ll wear them
With my poets suit
My white(ish) shirt
& splendid spectacles
& not only
Will I look like a 'poet'
But I'll feel like one too

I’ll meet you
in the elipse
between
and joining
our separate lives

In the shaded area
the convenient space
mostly unoccupied
that is both of us
yet neither

At the intersection
of our spheres
where we can share
our unique combination
in the world

Stasi shredded stripes
bags of systematic
bureaucratic
destruction
of memories &
moments in time

Bagged, gagged & tagged
in sylo’s
bunkers full
crammed with broken
histories
fragments of faces
letters
postcards from beyond
blue, yellow and green
in grey

Inhumane
cynical destruction
of hope
slivers of the disappeared
commandeered
processed
pushed
mechanically
through the sharp teeth
of a hungry system

The greatest reconstruction
Reconnection
Resurrection
Of a nation
Continues
Every weekend
As the many mend
the states’ excess

Must have...
off road parking
dishwasher
broadband
south facing garden
space
light
and you

Must have...
secure and rewarding employment
stimulation
time to myself
time apart
time with you
and you alone

Must have...
Something to look forward to
a challenge
quality time
a sense of worth
and you
always you

Must have...
a belief that it all means something
direction
freedom
a legacy of matter or reputation
and essentially you

Must have...
oxygen
salt
warmth
water
shelter
love
and you

I knew you
in my dream
the scent of you
the sense of you

Unable to recognise you
across a crowded room
or know your voice
or even your perfume

But I knew you
In my dream
and shared
with you
a moment

as unloved
as a cigarette ****
she lies

habitually
daily
he bends to kiss
her tattooed
left
breast
goodbye

without ever
opening his
eyes

The last time I saw Fred.....


On his last leg’s
zimmer- framed
& proudly vertical

The fist
of cankered gristle
removed
at a cost
but he
noble soldier
farmer
grand-father
man
was insistent
He would walk
with me
to the toilet

And he did
with dignity
a joke
& splendid bravery

not a papist or ****** or shapist
but enjoying a curve
not an escapist
lacking the nerve
not a florist, tourist or activist
unless its summer time
and certainly not an alchemist
no water into wine
a lovely smiley altruist or artistically quite loud
but sadly failed when drawing
kindness from the crowd
mist
gist
fist
hoping to desist in being a monarchist
and always very eager on not being dogmatist
but still I really strongly emphatically insist
that faddist, fauvist fashion
is only a passing passion
for the narcissists among us
realist
publicist
terrorist

humbly suggesting that zeitgeist
is an ist
but failing to enjoy the line
being a fatalist
not a facist, xylophonist or anything with isms
just a bad contortionist
with creeping rheumatism  
determining the future through a timely
cruel twist
whilst realising ultimately
I’m just
a sad typist

And the cor anglais
Plays
The snake charmers
Medley
In the oriental artifice
Created for you

And the jasmine soaked
Velvet
Of the cushions and curtains
Masks
The devotion
Engendered by you

And the blue tiled
Fountain
And Moorish arched garden
Cool waiting
For moments
Gifted by you

I envy
The simplicity of the dog;
Thirsty,
drink puddle
Itchy,
scratch ear
Frustrated,
just bark
Bark!
Bark!

And when tired
sleep

Losing credibility
like the film star,
kissed
too many times,
by too many,
to be ever again
believably
in love

Our relationship
Doesn’t work

You only need me
When it suits you
You only use me
On the occasion
Of maybe
Knowing
That I remain
Your only option

I won’t always
Be here
For you

For Sheri and Russ


the thing about love is
that you cannot plan it
or describe it
or put it into words

the thing about love is
that you cannot own it
or possess it
or keep it for yourself

the thing about love is
that you can’t predict it
or restrict it
or make it play to rules

the thing about love is
that you cannot seek it
or borrow it
or put it in a cage

the thing about love is
that you cannot paint it
or write it
or describe it in a verse

the thing about love is
that you can’t demand it
or supply it
or find it in a dream

the thing about love is
that you can’t practice it
or teach it
or know it inside out

the thing about love is
you cannot master it
or limit it
or make it sit quite still

the thing about love is
that you can’t ignore it
or expect it
or deserve its warm embrace

the thing about love is
that you can’t bottle it
or label it
or place it on a shelf

the thing about love is
that when you find it
you'll know it
and you’ll recognise its face

These places
so familiar
where we were
where we existed
in time
accumulating memories
leaving traces
& absorbing influences

This place
returning
a frozen evolution
recomplete
animated
by your presence
relevant again
to all of us

Where is it
the softness you
promised?
Behind your ear?
In your smile or
on the soles of your
feet?

It was inferred
gently
in the measure
of your words
& touch
And strangely in your
anger

Where is the softness
I sensed
in the half-smile meeting
or did you wrap
it tightly
in your brittle shell
of skin?

Thickening
Softening
Growing wisdom
From painful
Periods of reflection
Slowing and quickening
Deep deep breaths
Lost significance
And drift

You’ll thicken her hips
Forsake her lips
And then **** on her chips
That’s what you’ll do

Collecting all of
the compliments,
the glances,
the well meaning
platitudes;
the want

Taking the pink
sticky pieces
of perceived value
pressing them,
thumb printed
and flattened
into your warm damp ball
of vanity
of gathered precious
feeling

Daily,
touching
pinching the surface
For a response
a reality check
& smoothing
smoothing it
like a being
an existing thing
a presence

Your need for value
outweighs
my words

Unwrapping you,
right to the
hard stone centre;
the juice,
the pips
and the skin of you,
yielding

Enveloping you,
down to your
pithy whiteness;
your zest,
your aroma
and sugared flesh,
tempting

Understanding you,
right to the
timely autumn ripeness;
the colour,
the pallor
the new shined skin,
rising

Needing you,
down to the
sweet cool moments;
the flavour,
the fullness
the simple satisfaction,
lying

Uniformed in creative black
Marlboro scented
Wonderstruck
Deliberately
Deliberate
Random
Pixie haired
Angel eyed
& brave

Daring herself to be
Enchantingly urbane
Zeitgeisty
Considerably
Considered
Aware
Pale skinned
Quaintly styled
& risky

A portfolio perfectionist
Absorbing influences
Ferociously
Delicate
Delicately
Persuasive
Scarlet lipped
Crystal tipped
& scared

The snow drops keep coming
Insisting their way
Through the matted detritus
of memories;
A dolls arm with a biroed tattoo
& flattened empty
colour points
Of crisp packets fading,
Wind-blown papers
& plastic ragged shamblings
Decorating the hedges
Sprawling with thorns and freedom
& the snow drops keep coming

The snow drops keep coming
Placating the gardener
Now sitting benignly
Tending own life
& net curtains blur the sepia view
Of the children once playing
Of the beer cans and bricks
& the solitary shoe nest
& the apple tree still giving
Now casting wasp grass cocktails,
& the clichéd swinging gate
Warns of a dog dead before Lennon
& the milk bottle earwig crèche
Sits quiet beside the snow drops
lamenting

A summer evening
The thirsty dog is drinking
Making new music

You all match

Your teeth
All match

Shirt and tie
And evil eye

Skirt and shoes
And political views

Laugh and smile
All are vile

Because you all match
All of you

My first gLove
Lost on the bus
Absentmindedly
Or In the street
Parted in the snow

My stolen gLove
Taken whilst my back
Was turned

My fleeting gLove
Impaled by a stranger
In the street
On a spike
For all to see

My forgotten gLove
Left lonely
For too long

My worn out gLove
Threadbare
From years of absent
Emotion

My Christmas gLove
Ill fitting but warm
And worn
For a day

My lost summer
Lost summer
Lost summer gLove
Didn’t make the suitcase
Home

My gLove for life
Soft yielding
And strong

These are the gLoves
I have loved and lost

Spiked words
Carefully driven
Beneath her finger nails
Barbed even

Black & white Polaroid
Tucked behind the mirror
At an angle
Jaunty
I guess they’d have called it
If ‘they’ had ever bothered
Visiting her bathroom

I think if you were genuine
I’d be intimidated

I think
If you'd seen it
That you wouldn’t have
Asked
No really – I believe
That you have a sense
Of how the scar
the shadow
the blemish
came into being
By his hand
that night

And so you choose
distance over
a tactile
filmic hug

As a filmic experience
it left me rather cold
The dialogue was
at best
Improvised
And crucial scenes
fell out of focus
Amateurly so

The lead frankly
Disappointed
Wandering through
the plot
randomly
And cathartic opportunity
Was lost at every turn
Naively so

And he showed me
his arthritic hands;
pink ginger roots,
digits disorganised
& apologised
for not being able
to carry his own
suitcase

Diagonal flowers
Leaning towards the suns warm hand
Making themselves ridiculous
For the sake of survival

Monkeys in cars
Strumming guitars
La la la la’s
We ain’t all that

Shaving our faces
Finding new places
Tying our laces
We ain’t all that

Appliance reliance
Making new science
Moral compliance
We ain’t all that

Leaving our instinct
Down at the precinct
Never be distinct
We ain’t all that

Barely evolved
Nothing resolved
Power absolved
We ain’t all that

Opposable thumbs
Beating our drums
Hating our mums
We ain’t all that

Intelligent beings
Believing is seeing
Rather be skiing
We ain’t all that

Monkeys in space
Saving our face
Playing the ace
We ain’t all that

Living the dream
Not what it seems
Chicken Supremes
We ain’t all that

Monkeys in cars
Smoking cigars
Staring at stars
We ain’t all that

Monkeys in cars
Counting their scars
Filling the bars
We ain’t all that

Monkeys in suits
All in cahoots
Playing their flutes
We ain’t all that

Where’s little Bo Peep
Cos we are just sheep
And this poem ain’t deep
I ain’t all that

It’s hardly surprising
That dust gathers
When movement
Is gone
That air
Becomes stale
When not moved
By word or action

You used to
Breathe the air
I’d just exhaled
Bite it from the sky
And gulp it down

Your finger-tips
Moved over
Every surface
With gentle
Caress

All the things
We gathered
& polished
& cherished
Have returned
To inanimate
Anonymity

Your key
On the shelf
No longer
Opens our world
Or commences
A journey
Cold and removed
From the key-ring
Slipped
Easily
To independence
Like your wedding band

I know the suntan
Of our sunshine
Still leaves
Traces on your
Absent hand
And the years
Of living
& leaving
& returning
Have smoothed
Your key
Have smoothed
me

A spider
Still
Drinking the life
From a bee’s
Thorax cup
In sunlight
Between the dagger
Fronds
Of a palm
That I planted
Drinking tea
I watch