Sonya says
the Dostoevsky book
I’m reading
is a depressing read.

Read something
more joyful,
she says,
something less dark.

She's laying on the bed
in the Parisian hotel;
her blonde hair spread
on the pillow;
her hands holding
a book;
her legs crossed
at the ankles.

I look at her book cover:
Either/ Or.

What's that book?

Philosophy book;
by Kierkegaard.

Is that any more cheerful?

Depends on what
you mean
by cheerful;
it's not
a bundle of laughs.

She closes the book
and place sit
on the small table
by the bed.

Come lay here;
forget the book.

I put my book
on the dressing-table
by the window
and lay on the bed.

She uncrosses her legs
and turns to face me.

You need to lighten up;
life is too short
to spend time brooding
on the dark elements.

I look into
her icy blue eyes;
there's a new world there.

Kiss me;
hold me.

I kiss her
and hold her close;
I sense her breathing
on my cheek;
her ******* nudging
my chest;
her hands running
along my spine.

How are you feeling?

Fine,
I say,
feeling along
her thighs,
moving her skirt
as I go.

What do you feel?

Excitement and warm.

This is life;
this is living;
taking hold of the now
and holding on to it.

I sense my pecker stir;
my eyes widen;
I see her lips
readying
to kiss again.

She kisses;
no more words;
no more lectures
on life or living;
just a time
of taking
and giving.

Don't feel well
Abela
turns in bed
eyes closing
too much wine

cheap old plonk
I tell her

don't like wine

did last night

need a bowl

don't have one
use the bog

she rushes
to the bog
and vomits

I sit down
have a smoke
listening

that waitress
who served us
yesterday
fancies me

Abela
shouts to me
I don't care
about her
I feel ill
need to rest

she vomits
once again

you go out
take that tour
she tells me

not going
without you

I can't go
not today
she comes back
with a bowl
I found this
in the bog
got to sleep

so she creeps
into bed
with the bowl

the waitress
did not have
a cute ***
not like my
Abela
when she's well
or unwell.

Lizbeth had hoped that getting Benedict to the small church on a week day during the holidays might be the moment of truth or sexuality which to her was the same thing the thing she had wanted ever since she'd read the book given to her by a girl in a higher form all about *** and the whole aspect it involved and with pictures and since she first saw Benedict that day at school getting off a school bus and passing her by but getting him to the church was one thing she still had to persuade him to make love there on one of the side pews not too wide and not particularly comfortable and to do that was another thing and having got him there riding on their bikes and entering the church she had pretended architectural interests he walked just ahead of her looking around running a hand over the top of the pews as he went then he paused and said it's quite small and looked at her she looked at the pew she thought might be best for the love making she crept in and sat down he came and sat next to her she patted the pew and said we could do it here? do what? make love he frowned at her looked back at the door at the back then at the altar end we can't why not? some one may come in no one comes in here weekdays they might she looked at him putting on her sad gaze we could do it no one will know he shifted away from her along the pew no I can't can't or won't? she pulled up the hem of her red dress to reveal a sight of her thigh to catch his eye can't do it here some old dear may come in and see us and have a heart attack so? what a way to go having witnessed that he stood up and walked along the aisle she pulled the hem of her dress down and sat gazing at him you disappoint me I never said I would I never even thought about it I never think about it she shifted along the pew I always think about it I dream about it even in class during a boring maths lesson I think about it he walked to the altar end and peered at the brass cross on an altar this is God's house we can't do that kind of thing why not? it's only an empty church a sepulchre of a dead God she said he stared at her sitting in the pew in her red dress her hair pulled tight in a ponytail that look of sulkiness about her he knew she was determined but this was not the place if any place was with her and he didn't want to not yet best go he said she looked at him pouting her lips not yet just stay awhile he shook his head and walked down the aisle towards the back door and turned to look at her coming? she sighed the effort had failed the scheme had not worked she felt empty as if it had been a waste of her time and effort where then? where can we go? he went out of the church door and was gone from sight she swore and got up and out of the pew and out the door to follow him he was standing by a gravestone by the side of the church and she stood beside him gazing at the gravestone the writing was almost worn away the name and dates illegible that's how we all end up she said buried and dead we'd best get back to the farm I’m helping with the milk weighing later he said and he walked down the narrow pathway to get to their bikes and she followed staring at his back at his blue shirt and jeans and wished they had done it even if only a quickie and so they got on their bikes and rode back towards the farm along narrow lanes with high hedges each side she sensing disappointment and thinking of *** with an empty feeling inside.

Yiska folds and unfolds
a small piece of paper.

Her fingers are nimble;
I watch her
from the armchair
by the window
of the locked ward.

My eyes focusing
on her standing there;
her concentration
on the task at hand
quite neat.

What you doing?
I ask.

It's his last short note
about not showing
at the wedding;
about leaving me
at the altar.

She folds it small,
then unfolds it;
her fingers having
that determination
about them.

Why did he do that?
Why not just say
before hand
he couldn't go
through with it?

She folds it so small
it's tight as tight.

Because he's a *****;
has no backbone;
no sense
of letting others down.

Bit of a clown.

More than that:
a complete ****.

I watch as she unfolds it,
and opens it wide,
and tears it
into small
confetti-like pieces
and drops
in a waste bin
by her feet.

She rubs a scar
along her wrist,
white against pink,
where the blade slit,
where the blood
was let slip;
gushed,
not drip drip drip.

I woke up laying on some bed;
it felt as if someone
had placed a tight band
around my head.

All part of the ECT,
I guessed: the headache,
the heavy sensation
of limbs and head;
like some Lazarus
back from the dead.

Electro-convulsive Therapy,
they called it,
those guys in white coats;
make you feel
a whole lot better;
it helps some,
the nurse said,
before applying
the black rubber ****
in my mouth;
and that ***** of a needle
in the top of my hand,
and that buzzing feel
up from my toes
to my head and wham;
it's like I’m dead.

The window showed
the tops of trees,
snow covered,
grey sky;
the window frame
was white painted,
thick glass panes;
no cure, they say,
without pains.

There was a girl
in the next bed
to mine,
flat out,
barely breathing;
her ******* rising
and falling
in slow motion;
hands at her sides,
strapped in by belts
across the bed.

I had them, too;
to keep me
from falling to floor,
I guessed,
attempting to rise up
from where I lay.

I gave up trying
and stared
at the single light bulb,
(hanging like some suicide
from the ceiling),
with an odd
surreal feeling.

I am here,
yet I’m not,
seemingly
unaware of being
as being
should be
(or so I’m told).

No longer young,
no more
spreading out
beside some
young thing,
waiting to see
what she'll bring.

I'm getting old,
(so I’m told),
feeling
the aches more,
the pains
like companions,
sneak up close,
snuggle
into the bone.

I am here,
yet,
at the end
of it all,
I am alone.

Ingrid hides beneath her bed; her father calling for her, bawling out along the passageway; her mother whimpering; she can hear her, hopes her father won't find her, wants him to go off to work, leave now while his mood is dark and violent. She crouches down, sees the floor of her bedroom, the wooden floorboards, the small carpet stained, a few clothes here and there. The door opens, she sees her big sister's high-heeled shoes walk in the room and turn around. She's gone out, probably knew you were in one of your moods, her sister says. Her father's gruff reply; banging of doors; raised voices; her sister goes out, closes the door. Ingrid spreads her hands flat on the floor. Pushes away dust, looks out for spiders, fears to see one and cry out, have her father running in with his slapping hand at the ready, his dark eyes blazing like fires. She flattens herself out, her eyes on the door, her head to one side, the bed springs against her shoulders, touching her hair. The door flies open, her father black shoes visible, his brown trousers, two legs. Well, she was here a while ago; if I catch her I’ll tan her hide, so I will. He moves stuff on the dressing table, moves about the room, goes to the window and looks out. Where'd she go? Her sobbing mother enters, her two feet showing. She's with that boy from the flats; that Benny. Her father curses, pushes the drab curtains aside. I see him about; his quiff of hair, that fecking smile, the hazel eyes peering; she's not to see him; I don't like him, her father says. Her mother sobs, sits on the bed, pushes the springs down further into Ingrid's shoulders and hair. He's no harm, her mother says; his mother's a decent sort. Her father sighs. Why go with him? What she see in him? Her father bends down and picks up a cardigan from the floor, but doesn't look sideways at Ingrid there; he holds it up to her mother. She’s a lazy cow; look, leaves clothes everywhere.  She's just a nine year old girl, her mother says; she's much to learn. She'll learn it, he says, by my hand, she'll learn. Ingrid stiffens; fears he'll sense her under the bed. She knows he'll have her eventually. The last time he beat her, her had to sit sideways for days, even at school. Benny knew something was up; he always seemed to know. He peered at her; his eyes searching her. Where this time? He asked. She told him. Once he said he'd fire his catapult at her father's backside from the balcony, but she said not too.  He'll blame me, she said, he'll think I set you up. She aches. Her body is aching with staying still. She also wants to go to the toilet; wants to have breakfast. Her father walks around the bed, his black shoes walking slow. Her mother moves on the bed, pushing the springs again. You're too soft on her. I'm not. You are; she gets away with too much.  I do my best. The bed springs push down on Ingrid's head. Well, if you see her when she gets back, tell her I’m onto her; to expect a good hiding. Ingrid cringes. The black shoes walk away out of the room. Her mother sobs, moves back and forth on the bed. Ingrid senses the springs pushing down on her shoulders and head. Her mother rises from the bed, walks to the door, then out of the room, shuts the door. All is silent now as it was before.

Miriam finds
that standing
on two bricks

over a pit
to ****
quite distasteful

the door
just about
bolts

voices of others
in the block
waiting their turn

unnerving
some voices foreign
shouting out

balancing
is the art
arms out stretched

but crouching
as if
about to take off

in imagined flight
the stench
of previous users

nauseating
her underwear
about her knees

her skirt
hitched up
no mention of this

in the holiday brochure
she muses
clutching her

own brought
toilet tissue
in one hand

the hot sun above
pushing down
attracting flies

she *****
them away
with her free hand

shoo shoo
she says
bouger sur

bouger sur
some one bellows
that French prat

she muses
get a move on
your ****** self

she bellows back
almost
unbalancing

her hold
she breathes out
then in

finishes
her task
performs the art

of cleansing
redresses
steps from brick

to edge
of dark grass
and unbolts

the door
and pushes through
the throng

feeling undone
sensing something
out of order

like a song
performed
wrong.

Sophia's parents
(Polish refugees
during WW2)  
have a large crucifix

above their double bed;
wooden, with a plaster cast
Christ whose features are dour,
some aspects chipped.

She enters the room;
a smell of staleness,
pipe smoke,
her mother's

old fashion scent.
She looks at the crucifix;
kneels on the bed,
and rubs the feet

of the plaster cast Christ;
remember the time
when her parents
were away for the day,

and she brought
that Benny boy in here
and they made love
on the bed,

she laying there,
tapping his buttocks
to ride him on;
looking up

at the features
of the dour Christ,
no change of expression;
Benny's fast breathing

hot by her ear,
the whole arena
somehow surreal,
lacking meaning,

a purposeless show.
After he'd done
and left
and she tidied up

and made the bed
and smoothed
the covers
and looked

at the Christ
the dourness
was still there,
but a sense

of disappointment
hung in the air.

Nima wants out of it,
wants out of all,
the medicated care,
nurses fussing over drugs
or pill popping
or signs she back
on the downward slide again;
she wants Benny to come,
want him to visit
or meet in London
as once they did.

The doctor's just gone,
his dark eyes gazing over her
like a skater on ice,
his dark eyebrows
as caterpillars sleeping.

She wants to walk the ward,
but he's told her
to rest until she’s up
to the walk; ******* talk.

She lays there on the bed,
head on the pillow,
eyes on the lights,
on the nurse who
comes and goes,
thinking of Benny
and that good bit of ***
in the cheap hotel;
the taps in the bathroom
the wrong way around:
hot for cold and vice versa.

She laughs;
she always thinks of that
when she bathes,
that and that time
when they bathed together.

She wants out if it;
wants either a good fix
or a good ****,
but stuck in here
in the ward,
none of that
worse luck.

Her mother
at the sink
peeling spuds

I behind
sitting there
in a chair
sipping tea
given me

radio
playing pop
some singer
singing soft

won't be long
she tells me
Milka's such
a slow girl
takes her time
at most things

(I know things
she's quick at
but don't tell
her mother)

I've told her
that you're here
Benedict
but you know
what girls are

I notice
her mother's
wide spread hips
bulging *******
beneath blouse

here she comes
she tells me

and Milka
enters in
sulky faced
arms folded

water's cold
couldn't bathe
she mutters
had to wash
using cold

no matter
Mother says
you're ok
fire's relit
be hot soon

too late now
Milka says
moodily

never mind
Mother says
Benedict
is here now

so we go
out the door
Milka's hand
searching mine
small and warm
heart thumping
mood a storm.

I get off the bus to Richmond
and Chaya's waiting for me.

She's dressed in red and white
and her blonde hair is free flowing.

How was the journey?

Long, but worth it.

Bit like life, then.

Sometimes.

She smiles
and we walk
through the park.

I know a café
we can go for a drink
and bite to eat,
she says.

That'd be good.

So she takes me
to this café
on the other side
of the park
and we sit down
and a young girl
takes our order
and walks away.

There's a new group
called the Rolling Stones
played here recently;
they’re good.

I'm an Elvis fan myself,
but I think my sister,
Alma, has a record of there's.

She takes out a cigarette
and offers me one;
we light up
and she puts
the packet away.

These guys play
bluesy rock;
the lead singer's
quite a character;
got his autograph.

Our coffees come
and we sip in silence
for awhile.

How's your work?
I ask.

Steady; I have a few
acting bits.

How's your work?

Boring, but it pays me ok
and keeps me
fed and watered.

What do you do
when you're not working?

I write.

Write what?

Plays and short stories.

Have to read them sometime;
especially the plays.

Not up to scratch, yet.

I look at her hair
and wish I could touch it;
run my fingers through it,
but I don't of course,
I just gaze at her.

Am I that interesting?
She asks

Yes, you are, pretty.

She laughs.

No one has called me
pretty before,
maybe pretty boring.

No, you are;
your lovely blonde hair,
those eyes of yours,
your figure.

She smiles.

Well if you say so, Baruch;
but my father says
not to get too
above myself,
but to be who I am.

We finish our smokes
and coffees
and walk on back
through the park
and lay on the grass
under the warm sunshine.

A brass band
is playing over the way.

People pass by;
kids calling,
laughing.

She lays on her back;
I lay beside her;
feel her next to me;
my body alive
to her presence.

I'm off next week
to Scotland;
got a part in a play.

I look at her.

That's good;
how long for?

As long as it runs;
it's only a small part,
but Daddy says
it all helps my craft;
I’ll write when
I’m back in Richmond.

I feel a sense of sadness,
buy joy for her,
mixed.

I want to kiss her,
but feel it might not
be the right time.

I lay there studying her
as she talks on
about the play;
I think I love her,
but cannot say.

Miss G walks
down the aisle
between desks

the Chopin
playing loud
from an old

gramophone
on her desk
Reynard sits

beside me
his eyes closed
pretending

he likes it
but really
in his head

he's thinking
of football
Yochana

sits at front
her dark hair
shoulder length

her elbows
on the desk
her thin hands

together
the fingers
counting time

such fingers
so stick like
I study

how they move
fingers tips
pacing time

her thin frame
her profile
as she turns

angelic
but too pale
and the cheek

which I kissed
some weeks back
seems to wait

(I presume)
for me to
kiss again

but slower
the next time
not a peck

but a big
hot smacker
of my lips

on her cheek
or soft lips
or neck or

wherever.

Elaine dreamed of John;
she twisted and turned
in her sleep,
enfolded in the sheets
and blankets,
embracing her pillow.

But now
sitting on the school bus,
she knows
she won’t tell him,
won’t mention
any aspects
of the dream to him.

He's there
a few seats away
on her right;
sitting and talking
to the Goldfinch boy.

She watches him,
safe in her distant seat,
unseen by him;
his eyes on something
Goldfinch shows him.

In the dream
he had kissed her
and she had liked it,
and still senses it
on her lips,
brushing her lips
with the back
of her hand,
trying to relive
the dream.

Later as they get off
the bus
he turns to her
and looks at her.

I dreamed of you
last night.

She blushes,
looks beyond him,
sees her sister walk on,
chatting to another girl;
she looks back at him.

Did you?

He nods.

Colourful dream.

Was it?

Yes, we were alone together
and not at school;
some other place.

She tries to control
her blushing,
but finds it difficult;
her dream of him
seeming so real.

Where was it?

Never saw it before.

What happened?

He looks behind him,
then back at her.

I kissed you.

Did you?

Her words are so fragile
they barely make it
to the air.

Yes, and you liked it,
and didn't make
a fuss or walk off.

She looks at her
battered black shoes.

Was I expecting
to be kissed?

Hard to say
with dreams,
they are
kind of surreal.

Suppose they are.

She looks up at him,
takes in his
hazel eyes
and quiff
of brown hair.

Then what?  

Saw this unusual bird;
kind of like a swan,
but smaller,
less white.

She sighs
under her breath.

Bird?

Yes, odd bird.

And us?
What did we do
after the kiss?
She asks softly,
waiting for the answer,
but unsure
if she wants
to hear it.

We walked some place.

Where?

Don't know the place.

He looks at his watch.

Have to go soon,
but see you in recess?

I had a dream
about you, too.

He looks at her.
Did you?

She nods.

We kissed
in mine, too.

Was there
an odd bird
in your dream?

No, no bird;
just us and a kiss.

He looks
at his watch again.

Best be gone;
look at those clouds;
looks like rain.

Yiska knows how she feels but how it got that way she's unsure and that aspect worries her the uncertainty of life and being young being thirteen being like an unfolding flower she feels vulnerable and yet excited as if she could suddenly jump up in class at school and say I am me I am who I am and I love Benedict and I don’t give a **** who knows it and such and such but she doesn't she just waits for the school bus to arrive with him on-board see his face in the window peering out looking for her he a year older and in a different class and some days she doesn't see him(except like now waiting for the school bus) or maybe if it is sunny and they can out on the playing field during recess and she meet him and be with him for a while but it looks like rain and she knows that means she might not see him any more that day unless she's lucky and sees him in the corridor in between lessons as she did the other day on her way to biology and he was coming the other way(she can picture him now his hazel eyes and quiff of brown hair and that Elvis smile) and he paused and spoke to her briefly and touched her hand O so softly his fingers gently holding(hots O hots) and she felt perspiration run down the back of her legs and elsewhere and the other students with her were saying O come on Yiska put him down you don't know where he's been and such words but she didn't care she had him briefly and then a prefect came along and said to move on get to classes but now she waits for the bus the rain beginning to come down so she moves under shelter of the front door and peers out through the rain at the road leading into the school the wire fence mesh fence trees each side of the road other students arriving on foot but no bus and she thinks of the time they managed to get behind the maths block and be alone and out of sight of others(the teachers gone for their lunch) and she sat on his knees and he held her around the waist and kissed her and spoke and said things about his life and she was listening but not listening her body was on fire each particle of her was vibrating each nerve tingled her hands around him were wet with perspiration her neck damp where his lips had been and her cheek wet and warm and her heart beat so fast it felt as if it might take off out of her ******* and she wondered how far can they go and how far is far? the bus comes into sight slowly taking the bend and she looks at it her eyes following its every move watching the windows looking for his face searching for a sight of him the rain down pouring now the students getting out of the bus and running towards school and she waits and looks and then there he is Benedict running towards school his head slightly bent forward his coat unbuttoned and flying out like wings and he sees her and waves a hand and she feels as if someone had knifed her guts and ripped her open so that her heart was hanging out there pumping for all to see and he comes over and stands with her in the cover of the front door and his hair is plastered down and his hazel eyes alight with eagerness and he says something but she is only half listening only catches the words and not meanings and he laughs and she laughs too and he whisperers in her ear and the words are warm as his breath and seem to echo through her like kids at play been waiting for you she says **** rain he says won't see you after this unless maybe in the corridor or after school as you get on your bus he looks at her his quiff of hair drowned and limp maybe we might he says maybe in the school gym and she feels a pleasure at this if it's free and no one else is there she thinks sensing him there his hand on hers and warm hand her flesh his skin touching better go he says bell will ring soon and he goes and she waits and watches him go her body a buzz of activity as if she were a bees nest buzzing and O she mutters and nerves seem to explode in her and fireworks in her head and her body best get a move on a teacher says who passes her by the door no place to linger and she looks at the teacher and nods her head but feels like saying drop off drop dead but moves off and out in the rain the wetness cooling down her hotness and she runs through the girl's playground towards the school buildings her coat of green damp and her hair beginning to hang limp by her face and she enters the school with a rush of emotions her thoughts everywhere her body tingling like a live wire ready to set alight on edge about to set all of her on fire.

Yehudit stands
by the small bridge
that goes over
the stream
at the back
of the church.

There's a moon,
bright as a torch
in the sky,
a handful of stars
sprinkled above.

I come out
of the vestry door
after choir practice;
I see her there
and walk over to her.

What are you
doing here?
I say.

Waiting for you.

The others come out
of the vestry door
and walk on the path
around the church
to the front;
some look over,
but then walk on.

Why?
what's the matter?

You didn't look at me
in class today.

I did;
I couldn't help
but see you.

Not in the sense
of just seeing,
but in the look you gave.

What look I gave?

She looks away
into the distance;
into the dark fiends
and far off trees.

An indifferent look;
a look one gives
if one doesn't want
to see someone.

I rack my brains;
notice her jawline;
the wind-swept hair.

I always want to see you.

Didn't seem like it,
seemed as if
you were talking
to that Rollands boy
and not giving
the look
you used to give.

I can feel a sigh
coming on,
but hold it back.

You are imagining things;
I was talking to him
about some picture
in the art book.

What picture?

Mm mm...just a picture.

She looks at me;
her eyes all searching.

Trust him to get you
into such nonsense
as laughing at art pictures;
what was it?
Some **** painting?

Yes, some guy
called Renoir;
she looked a dish;
bit like you in fact.

Is that what you thought?
Why laugh, then?

Because he said
what if you were
to strip off now?
And what would
Mr P say?

She looks away
at the darkness again.

I'd never do that;
can't see why women do.

They’re models;
it's what they do;
show off
the female form
in all its beauty.

She turns around
and stares at me.

So men can lust
after them;
make rude comments
or suggestions?

Pretty much,
I say,
looking away,
seeing the gravestones
caught in moonlight.

Is that
how you see me?
Something to lust after?

Most of the names
on the gravestones
have eroded now,
just the odd name
or letter remaining.

No, not lust after,
love after;
want for being you.

You talk utter crap
some times Benny,
you utter such
puke of words.

I look at her;
there's phlegm
on her lower lip;
I am tempted
to wipe it off,
but don't;
I watch it hang there.

She wipes it off
with the back
of her hand.

I suppose a kiss
is out?

A car ****** goes.

Reverend M
is waiting for us
in the car,
she says.

No kiss?

She pushes past me,
along the path;
I follow her
taking note
of her lovely ***,
the sway of her,
the whole being of her.

In the car,
at the back,
we sit together,
in the darkness,
behind the vicar
and his wife,
and her lips kiss me,
hot kiss,
cold lips,
and her hand
grabs mine tight
and squeezes;
some kind of heaven;
outside hell freezes.

Jane's in the church,
helping to sort flowers
in vases.

I stand at the back,
watching,
not wanting to disturb,
smelling the ancient bricks
and wood and flowers.

She's in a world of her own,
her fingers nimble,
dedicated.

I sit down
in a side pew,
look up
at the wooden roof,
the arches,
the side columns.

Her father is by her,
talking quietly,
pointing out,
and she smiles
and then looks back
and sees me.

I feel as if someone
grabs my heart
and squeezes;
my whole being freezes.

She comes down
and sits beside me.

Didn't know
you were coming?

Your mother said
you were in here.

She nods,
looks up
at her father
at the altar,
then back
at me again.

I have finished now;
we can go for a walk.

Ok, that'd be good.

We get up out
of the pew
and walk down
the aisle towards
the back of the church.

She pauses
and looks back.

Funny if in years to come
we were walking here
after we were married.

I nod, but feel odd;
never think
that far ahead,
I muse,
but say nothing.

We walk on and out
of the church
and into
the warm sunshine.

My father saw you
and told me
you were there.

Does he mind?

Of course not;
why should he?

No reason,
just wondered.

My mother told him
you were ok;
she likes you.

I smile and we walk
down the narrow road
towards the farm.

How do you like school?

I don't;
I feel out of place there
after London.

You'll be ok
once you settle in.

I had a fight
my first day.

I heard from a girl
whose brother
heard about it;
I thought that meant
you were trouble,
but I understand
the boy started it.

I finished it,
but we're friends now,
I add.

She smiles at me
and her hand
touches mine
and it's like
I’m alive
for the first time;
my heart going
thirty to the dozen,
my whole being buzzing
like swarm of bees.

No one else knows;
no one else sees.

Lizbeth holds the dress against her. It's new, her mother had bought it for her. The cloth is smooth and soft, but she doesn't like it. She looks at the dress in the mirror inside the wardrobe. She puts the dress down on the bed and takes off the dress she is wearing and lets it drop to the floor, kicks it out of the way. She picks the new dress off of the bed and put it on and pulls at the hem to pull it down fully. She twirls, looking at the dress and how it looks as she twirls. The colour's all wrong; the hang of it she loathes. It falls beneath her knees; too far below. She lifts the dress until it comes above her knees. She twirls again. If only Benedict was here, see muses, if only his eyes were here looking beside me. She lifts the dress higher and smiles. Mother would never approve of that length. She lets the dress drop to the given length. Boring. The material is old fashioned, she thinks, ******* it, pulling at the hem. The dress she pointed out to her mother while shopping in Midhurst was shorter and more colourful and didn't have silly bows at the back. Her mother didn't like it. It would make you look like a ****, her mother had said, like one of those tarts on that pop music show prancing around semi-dressed. She hadn't thought her mother had watched the 6.5 Special Show, but she had. She twirls again and looks in the mirror for any saving details of the dress, but there aren't any. The dress is drab and she will not wear it; she'll put it at the back of the wardrobe and forget it's there. She takes it off and lets it fall to the floor and stamps on it, then kicks it away. She sighs and gazes at herself in the mirror in underclothes and bra. Where is Benedict when you want him? She muses, putting her hands on her hips. Probably on the farm; working in the milk sheds weighing the milk or clearing out the cowsheds, as he did on weekends or after school. She had managed to get him to this room once while her parents were out, but it was to no avail and nothing happened. Her mother is downstairs preparing lunch; she can hear the pots and pans being used; a radio playing some classical stuff. She picks up her old dress and puts it back on. The new dress she hangs on a hanger and puts it at the back of her wardrobe and shuts the door. The old dress, black with red flowers, is becoming small and tight. It reaches just above her knees now and her mother said it was not decent to wear any more, but she wears it and loves it, even if it is tight and holds her firm. She walks the length of her room like a model, swaying her hips, hand held aloft, head tilted. She flops onto her bed and throws out her arms and looks at the ceiling. To think she had Benedict here on this bed that time and nothing happened; God how frustrating. There is plenty of time to think of boys, her mother had said, you're just thirteen, why when I was your age I was playing with dolls and skipping with a rope. Lizbeth hadn't played with her dolls for years; her skipping rope was at the bottom of the wardrobe unused. She sits up and looks at her room. The record player is on the floor by the window; an LP of the Everly Brothers in on the turntable; the sleeve is on the floor next to a cup and saucer, partially covered by soiled underclothes. She was a lazy girl, her mother said, too lazy for her own good. Her father(when he was home at all) said nothing much except how far he had travelled and how many orders he had managed to obtain. A girl at school( in a higher class) had given her a book with illustrations about *** with orders not to let other see it. She had gone through the book umpteen times(mostly gawking at the photos and illustrations) and trying to put into practice what she had read there. The book is at the bottom of the wardrobe in a brown paper bag tied with string( just in case her mother snooped around.) She wants *** with Benedict. She has tried to get him to perform many times, but he is reluctant, makes excuses. She doesn't want other boys. She wants one boy. Benedict. The book has an illustration what the boy has to do and the girl also. She has studied it so many times it is printed on her mind. There is also other illustrations about other things which she finds a bit distasteful. If her mother ever found the book, there would be hell to pay(providing her mother didn't drop with shock). She sighs. Closes her eyes. Embraces herself. Kisses her arms; pretends it is him, his lips kissing. She opens her eyes and stares; he is not there; he is missing.

Sutcliffe brings
a magazine
to school
(his old man's
he tells us)
and we group in
under the shelter
near the outside bogs.

He opens it
page by page;
his fingers shaky,
his eyes, blue,
enlarged,
peer the page.

Look at the state
of her,
O’Brien says.

I look over
his shoulder
at the naked dame.

Can you imagine
Miss A doing this
from our old school?
I suggest.

Don't make me puke,
O’Brien says.

What the ****'s that?
Sutcliffe asks,
pointing a finger.

It's where
you were born from,
Davies says.

Can't be,
Sutcliffe says,
I was born
in Guy's hospital.

Your mother,
poor cow,
has one of those,
O’Brien says.

Sutcliffe pulls a face
as if he'd bitten
a lemon.

Shan't look at her
the same way again,
he replies.

Turn the page,
I say,
see something other.

He turns the page,
a centrefold,
opens it out,
arms outstretched,
eyes widening.

Wouldn’t say no
to her,
O’Brien says,
scanning in
like a swooping air plane
to dive bomb.

Me, neither,
Sutcliffe mutters.

I see Sutcliffe's
inky fingers shake
on the edges
of the magazine;
the woman has big eyes
peering out,
her nose has an air
of: had your gawk?
We just stare,
no place
to waste words,
we stand,
open mouthed
and don’t talk.

We lean on the balcony
looking down
on the Square;
it's a summer evening,
light still,
kids playing
by the pram sheds,
on up and down the *****
on their scooters or bikes.

Fay smells of flowers;
her fair hair let loose
about her slim shoulders;
I sniff her secretly.

My father's away,
she says,
he'll be back
on Saturday.

Where's he gone?

Business in Scotland;
he said I was to learn
Chapter six
of St John's Gospel.

Why?

Just his way
of making sure
I don't waste too much
time on earthly things.

Will you learn it?

I will have to;
he'll test me
when he gets back
and if I haven't
there will be trouble,
he said.

I see two kids fighting
over by the pram sheds;
a crowd gathers.

Don't your parents
make you read the Bible?

No, my old man
wouldn't know
the first thing
about the Bible;
he thinks it's all
a load of tosh,
but my mother says
we should go to church
and sometimes we do,
especially
the Bible-thumpers
by the iron bridge
who take poor kids
to the beach
in the summer
and they have feast night
with bread
and cakes and such.

Fay looks at me;
her eyes have
a sadness about them
like a puppy
left out
in the rain.

The nuns say
that those who
do not believe
will go to Hell.

Be quite
a packed place, then.

I believe,
but I want you
to believe, too,
she says.

Believe what?

In Jesus and God.

I watch a tall kid
ride his bike
by a couple
and shout
KAZOO!
as he passes them by.

I do believe.

You do?

Sure why not?

She smiles.

I would kiss
Miss A's backside
for a smile like that,
but I don't tell Fay;
I just look
at the brightness
of her eyes
where stars
are born
and an old star dies.

The nuns take us down
to the beach
from the nursing home.

Anne is in her wheelchair
looking at the other kids
paddling or playing ball
or sitting gazing out to sea.

I stand beside her,
watching the gulls
fly overhead.

Aren't you going
in to swim?
She asks me.

No, I don't swim.

I used to swim,
until they took off my leg.

Can't you swim
with one leg?

Not easy,
but I guess
I haven't tried.

Sister Bridget throws a ball
to the boys;
another nun
lifts her habit
and tiptoes
into the sea
with some girls.

Do you your parents
let you swim?

Don't want to talk
about them.

I look at her
with her stern gaze
and dark hair.

Why not?

Because I don't;
talk about
something else, Kid.

Do nuns marry?

She turns and looks at me.

Of course not;
they take vows
of celibacy.

What’s that?

She sighs.

Means they don't
have ***
don't have kids
and so on.

I frown.

Not ever?

Better not
or they're
for the high jump.

High jump?

In trouble, Kid, trouble.

What's having *** mean?

She raises her highbrows,
looks at me pityingly.

Where do you live, Kid?
Hasn't your old man
told you about
the birds and bees?

No, he doesn't talk
about nature at all;
he talks about films
and the theatre
and actors and such,
but not nature
study things.

She looks out to sea;
gulls fly overhead noisily;
I stare at her one leg
sticking out
of her short red skirt.

There are males and females
and to make babies
they have to get together
and do certain things.

What certain things?

Well kissing is one thing
and after that,
things kind of
lead onto other things.

I frown;
I recall a girl in school
kissing me,
but I don't recall
any other things
happening,
but I don't tell Anne that.

I see,
I say.

Go swim, Kid,
go swim.

I wander down
to the edge of the beach
and peer out to sea,
hoping no other girl
tries to kiss me.

Soft toffee
in wrappers
in a bag
in my hand

just take one

Ingrid looks
at the bag
then at me

they are yours

I can share
no problem
I tell her

she takes one
and untwists
the wrapper
on the sweet
takes it out
and eats it

I watch her
her slightly
protruding
teeth bite through
soft toffee
quite easy

I eat mine
put the bag
of toffees
in my coat

my uncle
gives me sweets
she tells me
if I’m good
and do things

I study
her brown hair
pinned with grips
her brown eyes
looking sad

do what things?
I ask her

she looks down
at her shoes

I can't say
Uncle says
it's secret
between us

the uncle
visits her
at weekends
her old man's
big brother

gormless ***
Jimmy says
who's seen him
in the Square

why secret?
I inquire

cross my heart
hope to die
she replies

wonder why?

Makemkov had a sudden
Thought while sitting on his bed,
Having a smoke, gazing out
Of the window at the new

Apartments across the way,
Where some young dame was slipping
Into something light and cool,
Unknowing that he gazed like this

On other days, the thought he
Had disturbed the **** sight,
The image becoming blurred
Into another lustful

Smudge, he was going to be
Dead one day, the thought revealed,
Unclean or not so, he did
Not know, but die he would, he

Neither grand nor good, his death
Would come as all deaths came, each
With its owner’s borrowed name.

Lydia follows her big sister
out of the flat;
she is tall
and has a blonde
explosion of hair,
eye-shadow so thick
she appears clown like.

She walks off
with her tight-dressed
backside swinging away.

I watch her go,
fascinated how
she manages to balance
on such high heeled shoes.

Be glad
when she leaves home,
maybe then
I get to have
my bed back,
Lydia says.

How does she balance
in those shoes?

Practise,
she's worn them
since she could walk,
Dad says.

Her big sister, Gloria,
goes down the *****
and out of sight.

Where we going?
I ask.

You decide.

What about
taking a train
to Peckham Rye?

Have to get some money;
I'll scrounge off Mum.

So she goes indoors
and I stand outside
the door
looking out
at the Square,
hearing voices
from within.

An old guy walks past
with his Boxer dog,
he nods to me
as he passes.

Lydia's mother
comes to the door
with Lydia behind her.

Think I have loads of money?
Think I can afford
to let her go here
and there
just on a whim?

No, I have money,
my old man gave it me
for polishing his shoes,
not that they needed polishing,
but he likes them
real bright brown.

I don't give a ****
where you get
your money from,
but I haven't money
to waste
on a train journey
for her.

I can pay.

You?

Sure, I have enough.

She is silent
(miracles happen).

She stares at me
with her beady eyes.

If you are paying,
then she can go,
but no monkey business,
no getting in people’s way.

She walks indoors
and leaves Lydia
standing there wide-eyed
and open mouthed.

I can go?

Sure you can,
but no monkey business,
whatever that means.

No climbing trees,
I guess.

We set off together
through the Square
and down the *****,
she looking back,
I taking in
her thinness
and lank hair,
and that look
of uncertain
despair.

Her mother cries;
shouts vibrate
the passageway,
her father bellows
four letter words
that seem to pull
at Enid's ears.

She sits
on the side
of her bed
half dressed,
waiting for the row
to end before
she ventures out
for breakfast and school.

There's a bruise
over her right eye,
it fills out
like a painted blob.

She caresses herself
against the sounds;
bites her lip
in anticipation
of her father's return.

A door slams shut;
silence filters in.

She can hear
her mother's sobs,
deep throated,
gut wrenching.

Enid stands up
and goes
to her bedroom door,
peers out;
he's gone;
her mother's
in the kitchen,
sobs echoing.

Enid shuts the door
and gets dressed;
her stomach
is rumbling;
her hair
is in a mess;
the bruise spreads
like a red
and blue stain.

After breakfast
and her mothers' silence,
Enid goes off
to school
and meets Benny
by the Square's *****.

You've got a bruise.

I know,
banged my head
against a door.

Same door
as last time?
Benny asks.

She looks back
at the block of flats.

Same one.

Benny walks beside her
as they go down
the ***** and onto
Rockingham Street,
his eyes scanning her,
taking in the untidy hair,
the bruise,
the smell of damp cloth.

What's upset
your old man, now?

Who says he's upset
about anything?

The bruise
over your eye.

She looks at him:
the hazel eyes,
the quiff of hair
over his forehead,
the small smile
that isn't a smile,
but seems like one.

Accident,
he didn't mean to.

You're accident prone;
running into doors
and fists
and backhanders.

She stops
and stares at him:
not your business.

Benny stares back at her:
who's then?

She walks on,
brushing at her hair,
dabbing at the bruise.

She hates arguments
and rows,
she always seems
to lose.

Yours was the bed
at the far end
of the ward.

Seems darker now;
the end of it all.

I walk that path
to your bed
in my dreams;
wanting to reach
you again;
wanting to be able
to hold you tight
night after night.

Dreams betray,
they never fulfil;
never bring up
what they promise.

I see you there
puffed up and breathless;
hear your words
fight through
a tightness of lungs
already closing down
(although
we didn't know).

I felt along your arm
and touched,
sensing the puffiness
of skin,
the tired look
in eyes,
the fight for words.

I asked you questions,
sought for an answer
as a father does,
looking for the purpose
of a hurting son.

I argued with the nurse,
pointed out
your fading state,
your puffed up
skin and frame,
how you could
hardly hold
the mug in hands,
barely talk
through hard to
catch breath.

Unknown
to us then:
the start of death.

Janice adjusts
the red beret
on her fair hair
and pulls at the hem
of her dress
as she sits
on the wooden seat
of the swing
in the park.

I sit on the swing
next to her,
ready to kick off,
my feet on the tarmac,
my eyes glued on her.

She winces.

Gran spanked me last night
for saying
that four letter word
you taught me.

You weren't supposed
to tell your gran.

You never said
not to tell;
I didn't know
what it meant.

Sorry,
I should have
told you.

(I didn't know,
but I don't tell her that).

She pushes off
with her feet
and she's air borne;
her sandalled feet
high in the air
as the swing goes backward
then forward.

I push off, too,
holding tight
to the steel links
on each side of the swing.

Maybe your gran
should have washed
your mouth out
with soap
instead of a spanking.

I wish she had, too.

My old man's aunt
swears like a trooper;
I used to go
to Sunday tea with her
and her husband
and my Nan used to say:
that's enough
of that language,
there's children present.

What did did she say?

They don't know
what it means,
she used to say;
but Nan'd say, no,
but they might repeat it
to people who do.

And did you?
Janice asks.

No, at least not
if my parents
were around.

I am swinging higher
than her now;
my feet seem to reach
the nearest clouds.

She tries to swing higher,
but I am still higher,
by swinging backward
and forward on the seat
and the holding tight
to steel links each side,
I am up there
with the gods.

Have you ever
been spanked?

I look at her.

Once when I peed
in my toy box
and my cousin
told my mum.

She pulls a face.

How ***** of you.

Yes, I guess;
Mum thought so.

I feel a breeze
in my hair and face
as I ride high,
swinging back and forth
on the swing.

She's beside me
trying hard to reach
as high as I am;
her feet reaching up,
her legs swinging madly;
her body going
backward and forward;
her red beret,
clinging on
for dear life
on her head.

I reach my maximum height;
my feet touching
Heaven's gates
or so seems,
my body going
back and forth
as much as it can.

She’s almost there,
smiling,
the wind riding
through her flowing
fair hair.

Helen's mother meets us
after school and takes us
to the market
to buy Helen
a new school skirt.

I walk behind with Helen
as her mother walks in front
pushing a big pram
with baby inside
and her brother
sitting on top.

Her mother has
a large behind
like a shelf
and muscle-bound
arms and legs.

That Cogan boy
said I looked like a fish,
Helen says to me.

How do you look
like a fish?

He said he has
a goldfish that looks
like me:
big eyes
and a big mouth.

He can talk;
he's got glasses
and a mouth
that is always open.

Keep up, you two,
Helen's mother says.

We run a few steps
to catch up.

He pinched my bottom
in class during history
and made me shout
and Mr F said
I was not to shout out
during lesson.

Did you say
it was Cogan?

No, didn't want to say;
bit embarrassing
to say he pinched
my bottom
with the whole class
listening.

Mind the road,
you two chatterboxes,
Helen’s mother bellows.

We pause at the kerb
as a lorry rushes by.

We walk across the road;
Helen’s mother's hat
is lopsided,
her coat
has a loose hem.

I had a fight
with Cogan once.

Did you?

Yes, he said
he was going
to break my nose;
but I punched him
with a left,
knocked his
glasses flying
and he couldn't
see me after that,
so I punched him
in the bread basket.

Bread basket?

Slang for stomach.

O, I see.

She frowns.

I like it when she frowns;
her forehead
creates lots of lines
and her glasses
slide down her nose.

We arrive at the market
and Helen’s mother
sorts through skirts
on a market stall.

Come here, Helen,
I need to measure you
against this skirt.

Helen goes to her mother
who places a number
of skirts against her.

Helen's eyes are wide open;
her mouth open
like a fish
out of water,
but I say nothing,
I look at her plaited hair,
her hands by her side
and brown scuffed shoes.

This is the one,
her mother says
to the market man,
I'll have this one.

The guy wraps up
the skirt in a bag
and takes the money
and gives her change.

Now home to tea,
Helen's mother says,
and don't
linger behind,
my girl,
or I’ll tan
your backside.

We set off,
following behind,
I think of Helen’s
wide eyes
and open mouth
fish impression,
but keep it inside.

You have to check
the bogs,
Blue says,
the inmates
try make off
with each
other sometimes.

I look at her,
the nurse,
younger,
yet more
authoritative.

Do they do it?

Will if they can;
some of the more
brighter have a hold
on the more
feeble minded.

I walk down
the corridor
of the hospital wing,
passing rooms,
side wards,
off corridors,
dark and uninviting.

I come to the toilets
and peer in.

Some big guy
is trying to ******
a younger guy.

Put him down,
Brogan;
this is not
the place or time.

The big guy looks at me
wondering what
to do or say;
he says nothing
and moves away
from Murphy
who just looks at me
and smiles.

Off you go, Murphy.

Off you go, Murphy,
he echoes
and trots off
back down the corridor.

That wasn't nice,
Brogan;
best be back
on the ward;
I think Blue's
looking for you.

His eyes enlarge
and he screws up
his nose.

He says nothing,
but goes by me,
looking at me
as if thinking
I may touch him,
but I don't,
unlike some,
I just walk back up
behind him.

Blue glares at him.

Have to watch him,
he's a molester.

Molester?

Yes, of kids,
filthy ******;
no one likes him;
what was he doing?

Having a ***.

He's dangerous;
he's here
for his mental state.

I watch as Blue moves off
in the direct
of a patient
rocking back and forth
on a chair over the way;
she talks to the man,
strokes his hair.

I look away.

There's a strong smell
of ***** about the ward;
it clings to you
like a disease,
enters your nose,
your clothes.

Blue takes hold
of Brogan's arm
and leads him
out of sight.  

I work days;
thank God
I’m not here
at night.

Even in the train it is cold.

Netanya snuggles closer to me,
her eyes searching me,
her hand clutching mine.

Had a job getting out,
she says.

Does he know
where you are going?

No, I just said
I was going out.

Was he suspicious.

Who cares?
She breathes out,
her breath like smoke;
it fills our area
of the carriage.

Why Brighton?

I like it there;
it reminds me
of my childhood.

She lays her head
on my shoulder,
her hand holding mine;
warmth moving
through mine.

Outside it is dark;
evening sky menacing.

How are things?

We rowed,
we always row.

I look at her hair
on my shoulder,
dark, wavy.

Won't going out
for so long
make things worse?

I hope so;
I hope he moves out,
hope he moves away.

What about the kids?

They'll understand,
kids do;
they like you.

I look out
at the passing view,
lights in the distance
from passing
villages or towns,
trees swimming past.

We arrive at Brighton rail station,
get out the train
and walk into the town
hand in hand.

We must come here
and stay the weekend.

When?

When we can.

I look at her beside me.
She's serious.

What would he say?

He'll say nothing.

He thinks it's just
a mid-life crisis
and I’ll get over it.

We walk down
to the seafront;
the wind and cold
biting at us.

The sea's rough.

I like it rough,
I like to sense
nature's power,
she says,
snuggling
close to me.

We go into a shelter
and sit down
in the semi-dark.

We kiss and embrace.

No one is about.

It seems far
from my usual world,
kind of surreal.

Her lips are on mine.

Feel her pulse.

Her living through me
and I through her;
I feel along her back,
feeling the smooth coat
she is wearing;
my fingers sensing
and imaging
what ever is beneath.

We sit there
for what seems hours,
kissing, holding,
looking out
at the rough sea.

Was I being
someone else
or was I just
being me?

Dalya argues
with the German,
but she understands
nothing he says.

Fick dich?
What's that mean?
She asks me.

Best you don't know.

Is he swearing at me?

I nod.
The German walks off;
his broad shoulders swinging.

Who does
he thinks he is?

German, I guess.

She gestures
with her middle digit
at his departing back.
What did he say?
She asks.

Guess.

Sounded rude.

The German guy
has gone around a corner.
(I am glad).

We walk
to the next café
and sit at a table
near the window.

A waitress
takes our order
and walks off
to the back,
her hips swaying
her black skirt.

He was in the wrong,
Dalya says.

Guess he
didn't think so.

But he was
and his attitude stank
and he was **** ugly.

She foams at the mouth;
her eyes are bright
and full of anger.

Life's too short.

Short or long
that Square Head
was in the wrong.

I look at her
sitting there;
the hair drawn tight
in a bun
at the back
of her head;
her jaws rigid.

She smells
of cheap soap
and cigarettes.

If I was a man,
I’d have thumped him.

If you had been a man
he'd have thumped
you first.

The waitress
brings our order
and puts out
the coffees
and cream cakes,
then smiling at me,
she walks off,
swaying again.

I imagine;
thinking of
another place
and time.

Fick dich, to him, too,
she says,
stirring her coffee.

I imagine he might.

What?

Do as you request.

She looks at me,
her eyes focusing on me
like an eagle at prey.

And to think
they thought they
were a superior race.

Human error, I suppose.

They weren't;
I had relatives
gassed in Belsen.

She looks away;
her eyes watery;
lips drawn tight.

That's not down to race,
that's down
to human folly
and wickedness.
I had a friend
whose father helped
clear out Belsen;
he was in the army;
****** his head,
I say.

She says nothing;
silence descends
and caresses us
in its cold arms;
breathing in our ears.

I look at her;
eyes full of tears.

Miss Pinkie
opens her door
and smiles.

I see you brought
some wine,
good boy;
go through
to the lounge.

She takes
the bottle of plonk from me
and I go through
and sit
on the white sofa.

She's playing
the Delius LP
I bought her.

The lounge smells
of perfume
and a touch of *****.

She comes in
with two glasses of wine
and puts them
on the coffee table.

How are you?

Not bad, not good.

Somewhere in between?

Guess so.

She sits down next to me;
her left hand touches my knee;
she's starting early.

I like places in between.

I guess you do.

You know I do.
She smiles;
her dimples explode.

I see you've put on Delius.

Yes, he's good.

Like me.

Hardly, my boy, hardly.
Her hand
moves up my thigh.

I pick up my glass
and sip.

Her hand reaches
my in between
and I almost choke
on the wine.

Are you multi-tasking?

No,
just sipping my wine.

She's nineteen years
my senior;
she's like a poor man's
Marie Antoinette
in looks.

She picks up her glass
and gulps the wine down.

That's how one drinks wine;
do you think the Romans
sipped wine?

I gulp down my wine;
feel light-headed;
put down the glass.

On here
or in my bed?

Don't mind.

Indecision
shows indifference.

I smell her perfume;
it engulfs me.

Her hand resumes
its search of paradise;
her red-nailed fingers
reach home;
my pecker stirs
like a woken snake.

Here is best.

Thought so,
she says.

She removes
her lower garments,
I look away;
too much
of a good thing
kind of philosophy.

Delius plays on,
but I prefer Mahler
alongside
****** activity,
he has more passion,
more sensuality.

She lays back.

I lower
my lower garments.

Her phone rings,
rattles on
the nearby shelf.

She gets up
and waddles
to the phone
and answers.

Hello, how are you?

No, I’m ok.

Can't make it tonight
I’m a bit *******.

Tomorrow?
Yes, should be fine.

Bye-bye.

I sit there,
watching
her plump backside;
Delius has ended
and so have I.

A sense
of disappointment
and a big
warm sigh.

Abela sits
in the café
in the town square.

She's ordered coffee
from the waiter
with the dark moustache
who had given her
a smile
and his dark eyes
had explored her
as he moved away.

Benedict has a headache
and sleeps back
at the hotel.

They had had a row.

Words were said.

She recalls them
as she waits
for the coffee.

You were gawking at her?

I was merely looking.

You slavered
as she walked
by our table.

She wore
a strong perfume.

Benedict undressed.

Your eyes were out
like telescopes,
watching her
Yugoslavian ****.

You imagine things;
I was thinking
of her black
waitress dress.

Abela undressed.

You were thinking
of what was beneath
the black dress.

I wasn't,
you imagine
these things,
you're jealous.

He put on
his pyjamas.

Abela stood
in her underwear
staring at him.

Me?
Jealous of her?
That ******.

She's not a ******,
she's a waitress
at the hotel.

Benedict climbed
into bed.

Abela put on
her nightdress.

Your tongue
was hanging out
as she passed
the table;
she almost
fell over it.

You should be
a column writer
for a gossipy magazine.

You should admit
your guilt.

You should
open your eyes.

Abela got into bed,
pulled up the cover,
turned over
with her back to him.

No ***, then?

Not then or now.

She switched off
her side lamp
and he switched off
his side lamp.

Music played
from a bar nearby.

Voices laughed;
a girl screamed.

Abela's coffee comes,
brought by the waiter
with the dark moustache
and dark eyes.

His eyes seem
to undress her
as he walks away;
his black trousers
caressing
his fine behind.

She sips her coffee,
but he is there,
caressing her
in her mind.

The ward is still
and quiet.

Yiska slips
out of bed
and tiptoes
to the window
and looks out
at the coming dawn.

A few snores
and moans of sleep
are behind her
from the other beds.

She feels empty.

She wants something
to matter,
but nothing does,
not the dawn light,
not the other patients
in their beds,
not she herself.

A light filters through
the trees outside.

The sun is weak,
the moon is fading.

She pulls the nightgown
tight around her.

The carpeted floor
beneath her feet
is cold.

She feels tired,
but cannot sleep;
sleep seems elusive
as if
it were hiding
from her.

The night nurse
is in the small office
off the ward.

She is typing.

The tap tap
of her fingers
on the keys.

She hears the tap tap.

She wishes Baruch
was there.

He is asleep
in the men's ward.

Sometimes they meet
at this window
and watch
the dawn come.

Last time they talked
in hushed voices.

How are you?

Low.

Me, too.

Have you tried to hang
yourself recently?

No, not recently.

That caused panic
the last time.

I wasn't aware.

I was; nurses
running around
like headless chickens.

Baruch had smiled.

Didn't think
of consequences.

There are always
consequences.

He nodded at the window.

You slit
your wrists again?

She looked
at her bandaged wrists.

Yes, but did it wrong,
so they told me.

He stroked
her bandaged wrists
with his thumb gently.

Why?

Why what?

Why do it?

Same reason as you,
I guess.

Yes guess so.

Now her wrists
are unbandaged.

Baruch sleeps.

She is alone.

The nurse still taps.

Someone whimpers
in their dream.

The ward
is still and quiet.

She slips back along
to her bed
and lays there
counting sheep.

But still no sleep.

Ariel
sits across
opposite
from myself

looking plump
and balding

we're talking
of Tolstoy
(Ariel's
favourite
novelist)

he creates
the largest
fictional
canvases
Ariel
informs me

his large eyes
focusing
on his class
of real ale

now and then
looking at
a table
quite near us
where young girls
talk and laugh

their laughter
echoing
in the warm
evening
summer air

I prefer
Marcel Proust
I tell him

watching how
his eyes scan
the young girls

less manly
Ariel
says to me
don't like Proust
no substance
just gossip
from parties
he went to
you know he
was a queer

yes I know

wrote in bed

yes I know

he gazes
at the girls
taking in
their laughter
their bodies
their brightness

all his thoughts
of Tolstoy
put aside

I sip beer
wondering
what Tolstoy
would say here
seeing this
this canvas

intellect
dissolved in
human lust
words silent

write again
another
War and Peace
in English
now I trust.

We drove
to the funeral directors,
Nat, Gabs and I,
to pick up
Ole's ashes.

We walked from the car
to the building
across a forecourt
in silence,  
it seeming surreal,
yet all too real
as we approached together.

A woman met us
at the door,
a well fed,
plump one.

Can I help you?

We've come
for the ashes
of my son,
I said.

His name?

I told her.

She showed us
into a room
and we sat in silence.

The small room was built
for solemnity: sad music
was piped from speakers
on the walls and the décor
was dull, yet fit
for the sad occasion.

We waited,
looking at each other,
looking away.

Part of me expected,
unreal, yet
somehow real,
for Ole to walk in
in his black coat
and hungry bear gait
and say:
Fooled you all
that time.

But he didn’t
of course,
just the music
and an air
of heaviness
and deep sadness.

The woman returned
with a small oak casket
with Ole's name on
the brass plaque on top.

She handed it to Nat
and gave me a form
that had to be filled in
before Ole's remains
could be interred or
the ashes scattered;
another piece
of officialdom in death,
as if nothing else mattered.  

We said our thank yous
and gazed at the woman.

She had a look
of sadness,
a solemnity,
but she had no tear
I could see, but why
should she, I thought,
she didn’t know young Ole.

Miriam stands
by the camel

an Arab stands nearby
unimpressed
he holds a rope
tied to the camel

she smiles at me
with my camera

her red bikini
showing more legs
and arms
than the Arab guy
feels comfortable with

I aim
to get her central
her explosion
of red hair
matching that
of the bikini

she fiddles
with her shoulder strap

I wait
eyeing her
through the viewer
focusing
on her *******
as the centrepiece
everything else
to match around

avoiding to get
the Arab in the picture
but it's hard
as he seems to move
closer to her
as I aim once more
he says something
in Arabic
nods to her

I shrug my shoulders

she smiles at him

he moves in closer
his head leaning
to one side
as if someone
has broken his neck

she adjusts the bra
of the bikini
gets it comfortable

I look away from her
hold the camera
by my chest

when you're ready
I say

she does a twirl
in the sand
and back again
facing me

the sands hot
she says
burning my feet

well wear your slip-ons
I say

she goes to her bag
by the camel's back
and takes out
her slip-ons
and puts them on
the Arab watches her
with a dull eyed stare

she comes to the spot
on the sand
where she had been standing
and poses again

the camel seems bored
and looks
at the Arab
then at Miriam
then out to sea

I focus on her again
through the viewer
of the camera
she pouts her lips
puts her hands
on her hips  

I put the camera
by my chest

need to focus
no silly faces
or whorish gestures
I say

another Arab
a companion
to the other
passes by
gawking at Miriam
then stands by
the other Arab
then they both
look towards me

hope these to guys
don't want paying
she says

they usually do
I say
now settle
and pose

she poses her face
a weak smile
her eyes gazing
straight at me

where shall I put
my hands?
she asks

that's what you asked
last night
I say

she giggles
and stands
on one leg
the other trying
to balance her

pose now
I say

she puts both feet
on the sand
and becomes still
her hands in front
of her groin
as if she were praying

the Arab guys
were jabbering away
God knows what
they were saying.

Sophia sits
on the end
of Mr Haff's bed
as I am at the sink
tidying his towel

shouldn't you
be cleaning
the other rooms?
I ask her

she looks at me
with her icy blue eyes

przelec mnie
she utters in Polish

I look uninformed

**** me
she translates

I cough and look
at the sink
a stain
by one
of the taps

this sink
needs a good rub down
I say

you not fancy me?
she says
ignoring my statement
about the sink

sure I do
but not here
not now
I say
wanting her
to move
so I can make up
and tidy
the old man's bed

why not now?
we should live
for the now

I am busy now
and this is not
the place

she pouts
pushes a hand
through her blonde hair

you take me
to pictures?
see film?

maybe
if you go
clean elsewhere
I say
hoping she'll move
from the bed

good film on
we can go see
she says

ok we can see it
but now
can I have
the bed clear?

she gets off the bed
slowly making sure
I see plenty of leg
in the process

there is your bed
she says

thank you

I go clean
other rooms?

yes
go clean
I say

tonight
after picture show
we have ***?

I wanted to stay in
to wash my hair
but sure ok
I say
wishing her to go

she smiles seductively
and wags her behind
as she leaves
the bedroom
of Mr Haff

silence and peace
and the impression
on the blue cover
of the bed
where she had sat
on the bed

I brush it away
smoothing it out
but the image
is stuck
in my head.

Nima holds
in her palm
the capsules
the doctor
prescribed her

from a glass
she slowly
sips water

meant to help
my drug
addiction
she tells me

and does it?
I ask her

does it what?

does it help?

wouldn't know
guess it does

she shows me
her pink palm
capsules gone

when can you
go back home?

when I’m cured
or when they
think I am
she mutters

we sit on
seats outside
the mental
hospital

want a smoke?
she asks me

I’ve my own
smoke your own
I tell her

she lights up
then lights mine

there's two things
that I want
she tells me
have a fix
and have ***

what order?

have a fix
then have ***

uncrossing
her slim legs
she moves up
her short skirt
showing thighs

do you like?

artistic
Renoir like
I reply

she inhales
a lungful
of grey smoke
then exhales
in the air

and gives me
a smile and
****** stare.

They've sent
the wrong size windows
my father said
now it will put us

behind on this block
of the building
we'll have to go
the other side

he said
I picked up
his tool bag
and we trudged

through the other
workmen on the various
landings
passed the grumpy

foreman
(whom my father
almost punched
the other day)

and along
the other side
I was thinking
of Marion

my blonde haired
love
who sang
with a band

and was a live-wire
and who had
sang to me
the previous night

Baby It's Cold Outside
in such tones
to send sparks
through my ears

and heart
and veins
and as I sat
and watched her

she swaying her hips
and throwing wide
her arms and hands
I wondered how

she'd be
making love
to me
but I daren't

say or ask
oh
she'd say
as she did

a few weeks before
I can't go to bed
with a man
unless I have

a ring on my finger
and the sound
of wedding bells
in my ears

be like having
a peek at one's
birthday present
before one's birthday

and she giggled
and sang
and I gawked at her
and mused

at the sway
of her hips
and the hot
singing words

from her two
red lips.

What would we
wish different, Milka?
Youth we had,
plenty of

and wisdom lacked;
your beauty,
my wit;
the summer,

flowers,
butterflies,
bees and us
when we could,

being alone,
when your parents
were out or
out of sight

and your brothers
fishing or gaming;
we could kiss
and embrace

and do what lovers do
when nature
permits or allows.
The room,

yours, untidy
as girl's rooms can be,
was out sanctuary,
our bedding place,

lover's nest,
secret hole,
could tell secrets
if walls could talk

or ceilings tell tales.
We would do
nothing other, Milka,
than what we did,

except, maybe,
do it better
or sooner
or with more passion

if more was to be had.
That first walk,
the smell of flowers,
the air fresh,

the woods echoing
bird calls or song
and rabbits
on the run

or squirrels running
from tree to tree
and branch to branch,
and we there

innocent as lambs
knowing nothing then
of nature's bounty
or ***'s depth,

but we walked and talked
and then by the fence
by the field
we saw sun's glow

and sky's blue
and I knew then
I loved us,
but more so you.

Hadasa
deflowered
lay smiling

on the floor
of the gym
amongst ropes

P.E. mats
skipping ropes
behind thick

black curtains
we listen
for voices

coming near
the gym door
or anyone

entering
from outside
no one comes

in recess
she tells me
the teacher

of P.E.
never comes
she goes home

I am glad
this moment
would be spoilt

if someone
came in now
I reply

she puts her
underclothes
back on slow

savouring
the moment
of freedom

I pull up
and zip up
then we lay

looking up
at the gym
what would we

have done if
they'd come in?
she asks me

I don't know
I reply
but I do

imagine
us frozen
laying there

you beneath
my body
me on top

backside bare.

I liked the way
Yochana's fingers
pretended to play piano
on the top
of the school desk

nimble
thin

Miss G
greying hair
in a bun
eyeing the class
as the Chopin
piano piece
floated
from the record player
on the teacher's desk

the class was silent
no one talked
or smirked

I followed
Youchana's fingers move
swallowed
the dryness
in my throat

studied how
her elbows
gracefully flowed
in and out
in artificial play

if she'd been
a liquid
I would have
drank her in
to quench
my thirst for her

the outline
of her narrow frame
the curve scant
but there
of her hips
and the long
dark flowing hair.

The grief will lessen,
the pain become
a mild ache, some said,
after the death
and the son dead.

Somewhat
like telling
someone
who is drowning
the substance
of water.

I cannot
measure out
the length of time
of my grief,
or how deep
the pain goes
by plunging a knife
into the wound
as if seeing
like some cake
or meat
if it is cooked.

I see each
morning dawn
shadowy,
as if ghosts
walk through
or clouds mask
what little light
I see or catch
or gone out
like puffed
out match

Even in silence
I sense his
being there
in the cool
morning air;
feel the loss
like sand
through fingers,
although his image
ghostlike lingers.

And at close of day,
when moon's
kingdom comes,
stars tell lies
by being there
when maybe
long ago they
burnt out
or were lost.

And you,
my son,
that last talk
we had,
mundane,
yet real,
tangible,
real then
as now the pain.

The water
in the bath
is quite hot

and soapy
Elaine's mum
has run it

put in her
own bath stuff
Elaine lays

all stretched out
her feet at
the tap end

the water
soapy hot
caresses

her small *******
she hates them
and loves them

they tell her
she's growing
into a

young woman
her childhood
almost gone

they look like
small piglets
drowning there

she muses
she hates it
when at school

in P.E.
when the girls
point at her

look at those
small *******
they tell her

the boy John
whom she likes
at the school

doesn't look
or seem to
but maybe

he does gaze
secretly
she muses

and that thought
undoes her
he looking

mentally
he touching
each of them

how to get
such a thought
out of mind?

she sits up
in the bath
she'll ask him

if he does
when at school
the next day

but she won't
she knows it
but she'll watch

as he talks
of bird's eggs
or new seen

butterflies
where he looks
with his eyes

what beneath
her white blouse
and small bra

bunched up lies.

I was looking
at the books;
nothing
in particular wanted,
just browsing
the shelves, titles,
authors names,
colour and pattern
of the book covers.

Then some dame comes,
picks out a book,
opens it,
has a look,
mumbles
a few words
(poem I think),
then takes the book
to the counter,
pays and sways
her hips out of there.

I pick out
a Bukowski
poetry book,
have a look,
read a few poems,
have a laugh
(the humour
of that guy),
think I’ll buy.

I go to the counter,
and still
the perfume
of the dame lingers.

I hold
the Bukowski book
in my hand
brushing the cover
with my ageing fingers.

Yiska maybe
dreamt of me
or not I don't know
but I sure dreamt

of her
but that was never
as real as being there
with her

and knowing she
was there
her eyes on me
her hair

fresh brushed
(in the girls'
cloakroom no doubt)
her body tingling

with being alive
and we met
on the playing field
in recess after lunch

the sun out
strong
bright and big
in the sky

and we walked together
she talking about
her morning
and lessons

and O that Mr D
what he thinks
of me
God alone knows

she said
and other things
as girls do
and I was studying

the motion of her body
her lips
eyes
language

wanting to just
kiss her
and have her
hold me

and such
but she did
kind of talk
too much

she giggled
about some deed
or then looked at me
all wide eyed

and said
maybe next week
while my mother's
out for the day

we can go home
to lunch
and who's to say?
I dreamed of Yiska

and it was strange
and things done
and kisses
all lips to lips stuff

and secrets revealed
and told and all
wrapped up
in a cuddling hold.

I am not beautiful,
said Yehudit,
I am just that
in the eyes of those
that look and see
or do not
and say as I.

I look in the mirror
and see just me
who ever me is
that I see
and undecided
I give way
to thoughts
of some fiction
of my brain
and then I am me
and just that again.

But beauty
some say they see,
and seeing think
it's me,
but I see not
what they may see,
I see no beauty
here or there
upon my features
or skin or hair
or eyes or smile,
but they that do,
may put it there
with over love
or love excelling
or just love struck.

I see the mirror image,
the reflected face
and deep set eyes
and smile sometimes
and know it well,
seen often,
taken in
and put aside,
and so,
seeing nothing
have nought to hide.

But he says
I have beauty,
that he sees it
and knows it
and can dream of it
and touch it
and kiss it,
and having
such words
he can almost
convince even me,
that she
whom I look at
and see, is she
whom he sees
and not
the real me.

It was raining
and we were in
the school assembly hall
waiting
for the school buses
to take us home

Lizbeth put her hands
around my waist
and said
guess who?

Mrs G
with the stutter?
I said

she released her hands
and I turned around
no it's me
she said

I guess as much
I said

why did you say
Mrs G?

the first name
that came
into my head
I said

she frowned
then looked around
the hall

how long
before your bus comes?
she asked

shouldn't be long

I wish
there was a room
in this **** school
we could go

why's that?
I asked

she looked at me
seriously
and drew me
away
from other kids nearby

so we could
she said

could what?

you know

play cards?

no
you know
her voice
was a whisper
but a heavy loaded one

play strip poker?

she spelt out the words
with her lips
S-E-X

O I see
I said

I tried hard
to imagine
any room
for such a purpose
but she looked
around the hall
as if a magic room
would appear

can't have it all
I guess
I said

hey Benny
a voice called
the bus is coming

sorry got to go
I said to Lizbeth
try not
to carry on
without me

and I went through
the crowd of kids
and prefects
to the exit
and out through the rain
to the bus
that was waiting

I thinking of Lizbeth
and her need
for *** and mating.

I see Jane
on the bus
Saturday

shopping day
with her mum
at the front

I take in
her dark hair
long and loose

her summer
flowered dress
how she moves

with the bus
side to side
I wish that

I was there
beside her
our bodies

touching each
arm to arm
but she is

at the front
and I am
at the back

with others
mentally
I begin

from my palm
to blow her
a hot kiss

hoping she
will get it
on her neck

or cheek and
it not miss.