I have always travelled headfirst.
As an aeroplane child, I lent forward
with my arms outstretched, humming.
Later, I perfected the same trick
without any hint of movement or sound.
I arrive awkwardly in conversations,
my head bursting through thin walls
unexpectedly like a jack-in-the-box.

Whilst queueing, I argue with the people
in front, indignant that they are only
ahead by some mishap of time or space.
I am a gargoyle, forever watching,
cursing all the decent people
as they file beneath me. I contort
in public for I am a private person.
Love has eluded me, until now.

When I'm asked, "Would you like a seat?",
I will reply, "Parallel lines never intersect."
To be aloof, takes practice and hard work.
"Pierrot, you must be exhausted!" is a
common refrain, but only from old people, young people seldom give
insights without provocation.

As a baby, I was doused in talcum powder.
My inner fire extinguished, I was deemed
ready for a neutered life. When it is dark,
I stand quite still, like a mannequin.
I live only for the attention of strangers.

We meet up early from afar,
eager beavers that we all are.
Patted shoulders tell me how,
we're stouter than the boys we were.

Squashed together in our booth,
the food is just an incidental course.
It's wine is what we need to spill
the gibberish across our bowls.

And did you watch that film? The one
with whatshisname who's married to
the one from ... our phones can rescue
all the many names we can't recall.

All too soon we're done. The catching up
complete, we float back through the
empty streets. Our separate ways are lit,
by some small flame that we have shared.

At home you ask about their wives
and other things about their lives.
I don't have anything to share. To which
you rightly ask; were you really even there?

Faceless morning winter moon
My walking makes you wander
Kiss the treetops as you pass
Bright disk above the branches

Twisted heart and sap unite
Throughout the veins of every tree
Damp leaves lay lifeless on the path
All but dust in this perpetual world

Perhaps a little part of me lies broken
In amongst the trees, behind the falling
Fading moon that promised everything
Too soon against the brightening sky

I wish your voice had sounded clearer, but you
were driving. Driving through some winding
country lane, I guess; trees bending over
the road, eavesdropping as we tried to speak.

I was in the kitchen, mobile wedged between
my ear and shoulder, peeling potatoes. Coils
of brown skin flopped into the colander. I told
you how my work was unbearable. Thankless

days. Endless asks. Joyless tasks. Finally,
I told you how I'd fallen. Your words were
clipped by empty spaces as the signal faded.
I scarred my forehead as I fell. Healing now.

Better than it was. I imagined the rhythmic
cat's eyes, punctuating the road like tiny
shooting stars as you drove homewards
into the night. Underneath the waning moon,

far from all the bright lights.

I saw the same sad magpie twice today.
Does that count as joy?
Solitary bird.
Sat beside the greenest grass.
Sat upon the safety of the fence.

That night he sees the moonlight in a pool;
"I'll keep this trinket in my nest".

My uncle Paul. Born when other people
wanted to forget the war,
twenty years before I arrived.
We drew grey tanks on scrolls of paper,
splattered soldiers with our red felt tips.

What do you do when the sirens start?
Turn off the gas. Seek shelter. Do not panic.

In my grandma's bathroom was a box,
made from a hollowed out tortoise.
Inside, snug and heavy, like the last
solid Russian doll, lay the grenade.
Safe. No charge. So my uncle Paul said.

The earth still smoldered when the tortoise
first walked. A survivor of the last Great Dying.

I've never seen a bomb explode.
I've not been deafened by a blast, nor
smelt sulphur tinged with rotten meat.
What is war without the dead?
An empty stage but for the props.

The heavy velvet curtains twitch,
as the stagehand checks the house is packed.

A single spotlight swoops then rests;
illuminates the uncaged beast. Scales, horns,
bristles, teeth; frame his clammy goat-like face.
Seven magpies peck the boards. A cacophony
of squawks drown out the murmured audience.

I am a dying memory.
I am lifeless as the hands that made me.

I thought it was you,
but I wasn't certain.
One last glance back,
your sunbed definitely empty,
  towel crumpled / empty shell
I follow you out to sea.

Squinting; without glasses
I cannot tell if it's you.
Your head bobbing.

Alone.

The hazy afternoon sun
creates dancing ripples
of horizontal light.
As I swim nearer,
still uncertain,
I see you - but you as a boy.

Suddenly, I feel the same intense love
I felt when little you would stumble
back into my open arms
  laughing / crying / needing
needing me.

I reach you, but I see
the fine young man
you have become.

Floating together,
smiling at one another,
I am filled with a sad pride;
family holidays were always too short.

I'm in Italy once again, my love.
But why is there no architecture?
Endlessly winding, the streets narrow
until the cars can no longer turn.
Did we come here? I easily forget.
All my pasts return to haunt me;
shambling, drunk creature, I dared
to love. Now the heat makes the
veins swell beneath my upturned
hands. I wonder what became of you?
Timidity hid you, even then. Only now,
I truly appreciate your fading smile.