I'm thinking of the sea.
I think we both said it was the clearest
blue we'd ever seen. OK, where you're from is lovely
and I know the place quite well now but
April’s are generally grim though not
where we were in that month, that year.
It was only my second time on a plane
and as it was a cheap deal we both said go on then,
let’s do it, and we did. You turned twenty-two
that week. Wore red and sang the song (poorly).
We found tasteless cupcakes from the ugly
supermarket down the road.
Laughed at how silly it was. No candles. The owner’s
tabby cat for company. You went in the sea again
the next day. I can remember the way it clung
to you, dripped off from you like little jewels.
I think I was close to being in love then. Yuck.
A painless vaccine but you know it's happened.
Strange, I suppose, how the smallest thing
makes you realise the massive. I knew it for sure
when you looked at me, handing over
a second two Euro lemonade of the morning.
The clearest blue, the sea
in your eyes. Every time.

You've got yourself a cold one from the fridge when I call.
It's April again and the clocks changed again
didn't they and I haven't heard from them
in months now. I think they're all caught up
in their own personal knots or weeds as the time’s gone, going,
that hour away to the clouds. Those I knew I wouldn't know
now in Marks and Spencer, the multi-storey. Any memories
like puddles, warped. They, too, going to the clouds. It's lighter
in the evenings but much is the same; the chickens
with their sore throats, cheers from a distant football pitch. Something
is different though. Indefinable. Condensation on a window.
I agree, you say, as I hear your wife's muffled
voice in the background.

now it’s camaraderie down
the plughole dry pint glasses
and an unstabbed dartboard

as this Parthenon of chalk dust
played host to its last epic
clash of the amateurs

baize blessed for the final time
many-houred conflict of breakoffs
and ***** shots

a throng of fortunate bespectacled
punters quiet for the final frame
all back and forth

‘til two unknowns outside of town
shook hands proclaimed a draw
MORE the crowd cried

playtime was over but they’ll always
remember this tussle for the title
in the multi-tabled hall that sleeps

where an angry scarlet sign
on the entrance doors bellows
NO ENTRY to the memories held within

abandoned soles
floppy dog tongues
yellowed by the sun

limbs of the limbless
sprouting scarecrow
or roadside Nike angel

many miles worn
left to be laceless
twins made orphans

or just one
dusty rubber
where nobody's home

washed clean
for the premiere of another
year plus one

will the voices now
untangle when the tide
brushes them in

swimming through seasons
effervescent
a new glow you emit

and you tick and you tick
cast a new sunrise
into ****** waters

pastel puffs
cloud dust like green fish ghost
somnolent in water

under violet bruise
twinkle-stippled
mirror to elsewhere

where brown murmurs
unearthly exhalations
and crimson dagger

punctuate unimaginable space
****** drip glow
as stars take their first blinks

I.

season of goodwill
exchanging of gifts beneath
artificial tree

-----

II.

time for family
trinkets spill from cheap crackers
exhausted punchlines

-----

III.

time for tradition
same old movies for children
naff celeb specials

What mystery magician presents
such liquid night? The town asleep,
cerulean bathed. Colour confluence
to make hieroglyph of sky, white
whirligigs with buttery pulses,
spirits in hurried conversation swim
through reeds of cobalt, past tall
cypress flame, black cloaked nuisance. This
and banana moon, cocked grin
awake but silent as dreams of people
drift like sapphire ribbons.

at what point did we shed
our skins, drunkenly flutter from young
to young adulthood.

can't get it back. it's like catching
snow, blank and gone before morning
but we'll keep our eyes open

even in the mist for
a glitch, a blur of our former selves
in a shadow, a guttural voice, maybe

your own that says 'when will you
move on from this.' Oh your tears
don't taste the same now but

the television's still on.

tourists with cider
avoid sludgy leftovers

  briny exhalations
  of the unknown undulations

   sun-pecked - wrinkled as though
   Christmas wrapping

   sand slobber
   up to a young girl's toes

  left its fluorescent residue
  as hairstyles for rocks

water's unravelled applause
where dogs aren't allowed

splash into it -
   blue raspberry universe,
sugar stars skin-drizzle
   a frisson - you generate
  
a thousand deliriums,
   delectable therapy,
web-caught but purified
   by bubblegum ellipses -

a secret (let's keep it),
   a fantasy I dare
not name as I taste
   the alphabet on your tongue -

As I wait for my name
to be called, it starts
to rain. Slowly,

stuttering at first
but then a downpour,
thick grey sheets

hammering onto the windows,
as though the whole building
is being peppered

with paintballs. A woman no older
than me enters, her coat slippery
with the sky's remains,

blue umbrella like
a dishevelled animal. The receptionist
says 'you poor thing.'

I wonder how many times
she'll say that today. The doctor
asks for me. He's running late.

Ten years on, he left flowers where
she rests. Said the same as he's said
every year since.

When his eyes stopped stinging
he came home, fed the cat,
pulled the old green motor

out from the shed, began
swimming the lawn. She would be
on the bench now with a lemonade

and one of those puzzles she liked
to do. An ordinary afternoon, and if
she got stuck, he'd silence the machine.

Again he is raking the leaves -
flimsy rusted shapes
made slick by more rain -

One of the local boys walks past -
raises a hand in
a muteless greeting

and the raker holds
a gloved palm up in return
and wonders if his former

schoolteachers are still
living. They would be a century
old now, if not more.

the sun is just
lovely. just lovely.
tennis

with cheap racquets
in our white
slip-on

shoes, pauses for fizzy
liquids, to swipe
branches of sweat.

so lovely
the sun and I could
let you captivate me

here for the rest
of the summer, then another
summer if we

keep doing
the things we love
to do now, if we poorly

play tennis in the sun
and don't forget it is lovely.
this. summer.

Mentally I am at Phillies with my final
coffee of the evening, milk
frothed to perfection, a woman
in a cerise blouse who greets
my eyes with a noiseless hello

but this is not 1942, no
salt shakers and once-
bitten sandwiches.
There's a child in a red puffer
who waddles absentmindedly,

the spittle of his bearded father
I can almost feel fleck
my cheek. His tired cherry-lipped mother
pointing a finger, then
another, mouths opening

as if operated
by an unseen string and strangers
who scoff at the hawks in the room,
both jolted by each other's next barb,
with a toddler oblivious to art, to

shades, to the thorns his loved
ones drape across their throats,
this spat like a blot on the canvas
of my afternoon reverie
where I need a stronger tipple

and to make it home before the rain.

The air dense with the prospect
of something quite dangerous
but delicious, the way
a body sways in shadow, memories
on the floor in a many-limbed
black knot                    but someone’s skin and
someone’s skin touches in
the space between strobe lights
with a movement fluid, sensual,
snap of a signal,
electrical, audible pulse and temples
in sweat sets them in motion,
a parallel language
spoken with the eyes,
fingers on waist.

maybe now it begins
     the dust made a home
     on the half-halcyon years

enough easing in
     they'll be expecting you slowly
     but consistently enough

to chalk up the highlights
     that make a fulfilled life
     alone or not alone

but with an always orange glow
     flame tilts to change
     wax drips to history

All our friends are leaving
so let's tie ourselves
together with orange ribbons,

watch the strangers
in their sandals eat
freshly baked bread

and say isn't the weather
just glorious today, I could spend
the whole afternoon outside

letting the sun hit my body,
a gift for the skin,
or is it us saying that

in a European city sometime
in July, eating oranges and accepting
whatever form of love this is.

I.

fog-clogged atmosphere
naked unearthly structures
loom with static limbs

---

II.

crispy chunks of spuds
gift-wrapped meat nudge sliced white bird
paper crowns for all

---

III.

to next year thoughts turn
last days unfurl post-Noel
with dawn's frosted tongue

splice of sky
like a nerve pinched
to nick the horizon

     temporary fissure
     thorns that blind
     make the whitest tears
    
storm illuminate
with electricity lick
missable schism

    but for its remains
    protest from beyond
    as though disturbed sleep

I'll take you up
on your suggestion
to dance
in spring meadows

and even if our feet
are bare we'll wear
silly smiles
on our faces

because it's this
we must remember
when the days thaw to blue
and melt to black

the ignition of a touch
familiar as a pulse
young spinning tops
in the parentheses of our love

and it says plenty
enough now
placed ahead
of a breathing soul

what odd limbo
to be drenched in
though a *****
of expectation

makes a private
red welt
or silent sinking
for your second best

Not knowing what they’re for,
linked questions
on an eastern future
where yourself, you’ll find
on the lip
of a fresh decade,
your tangle of metallic
teeth the answers
to somewhere.

I suppose what I mean to ask is
when will you get it,
when will the cartoon lightbulb
twitch its gift above your heads

so I can pour the little of me
into the many hands you possess
for approval, the scoring
of boxes that do it all for you,

and is it all worth it, I suppose
I should ask. Will you discard
like a bare crisp packet,
tasted and wasted, replaced

by a glossier prospect, the glass
of champagne pricked with bubbles,
and they can pour themselves to you
in a more delicious, refreshing way.

I'll hold you in this stillness
where the cusp of the world is a peach
and the distant flickers of chilled water
remind us of existence,          of a pulse.

The image shows
a pink corkscrew,
confetti petals
chatter down, around
in matrimony, static
splinters that fizz at
****** junctions,
jugular welt to
frills of magenta
make a blushing cheek,
pucker trumpet that
shoots from contused
marble eye.

call a crime scene
there was a bang cracked
the day wide open

flip through the images
like police reports
who's arresting me next

neckerchief suits you
and the galaxy dances
on your ceiling at night

could be I'm seeing you
with a new prescription
shake rattle and roll

can't handle the bolts
imaginary electricity
is your skin plugged in

name may be cinnamon-made
or strawberry sauce but
Monday isn't a Sunday

to the bottom of it
red hair resuscitation ring me
if anything changes

and I never knew you
and you’ll never know me
but when I think

of you it’s your name,
like the clouds
cradle your memory,

over Star City or as
far as England,
or maybe flying,

sunlight signal,
a teenaged smile
never not alive,

forever with your
future years at the
tips of your fingers

it is an especially warm day -
you drink orange juice
straight from the carton -

like many - a time for legs
on display - off and on
buses - but inside

a nametag states Harmony -
provides me with
a throat-cooling solution

before you sit in silence
with music I cannot hear -
drinking juice from the carton

the bees engage
in their erratic dance
again

black ball jive
skedaddle round
flowered flutes

rippled heat brings
drink of summer
under sky blue

Now the dark
ripples in

charcoal black
silent waves

and we are
christened by

the eclipse
mute motion

like a swallowing
gloomy deluge

but only
the day’s cessation

skin shed
installs night

brings end
to start again

monochrome tragedy
scene-piercer see
shock eye

by cube’s dawn
hand of flight
drown fire

with petal of light
ashen funnels
double phantom

from sword splinter
flower birth
trampled soldier

prism-chasm
horse nostrils
quotation mark

baby pale
for anguished mother
vision droplets

pyramid ear
white bull
dagger-tongued

After the water’s tantrum
the colours

begin their seduction
of the sky,

blurred crayon arch
pouring into trees,

cloud flossing
before the tumble,

choir of shades
to marvel the young.

so this
is the other side

insignificant
glide among stars

light-flecked
cloud corrugation

as if milk-dipped
slippery finger

land chunks
in mottled tones

erratic flashes
with violet feathers

and I can’t see you
but you’re there

somewhere
on the other side

After my round, Karen
leaves early. The revision
won’t do itself, she says,
and we know she’s an
all-night crammer, we’ve seen
the textbooks thick as a brick
so we groan but know
needs must. Our tongues, fuzzy
from lurid orange *****,
heads starting to pound
but we all, those left, agree it’s time
for vinegar-blotted batter,
salted sliver, steaming grease
in a puddle of papers. They’re open
till late, I say, the only one
yet to stagger as our one minute
walk begins, laughter lost
to the night. Tom asks why
haven’t we done this before. Beats
me, we just forget about time
don’t we, it’s like there’s not
enough of it. He half-drunkenly nods,
the blinding glow of the chippy
reeling us in, thirsty for money.

WHAT
• Oligarch
• on TV tonight
• minimum wage
• a prime number
• reduce fuel consumption
• might happen in the future

WHERE
• Treasure is
• to watch Euphoria
• hot in April
• next Olympics be held
• in Paris is the Eiffel Tower
• I can find happiness

WHEN
• The clocks change
• we were young
• I grow up
• Internet invented
• it rains it pours
• you wish upon a star

WHY
• Always tired
• feel dizzy
• eye twitching
• hurts to swallow
• I want to work here
• we should hire you

WHO
• My MP
• won the boxing
• Romans
• win Eurovision 2022
• the next James Bond
• Banksy

HOW
• The Queen
• make pancakes
• first human made
• I met your mother
• Earth created
• war end

months
blend together

head steam-swollen
by lack of action

daily ladder
aging technicolor

but enough
to want to be made

from crystals
see-through

to see me
you also

handful of glisten
rare element

visible amid
the cool stream

Then I am eleven
playing Asher,
a cricket-ball-stung
hand, swimming pool
trepidation when
everybody else bounds in
with shouts that rocket
off from the tiles.

Then I am sixteen
and our deputy head,
on the brink of expelling
tears, leaves when we do,
an exercise book graffitied
with wish-you-wells,
faded shirt acrostic
in blue marker.

Then I am eighteen
complimenting a stranger
on their coat (now they
are a poet), stitches
for buses in the place
they demolished,
first attempt at a villanelle
in a room of twenty.

Then I am twenty-six
and a friend starts
to share a life
with a signature, online
ultrasounds, letters from
America, a manuscript,
library-printed, spiral-bound
posted north for a score.

Then I am twenty-nine,
coffee in hand,
reeling off names that haven’t
lined my throat for a decade,
reduced to pixels on a screen,
you doing the same,
wondering where they went,
where we are going.

Even though I have next-to-no interest
in borderline celebrities quickstepping
for applause, this is how your/our Saturday
nights trickle by. For others it may be
a back massage, a meal out with jazz music
slinking its way across to our table, but no,
for you/us, television, flatscreen. It’s easier, you say,
to order in, and though it’s not every Saturday
this time I made the call and I tipped
the guy ten percent, said thanks very much,
and that’s how now I’m sitting next
to you on our second-hand IKEA sofa
eating egg fried rice, chewy Kung Po prawns
in a slippery orange sauce, cashew nuts
and chicken from the steaming foil tub,
mouth a muddle of flavours as you
judge a dancer’s dress and give a score
out of ten as even I, surprisingly so,
become entranced by proceedings,
a smile appearing on your face.

morning donation
like blobs of memory

remnants of night’s mischief
sets green ablaze

with transparent poetry
transient grammar

will try to be good
hold your hand in thunderstorms
lightning in your name

---

will try to be good
ask the trees to yawn their limbs
reside in shadow

---

will try to be good
sync hearts to rhythm of night
drizzled desire

---

will try to be good
set our ellipsis alight
tomorrow’s burning

---

will try to be good
repeat as though private prayer
breathe holy sunrise

The makeup, gifted to your girlfriend, looks
good on you. It’s not the first time. On the carpet,
they have to comment on you, ***** approval
to stay lean, keep you cloud-floating.
                                                                ­ First,
lightly dab the eyelids with azure
stardust, glitter strings like wings out
from the corners. White shirt may look normal
but is designer baby, season’s income
on skin-clinging fabric, enhances
your slathered-on nectarine tan, abs
the Peloton made.
                                 THIS POEM
IS SPONSORED BY V/AIN. LOOK HOW
THIS APP AUTOMATICALLY EDITS
YOUR PHOTOS BEFORE YOU EDIT THEM FURTHER!
THE WALL IS WARPED? NO BOTHER! CLEAVAGE
TOO SMALL? NOW SMOOTHER AND ROUNDER!
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                                         The balcony offers
an ideal view for photos, minimum of fifty.
You know it’s like shooting a plasticine movie,
moving your glossy features an inch at a time because
one bad move means one less like, one less
stranger misspelling their admiration.
Each emoji is a pellet of sugar, each five-digit
paycheque another two-page spread in the city’s
many gaudy rags, another slap in the face
to the barista making ends meet.
                                                           Oh who cares
darling? They serve, and so do you. The mirror
salivates at your sight, lips out, stench of wealth
enough to make any gaggle giddy.
Parade your brand of vain for the next-in-line,
Fahrenheit on the rise, the influence
on the ravenous nosebleed-inducing.

…Run with the first line
then decide the form,
short line
or longer and whether punctuation
will be prominent throughout.

- By this point include a colour
but not basic red or blue,
something more visual
like RASPBERRY or… BLUEBERRY;
a part of the body is a fine

idea too, so mention …  runway …
of stubble, then a line or three
about weather, how raindrops
play skinny melodies
on the windows or sunlight

flirts - between - the curtains
as you sleep (mention another
person here, you are not
that interesting). Bring in
an unclear observation;

feet of treacle
make hurdling a challenge,
mist will only sting
if static for too long.
- Bring the piece

to a conclusion now.
Make trifling edits if necessary.
Only you can stamp
the page, declare this waffle final.
Name the poem.

LGW to SYD,
flight through time,
a while to while

away the hours.
As evening begins
its inky descent

to sleep, furry
green batons
trigger electric frazzles,

icicle-blue horns
exhaling light.
All we are

singular, miniature
among a crew of upturned
magenta roots.

the flames
are engaged
in that wicked dance again

licking all spines
with buds that scald
carnival of scars

each shameless twist
gift-wrapped in yellow
every coppery belch

a steaming stench
into rust-daubed sky
its silent gesture

rampage of hollowing
tongue-heavy haemorrhage
laced with ignition

awaken
to white shroud

unblemished page
from pregnant sky

sieved silence
in languid waltz

to sigh to glass
punctuate the scrawny

exclamations
of a naked tree

as though a blessing
enamel acceptance

sorting out
the loft
in the fuzzy black
aftermath days

the owl
liquorice eyes
glares at my
torch-in-hand

you remember
the pub
used to have
a fox

mid-skulk
streak immobilised
we wondered
why anybody

would want
a stuffed body
static animal
figure of death

but somehow
handed down
to you
burnt toast wings

on wooden plinth
popped in the loft
‘till now
‘till your departure

sun begins
bow to sleep

sets sky
in vermilion haze

present me
with palmful

of touch     touch
pacifies palm

could be lined
with sunshine

happy lemonade
threads

There IS nobody to ask, you say,
when we turn our stomachached motor
up another wavy lane, temporarily
rest it as we squint at the AA Big Easy
Read Britain 2022, locate the B3220
and realise we’re in another
splodge of a town, homes in a hodgepodge,
the obligatory church. A mistake, we know now,
to leave late in the day, another hour ‘till
The Hole in the Wall where they’ll wait,
no doubt sigh, waste time spinning
the beermats as a gaggle of rowdy
just past-the-post teens blot the night
with the guzzling of spirits, their hangovers
like belches of fog come lun - Satnav wasn’t
on the blink, but it is. Now look, I say,
calmly because tempers can boil over
matters so trivial, if we take the A3124,
wriggle right at Whiddon Down
to the A30, breeze by Exeter, a doddle
down to the coast, we’ll make it by nine.
You know how impatient they are. Ten
minutes won’t hurt, the vehicle grumbling
into action, tired and miffed with our
wonky deviation. It’s then, eking back
the way we came, an image forms - a bronzed,
slippery chalice named Stella, flat cap
of foam on the rim of extinction.