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

Buddleia
Butterfly
Brown field
Oasis

Through cracked
concrete
scarred
car parks

New blue life
Mosaic winged
Delicate
Renewal

Chunky chains
brick built
rust puddled
and beautiful

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

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

I find
some eyes
shine innocent
naive with
camera love
unconscious gaze
that gives
warmth back
not the
pouting posing
dead eyed
child woman
making mock
of what
she thinks
the world
wants of
her
high gloss
no warmth
gangster prankster
doll
magazine
cover lover

Mean Windows

Mean windows
Small light
Mean architect
Limited budget
& imagination
Half-light estate
Small curtains
Mean windows
Early dusk
No street-light
Glass broken
Doors boarded
Mean windows
Clint Eastwood eyes
Tagged & Flagged
Grassless
Concrete gardens
Brown and grey acres
Mean windows
Closed shops
Citizens Advice
Misery
With chips
And mean windows
With small curtains
Saving on glass
Costs light

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?

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

Tired on the train
I listen
A young mother on her mobile
solemn faced but beautiful eyed
angrily confronts
her daughters father
with a maternal mantra
How do I tell her
When I have all her tears and questions?
I guess he keeps hanging-up
or the signal is lost
The words repeat
almost verbatim
and repeat
and repeat
No-one looks
everyone listens
And then in the vestibule
a smiling South African
recounts with passion
about the Jacaranda
turning Cape Town purple
around this time of year
...he missed his stop

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

Don't paint
your house
yellow
unless
of course
you intend
to expire
there
ensuring
at a stroke
ease in finding
for the noble
ambulance crew
and impossible
to sell
for those
who never
visited
you

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

Revelling in your
disfunctionality
Your interesting
complexity
And the one thing
You are proud of
is that you have
nothing to be proud of
And the one thing
that you value
Is that you value
nothing

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s ivy;
classic palmate lobes,
invasive
substrating you
totally
gripping grabbing
combining and climbing
through you
in you
and around you

It’s ivy;
removal fraught
with complications
without treatment
it will smother you
growing through your
lungs and eyes
stealing away your life force
naturally
yet unnaturally
brutally
yet gradually

It’s ivy;
rip away the tendrils,
superficial salvation
Roots and knots
woody and substantial
in you
Occupying your spaces
invading
pervading
all that is you
within and without
of your skin

It’s ivy;
evergreen
drinking draining
your air and water
Rapaciously
Disgracefully
and as I write
I'm still unsure
which metaphor
I was trying for;
love
Malignant Neoplasm
Or just sadness

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

Snow
Sometimes at Christmas
White as a brides dress
Rare and pure
Reality suspended
Deep beneath

Snow
The crisp clean white
Linen table cloth
Spread over
A stained table
Superficially pleasing

Snow
A new shroud
Laid over a body
Stiff with cold
Frosted ground
Crisp and even

Snow
Rippled bright sorbet
Cleansing
Refreshing
But always
Just water

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

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?

and still
i feel
guilty
for the
bumble-bee
jarred
thirty years
past
and it still
makes
me
sad
that I
trapped it
and
left it
forgot it
to die
and the
glass
enhanced
buzzing
like
tinnitus
haunts me
and the
slowing down
dying
recurs
in my
dreams
and the
slowing down
dying
is me
in my
dreams
in a
brick
tower
like a
lighthouse
no moisture
no air
just a
spiralling
staircase
and music
and breathless
and flightless
and hopeless

and that
humble
bee
still troubles
me
and I
wish
every time
that the
memory
returns
that I
could
undo that
moment
and
twist
and
release
and
observe
and
relax

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

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

Anthropogenic artefacts
Heart attacks
hearts attacked
Dead calm gyre
Tide line debris
You and me
and I
Beach combing
the detritus
of us
and them
and they
Invasive spaces
hidden faces
aroma of decay
Kicking over seaweed mounds
Lost and founds
Seeking out sun sparkled jewels
the aroma of decay
the plastic looks like ruby
the netting gossamer light
life moves amongst the mass
massing moving living
and dying
I save one shell
to liberate the memory
To fix it
in the opalescent bisque
pocketed
treasured
that tide line
left behind remains
from us
all of us
Everyone tries
amongst the stinking tangle
of uselessness
of spoil
to see the value
to seek and love the life
appreciating
interpreting
beauty in our tideline
Personal life left overs
the things we leave behind
left behind
beached beyond doubt
dried beyond quenching
Those hours
objects
people and places
those cruel elements
took away
Stripped from us
only to dispose of them
because they could
because we could not stop them
Tide line
physical
metaphorical
epitomized by those eyes
that shell
the reason
why walking on beaches
makes us feel better

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?

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

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

Are you a male or a female?
Manliness

Describe yourself:
An Obscure Writer

How do you feel?
Kind pity chokes my spleen

Describe where you currently live:
Community

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
At the round earths imagined corners

Your favourite form of transportation:
Air and Angels

What’s the weather like:
The Damp

Favourite time of day:
Break of Day

Your relationships:
A Tale of a Citizen and his Wife

Your fear:
The Funeral

What is the best advice you have to give:
Variety

If you could change your name, you would change it to:
Mercurius Gallo-Belgicus

My soul’s present condition:
A Fever

Are you a male or a female?
Hey, Dude

Describe yourself:
Funny sort of bloke

How do you feel?
Clutching at Cheese Straws

Describe where you currently live:
The Bright Side

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
Casablanca

Your favourite form of transportation:
tightrope

What’s the weather like:
Today is not a day for adultery

Favourite time of day:
Nocturne

Your relationships:
Romantic

Your fear:
Snipers

What is the best advice you have to give:
No Surprises

If you could change your name, you would change it to:
Barry Bungee

My soul’s present condition:
Fits and Starts

Not
Tibet
Our
England

Shredded
Coloured
*****
Flags

Railside
Tr­ees
In
Winter

Prayers
In
Disposable
Form

Flapping
Torn
From
Bra­nches

Votive
Gifts
To
Greed

Godless
Plastic
Rainbow
Church

her teeth in my bones
given gladly
unappreciated
to my shame
not eternal
though
none of them
her teeth
my bones
my shame
all temporary
at different stages
of  decay
slowly returning
to the elemental
for someone else
to give
to take
and perhaps appreciate

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

as unloved
as a cigarette ****
she lies

habitually
daily
he bends to kiss
her tattooed
left
breast
goodbye

without ever
opening his
eyes

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

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

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

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

Fit
in a photo
fitting the image
I had
you had
of The One
an anonymous glance
a moment in time
a kiss possibly dreamed
excitement and hope
those eyes
that smile
the dress sense
you imagined she would have
the way she smoked
the way she drank
laughed
and cried
assembling the jumble
of what you aspired to
required too
The standard reached
by all too few
Into a photo fit
fit in a photo
fitting the image
that you have
gradually piece by pieced
accumulated
of what she should be
could be
would be
or all three

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

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!

Be that little girl for longer
stay there
naivety is easy lost
once you have
smeared
the make-up
of adulthood
across your beautiful face                                          
something goes
that you will
never
regain
not in the
pocket of
your red velvet coat
or your ripped jeans
or in your toy box
revisited
with a tear
in an attic
moment
when it is all
too late

Stay the charming boy
the footballing
***** kneed
rascal
stay in your
cowboy and indian
dream
your truck driver
hinterland
before the
bubble is burst
by playground
wisdom
and peer
group poison
cherish your Christmas morning 4am’s
for as many years
as you can
before you
know too much
about too little
and find
it all banal

Your fragrance remains

In high corners & cupboards

Your hairs painted into

The fabric of the walls

Filigree veins

Your very skin as dust

Sealed

Stratified

Into the place

Our home



Your finger print

Clear on the gloss painted frame

Eye lashes in the mirror corners

Your broken wine glass fragment

Beneath the fridge

With my contact lens

Staring blindly at

Each other

For recognition



Your rounded buttock curve

Sits in the leather

Of your favourite place

And your fragrance

In high corners & cupboards

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

she
meticulously combs
her hair
for the lover
who never
came back

she
watches herself
crying into
the mirror
for the want
of a reply

she
unfolds the
picture of the boy
in her summer
both smiling
in blossom

she
warms herself
by the fire
in the autumn
of her solitary
life

she
sheds a smile
for the memory
of the fire
in his eyes
quite sublime

she
watches herself
crying into
the mirror
for the want
of a reply

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

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