**** Morecraft said
about joining the Scouts
who used
the church hall

good venture
he said
we do things
tie knots

and learn
about nature  
how to start a fire
with two bits of wood

and sing songs
around campfires
and so on he went
walking home from school

you wanting to join the scouts
like you wanted diarrhoea
listening half heartedly
thinking of what

was for tea
or what to do
after school
and where to go

and we learn how
to put up tents
**** added
the last straw

ok
you said
I’ll think about it
see you around

and so off he went
along Newington Butts  
and you went down
the subway and along

whistling
hands in pockets
when you saw Ingrid
up ahead with bent shoulders

and lowered head
what’s up? you said
and she showed you
a tear

in her school dress
a rip in the side
showing
her white vest

my dad’ll **** me
(not quite you knew
but he’d beat her
black and blue)

what do I do?
she said crying
wiping her eyes
don’t go home

just yet
you said
my mum’ll sew it up
like new

we’ll go to
my place first
that’s what we’ll do
so you walked

up and out the subway
and across the bomb site
and up Meadow Row
(her mother or father

needn’t know)
and up the concrete stairs
to your flat and in
and you explained

to your mother
what was wrong
and she said she’d fix it
with needle and thread

and so Ingrid
took off the dress  
and gave it
to your mother to sew

and sat there
in the sitting room
in her vest and underwear
fiddling with her fingers

looking around
the room shyly
arms and legs
carrying badges

of black and blue
go get Ingrid
a glass of Tizer
and biscuit

your mother said
and don’t gawk so
and so you went
to the kitchen

and poured
a glass of Tizer
and got a biscuit
from a tin

and took them in
Ingrid wide eyed said
thank you
and took the biscuit

and glass
and nibbled
and sipped
and you told her

about the scouts
and what
Morecraft said
about tents

and tying knots
and lighting fires
with sticks
and such

(not caring much)
and all the time
eyeing the bruises
and welts on legs

and arms
and your mother said
don’t stare so
at Ingrid in her

white( near grey)vest
and underwear
so you changed
the subject

to the cinema
about some cowboy film
where the good guy
twirls his gun

and goes pop pop pop
you said
and gets the baddies
dead

just like that
and how after
the boring bit
where he kisses a girl

he twirls
his gun again
(you need
to practice that)

and she listened
as she sipped her drink
and nibbled the biscuit
sitting there

with her badges
of blue and black
in her underwear
and a red line

across
her skinny back.

Isolde looks from the window
of her old bedroom,
she's not been in there
since they took her
to the asylum years before.

Tristana, her lover,
is sitting on a white chair
on the lawn
talking to Isolde's mother.

Her mother has the same
pinched features,
thin lips as if drawn
across in ink,
the narrow nose,
peering eyes.

Isolde smells
the mustiness
of the room,
the curtains the same,
the wallpaper fading.
Her mother's eyes  
have a look
of fear in them.

Her sister sits
beside her mother
hawk-like,
hands on the arms
of the chair,
eyes fixed
with that steady stare.

Isolde recalls
the last time
in the room:
the night they
came for her,
men in white coats,
the ambulance waiting,
flashing lights,
voices shouting,
her sister crying,
her father ordering
this and that
(the prat).

Father's dead now,
good riddance,
she muses,
running a finger
down the pane of glass,
seeing her lover
sitting there,
gesturing with her hands,
head tilted to one side.

Not once
did her mother visit her
in the asylum,
not a word sent
or love or concern
expressed.

She sits on the bed,
the springs complain,
the bedspread
pushes out dust.

She remembers Tristana
that first time
in the asylum,
that first meeting,
the side ward,
the nurse dragging her
along the passage,
cursing, gripping
her nightgown.  

The fat nurse let her
drop by the bed;
Tristana sat on the floor
wide eyed,
opened mouthed.

Isolde had struck the nurse
with the flower vase,
smashed it,
flowers spread
across the floor.

The nurse's head bled.
Looked worse than it was.
She smiles.
They locked her up
for weeks for that,
saw none,
except the nurses
who fed
and bathed her
cruelly.

Worth it.
She moves on the bed,
the springs sing.

She gets up
and goes
to the window again.

Tristana is subdued now;
the mother is talking,
moving her hands in the air
as if learning to fly.

Her sister sits crossed legged,
hands on her knees.
Dumb expression.
The mother mouths words,
moves her head
to one side bird-like.

Isolde recalls
the first kiss
on Tristana's lips.
In the toilets
off the ward,
evening time,
overhead lights
flickering.

Lips meeting,
soft, wet,
eyes closed.

They slept in
Tristana's bed
in dead of night,
close for warmth,
hands holding,
bodies touching.

The mother looks up
at the window,
her eyes empty,
hollow dark holes.
She gestures to Isolde
to come down,
her thin hand
moving icily.

Isolde walks
from the window.
On the glass,
where she had breathed
breath to smear,
she had finger written,
Isolde's mind and soul
once died here.

Yiska waits by the fence. The school's on the other side. Yiska waits for Benny; he is at lunch, she waits impatiently. The playing field is crowded with other kids; some girls sit in groups talking and laughing. Yiska sees boys coming out, Benny not amongst them. She waits arms folded,a face on her. Alma said she'd told her brother about her. Alma was her best friend. That's the boy, Yiska had told Alma. He's my brother, Alma said. Good, you can tell him, I fancy him, Yiska said. Alma had said she told him. Yiska waits; walks along the fence; sees other boys. No Benny. She has visions of things going places. Not that she'd tell Alma that. Some things are best not told. She looks towards the playing field; girls and boys in groups or couples or alone. She looks back towards school. He's there, Benny, walking by the fence, hands in pockets, school tie hanging loose, shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Alma said you wanted to see me, Benny says, looking at Yiska, his eyes hazel, his look, steady. Yes, I did, Yiska says, feeling her nerves beginning to unravel. Rick said you wanted to see me, too,  Benny says. My brother? Yiska says. Yes, the very one, Benny says. They stand by the fence, face to face. Only he said, you fancied the socks off me, Benny says, smiling. I never said. She looks past him. Yiska feels undone. Anyway I'm here, Benny says. Only said I liked you, she says, looking at him now, seeing his hair, the quiff, the smile. He looks her over quickly: eyes, hair, lips, hips, thighs shape of. Shall we go for a walk? Yiska asks. Sure, he says. Where? She asks. Benny shrugs. On the field? She nods. They walk off together, apart. His hands are still in his trouser pockets. She walks hands in front, fingers joined, prayer mode .Cat got your tongue? He says. No, no, just thinking, she says. Of what? Me? My socks? She smiles. She looks at him sideways on. What do you fancy? He asks. Who said I fancied anything? Yiska says, blushing slightly. Rick did, Alma hinted, Benny says, My socks, apparently, he adds. She looks at the playing field. Folds her arms. Stops and looks at him. I never said fancied. So what then? He says. She looks at her shoes: black, dull, unpolished. Maybe, a bit, I do, she says, looking at his shoes: black, scuffed. He takes his hands out of his pockets. Touches her arm, feels along until he reaches a hand. Nice hand, he says. She lets him hold it, feels his hand touching hers. Warm, soft. Taking her hand, they walk on. How much? Benny asks. How much what? Yiska says. Do you fancy me? He says, his thumb rubbing the back of her hand. Fancy's an odd word, she says, interested, more, she adds. O, I see, not fancy me at all, he says. She looks uncertain, the blush spreading. If I were in your bedroom would you fancy me there? He asks. What a question, she says, feeling her pulse increasing, imagining him there, in her room, her bed made-unusual for her- but made up tidy. I'd fancy you anywhere, Benny says, in a nice way of course, not necessarily in your bedroom. She looks at the high fence, the road beyond, traffic passing. He looks at her hair, the way her ears are just visible if she moves her head a small bit; lobes, suckable. Alma didn't say you fancied me, Benny says, but Rick did. *******, Yiska says, just like him. She looks at the wooded area to the left of the playing field. Went there once to fetch a rounders ball that got hit there in P.E, she muses. Could go in there, she says, pointing. Best not, he says, people may get wrong ideas. Think things. He sits on the grass, pulls her down, next to him. Safer here, he says, holding her hand, still. She sits next to him, crosses her legs, pulls her school skirt over her knees. She senses his hand there. Warm, wet, heated. How old are you? He asks. Same age as Alma. Thought so, he says. How old are you? She asks. Fourteen, he says, leave school at Christmas, be fifteen, then. She looks at his hand in hers. Wish I could leave school then, too, she says. I can't wait, he says. No more brain-washing. She looks at his eyes. Hazel, bright. I will dream of him tonight, she thinks, I'll dream of him next to me. His hand in mine. Mine hand in his. Will we kiss? She imagines so. Must not make too much noise though. Mother hears things too well, she thinks, looking at his chin, the jawline. What will you do? She says. When? He asks, looking at her school tie, tied in an untidy knot, her small ******* bulbs. When you leave school? She says. Don't know, want to be a mechanic, maybe car mechanic, he says, wondering what she would be like if she was beside him on her bed or his bed for that matter, but then she'd had have his younger brother there, too. Then you won't be here, she says. No, thank God, he says. I'll miss you being here, she says. Can always visit you weekends if I get a bus, he says, wondering if her bed wouldn't be better as she slept alone. She strokes his hand in her as if it were a cat. He looked past her at the other kids on the grass. Reynard was playing football as was Trevor. That'd be good, she says, I could meet you off the bus, if you came. If you like, he says, watching Trevor almost score a goal. She looks at his hazel eyes, the smile, Elvis like, the quiff of brown hair, his hands, she muses, stroking with her other hand. I don't want to appear forward, she says, but could we kiss? He looks back at her. Kiss? He says, looking at her lips and cheek and forehead. Where? He asks. Here, she says. Where, here? He says, homing in on her lips with his eyes. Not here on the field here, she says, blushing, looking around in case others are watching. Where, then? He asks, looking at her eyes, seeing himself there, small and untidy. Maybe, at school, in a corridor that's empty or in a doorway, she says. Why not here? He asks, no one will care a jot if we do. She bite her lip, releases his hand, looks past him, behind him. What will they say? She asks. Who? He says. Others around, she says, returning her gaze on him. Who gives a monkey, he says. I do, she replies, reddening in the face. He gets up to leave. Look, I am missing a game of football sat here, another time maybe, he says. No, no, don't go, she says, clutching at his hand, being pulled up as she does so. She stands beside him, still holding his hand. I can watch, too, she says. He looks at her, feels her hand in his. OK, he says, if you want. I do, she lies, walking with him towards the boys kicking a ball around. She senses the grass was  a bit wet because she is. She feels it. They stand and watch the boys in their game. She feels uncomfortable. Feels slightly undone, but they watch the game, she unkissed, but watching the boys having fun.

I know your final days,
my son, by mental rote,
from Thursday to Monday,
from being unwell
to the last seconds dying,
like a child learning
a new nursery rhyme
note by note,
until it's unforgettable,
stuck in each particle
of cells and brain,
bringing thoughts
of disbelief
and punch hard pain.

Sleep seems
the only comfort,
that lying down,
snug between
cloth and warmth,
mind drugged to
a doped up
momentary
forgetting or easing,
but still it's there
when we awake,
the sense of loss,
that utter disbelief,
that deep down
cannot be hidden grief.

I wish I were
more Stoic like you,
my son, my deep philosopher,
my silent one;
wish I had some
philosophic remedy
to cure the ache,
to soothe the mind,
some crutch or stick
to tap around like
one who's blind,
but I have none,
none that will ease
or remedy the ill
of your departure,
none to fill
the huge chasm
between you there
in Death's hold
and God's grace
and me left here
sensing loss
and the cold breeze
of death's breath
in my ageing face.

I had one
of those
uninvited
phone calls
the other day:

Hello, Benny?

Yes, speaking.

I see
that the insurance
on your washing machine
is is about
to run out,
would you
be interested
in taking out
a 5 year
insurance plan
with us?

I only rent
the machine,
it's not mine.

Oh, I see,
do they have
the machine
under warranty?

I don't know
and I don't care,
I said,
it's their
machine
not mine.

OK
the guy said,
have a nice day.

What was that
all about?

where the heck
do they get
that information
from?

then get it
wrong?

I must read
1984 again.

Sonya was in a mood
because it was raining
and we were in Paris

the hotel room
looked out
on the Parisian streets
wet and shiny
people passing by

she at the window moody
I on the bed
reading Dostoevsky

we should be out there
she said

well go out there
I said

it's wet
my hair will look terrible
why does it rain
while we're here
on holiday?

maybe the rain didn't know
we were on holiday

funny
she said sulkily

I glanced over at her
standing there
by the open window
arms folded
her red shorts
and pink top
long legs

we can go out
once it stops

I want to go out now
she turned
and stared at me
how can you read a book
at a time like this?
and a Russian book too

it's about a guy
who murders
a couple of women
I said

and I’m supposed to care?
she looked at the streets again
hissing at the rain

the book takes you
right there
makes you feel
like you witnessed
the murders
like some snoop

**** the rain
she said

when I read
Solzhenitsyn's book
about a day
in a labour camp
in Russian's cold
and snow and such
I felt I was actually there
I said

she leaned out the window
and put one
of her hands out
think it's stopping

I felt I knew
the main character
in the novel
like an old friend

I want to go out now
she said

I closed the book
and sat
on the side of the bed

she came away
from the window
arms still folded
eyes blue and stern
and hair fixed
into a blonde
pony tail

we had good ***
the night before
but that's
another tale.

You practiced
judo moves with Jim
on the grass
outside the farmhouse

where he lived
and his younger sister
stood on the periphery
watching the moves and falls

and she watched you
with her usual concentration
her eyes glued on you
her hands clapping

when you had Jim down
or made the right moves
and her mother
poked her head

out of the door
of the farmhouse
and said
Monica leave the boys alone

they don’t want you
pestering them
I’m just watching
Monica called back

not doing any harm
do as you’re told
her mother said firmly
and Monica slouched back

towards the farmhouse
cussing under her breath
kicking at the grass
as she went

I was only watching
she said to her mother’s
disappearing back
then she paused

and looked back
at you and said
you don’t mind do you?
no not at all

you said
but Jim said
pushing damp hair
from his sweaty face

go Monica
do as you’re told
and she smiled at you
but gave Jim

a look
in passing
of sternness
and icy cold.

She had fooled them all again;
Hoodwinked them into thinking
She'd be safe outside the locked

Ward; and taking Bronston's cut
Throat razor (he thought he hid
It well) she slit her wrists till

Fountains poured red across her
Clothes and all around; and there
Was that buzzing sound; that voice

Screaming loud inside her head:
I'm free again, free from pain,
Echoing through her freaked out

Brain, slithering along her
Jagged veins, her eyes gazing
At the coming storm of white

And blues; the nurses cursing;
The docs crestfallen over
Their soiled angel, splattering

The room with her crimson rush,
Without care or word or God
****** curse or a shameful blush.

It took you some time to get
Where you are; no overnight
Fall or idle thought to drop out
Or taste how the other half lived,
Although now you know,
But a collection of erroneous
Decisions or the wrong people
At a bad time, or maybe that child
You lost and husband quitting,
Was all too much for you
To soldier on in the complex
World of the here and now.

Shelter is shelter, you mumble,
Sipping the warm soup, the memory
Of the last good supper long forgotten
Or put aside in that room marked
Verboten, and the trainers, yes,
The trainers fit the feet well,
Best for ages, you smilingly mutter,
The rest are rags, but they keep me
Warm at the best of times, which
Are few, you add, sensing the chill
Of the wall against your back;
Maybe Buddha would not pass by
Unnoticing, maybe he will give
Smile or coin or kind words
Like oil for rusting joints.

You sit and stare and muse
And feel the wind whisper,
Sense the passers-by look down
At you, feel their eyes, their
Muttered utterances, their shakes
Of head, their tut-tutting, and just
Remembering now your mother’s
Soft hand brushing your childhood
Head, soothing the poverty from brow
And cheek, maybe that’s what you want
On this street, maybe it’s her that you seek.

The squat,
Yorkshire monk,
pulls on the rope
and tolls

the Angelus bell;
his smooth hands
allow
the rough rope

to rub against
his skin,
rough on smooth.
I flushed the latrines

of the abbey,
having cleaned
with a stiff brush;
I recall her

mouthing my fellow;
her dark eyes
closing
as a dying moon.

The old French monk
scythes the tall grass,
his cutting swoop wide,
a studied look,

a prayer moaned
inside.

The mourners come,
Each one set out
Along the way
From chapel door

To where the small
White coffin lies
And preacher stands.
One small red rose

Upon the lid,
To tell of love
And show the grief
Of baby dead

Which lies beneath
The coffin’s wood
Which was a tree
And proudly stood

But now it holds
Like vessel womb
A baby child
Within its tomb.

The peasant monk
walks slow
through the cloister

carrying a bucket
gripped in his
peasant hand

- red knuckles,
head bowed-
I **** the beds

around the cloister garth
-she had me
between her thighs

and the excitement
within her eyes-
Dom Leo

tall and slim
waits outside
the refectory door

to say farewell
before he leaves
for Rome

the following day
-She ****** me dry
in her bed
gazing eye to eye.

Bernice sits in the seat of the bus
and moves to its motion.
She smiles at the thought
of Ariadne dressing that morning;

the slow removal of the nightgown,
the hands holding and lifting
over her head; the brief nakedness;
the pulling over her head

of the I LOVE *** tee shirt;
the slipping on of blue jeans.
Once dressed she leaned over
and kissed Bernice’s head.

Come on you lazy *****,
get yourself out of that
love nest, she had said.
Someone sits next to her

on the bus; disturbing her
thoughts; breaking up images.
She looks at the person
beside her: a man of forty

something. She looks away.
Ariadne is constantly in her
thoughts. She knows her well.
She can sense her presence

even without seeing her.
She knows each part of her body
as she dies her own; has lain
in the arms and felt the small

bosoms press against her.
Her one fear was the loss of her;
the taking away of her being;
the coming of age and death;

the coming of illness and departure.
Live for the day, Ariadne said,
tomorrow’s fiction. Bernice closes
her eyes; brings to mind Ariadne’s face;

the look of her; the eyes;
the way the lips moves;
the sway of her hips when
she moves from here to there;

the feel of her finger along
her skin; that closeness, that
love, what others call sin.

Benedict met Mrs Cleves
in one of those
out of town bars
and they had a few drinks

and she told him
about her ex and
what a ******* he was
and how he used

to mess around
with those air hostesses
(he being a steward on a plane)
and he'd even boast

how many of them
he had had that week
and Benedict listened
and drank his drink

knowing that after this
they would go back
to her place
and drink more

put on some Delius
on her hifi
and have ***
on the sofa

or maybe make it
to her bedroom
if time and passion allowed
but she talked on

about her ex
and how she met him
after she came
out of the convent

(Benedict couldn’t picture
that scenario)
all innocent and pure
and thought love

had been found
Benedict sipped
the last of his drink
noticing how her hair

was like that French queen
he’d read about
who’d had lost her head
on the guillotine

and still she yakked on
about the ex
how he liked
fast cars and women

and drank too much
and disliked
her Scottishness
or her whiney voice

Benedict wondered
what she was like
back then
before the pounds

had landed on her
before age
had begun to settled
into features

and remembered
that time they had ***
on the sofa
and they’d fallen off

( too much *****
or what he couldn’t now say)
and the downstairs neighbour
had banged up

from the room below
and she said
shut the **** up
you old hag

and all said
in her Glaswegian tones
and they lay there
on the floor

she **** naked
and he semi clothed
with Mahler’s 5th bellowing
in the background

and as he came back
from his thoughts
she was still talking
of the ex

and he wished
she'd finish up
her drink
to get back

to her place
for more ***** and ***.

On that rattling train
and rocky bus
you went
with your mother

to the sanatorium
where your father
was shafted
with cancer

the bus
made you travel sick
the long drive upward
was lined with trees

and tall grass
the building
a one storey affair
rigid and unfriendly

stood silently there
you walked down
long white corridors
the smell added

to your sickness
the passing of rooms
and windows
and silence

mother said nothing
carry hope
in her handbag
and you waited

for the first sight
of your father
since he’d left home
a short while before

and there he was
in pyjamas
and maroon dressing gown
and slippers

pale faced
an old man
imitating
your father

death winged
and narrow shouldered
he stood
attempting a smile

the cancer his companion
creeping beside him  
there was greeting
and exchange

of kiss and hug
and you taking in
the wasting away
the lines on features

the grey hair
turning white
the hanging on clothes
he took you

to a room
where you all
sat alone
given up smoking

he said
too late I know
but it gives me
the final word

mother sat
and talked of him
and home
and the other kids

and the pet dogs
missing him
and you sat silent
seeking the right words

the thoughts muddled
the sight of him
a shock
how are you?

he asked
he’s travel sick
mother said
o that’s bad

he said gently
as though it mattered
in the range of things
the smell of death

and decay
the last goodbye
seeing him no more
beyond that day.

The music from the base camp
a few miles from Tangiers
could still be heard
from the beach

where you
and Mamie
lay looking out
at he sea and moon

she spoke
of romantic things
her parents
her job

her hopes
you listened
looked at her there
her eyes capturing

moonlight
her hair
her lips moving words
her hands

about your waist
yours on her back
and thigh
some one laughed

from the base camp
more cheering
clapping
music coming

and going in waves
caught by a slight wind  
Mamie became silent
and kissed you

her lips on yours
pressing on
her tongue entering
her hands over you

she closed her eyes
sea sound
wind touching skin
voices from the base camp

a guitar sound
voices singing
she *******
(what was left

to undress)
you moving in
smell of sea
and scent

taste on lips
and tongue
gin and shish kebabs
darkness closing in

moonlight and stars
and her kisses
moving to your neck
and cheek

and you sensing
her warmth
her nearness
skin on skin

tough grass
by beach sands
voice calling
laughter

Mamie wordless
just sounds
and breath
and you feeling

her flesh
the fingers moving
sea waves
coming in

shush of the sea
passions high
distant sounds
guitar and laughter

and singing
riding the waves
you and she
and the god almighty
rough moving sea.

You guessed Jeanette
liked that kind of music
viewing her from behind
(at the back of class

sitting next to Reynard)
her head would move
with the music
the Beethoven piece

had her in thrall
or so seemed
seeing her
narrow body frame

slowly move
from side to side
like some
skinny snake

(titless Reynard said
she was)
to some charmer's flute  
her head

often times
was recline
to some Chopin
Miss Graham placed

upon the record player
(how old she looked
even then)
and closed her eyes

if you saw her
undressed
Reynard said
(Jeanette

not the teacher)
be like some pencil
thin and shapeless
but there was more

to her to you
something deeper
a certain something
beyond the cloth

of cardigan and skirt
and white blouse
and ankle socks
something of soul

or maybe undefined
that aspect
hanging there
in your 14 year old mind

Reynard whispered
when's this crap
going to end
give me rock

and roll any time
but Jeanette
seemed content
to sit and listen

and move her head
and frame
or wave her thin finger
in the air

as if an invisible
orchestra was there
you viewed her
from the back of class

her dark hair
shoulder length
resting on her back
and narrow frame

the slightly pointed nose
and thin lips
when viewed from profile
when she turned

but secret
like some slow fire
a deeper passion
within you burned.

Being in love
was like being ill
and that day
after Judy’d left

to go to Florence
for a week
you went to the big city
to take your mind off her

but she lingered there
wherever you went
every brunette
with long hair

was her
and when you sat
in the Royal Opera House
to watch a ballet

she was there
down in the front
at least it seemed so
until the girl looked around

and had a different
face and eyes
and sitting
in that coffee house

by Piccadilly Circus
you sensed her absence
and drank coffee
after coffee

the blues eating
at you
wanting her there
beside you

imagining maybe
she’d not gone off
after all and that
at any minute

she’d seek you out
by some kind of
lover’s radar
but she never showed

and no other girl passing
was her
and you thought
of the time

a few weeks back
when after she’d
gone off home
from work

you had taken
a single hair
from her white
work coat

and twisted it
between fingers
and kept it
between pages

of Solzhenitsyn’s
Gulag Archipelago
seeing it
and moving it

each time
you read more
of the labour camps
and death and snow

and tundra
and she off in Florence
with friends
and you left behind

depressed
and love blind.

I am a practitioner of art,
said Alice, oil and canvas
are my daily bread, charcoal
blackens my fingers, darkens

my soul, my dreams are of
*** and men lost, I bed sad
men in my thoughts. My art
keeps me from asylums, takes

me from the doctor’s couch
to the lonely studio, the air
full of fumes and stale food
and my unwashed body.

My mother was a slave to
the kitchen sink, her life spent
in domestic chores, in my father’s
bed, in the worrying times she

popped the pills, drank the
bottles dry. I am the spyer of
secret lovers, my sister’s men
in her double bed, the laughter

and tears in equal measure,  
the flowers and bruises all fondly
kept, the split lips and black eyes,
she wore with pleasure. I am

the painter of other’s souls, images
oiled in with the darkest colours,
their features blended with the
darkness of their lives. My brother

sat with his demons, supped with
them in his lonely hours, injected
the nightmare makers with the
addict’s skill, he slept uneasy in

another’s bed, chased by his
demons and women until he died,
a bullet in his head. I listen to Parsifal
on the old Hifi the Wagnerian opera

is my secret drug, my opener of days,
my closer at nights, the background
to my daily arguments and fights.
My father was my only healer, his

loving touches healed my hurts,
stitched my cuts and wounds, he
watered down my temper’s scorns;
he alone shared my soul’s foul deeds,

knew my heartaches, my scars of ***
and doctored my soul’s lack. He was
cornered by the cancer’s hold, its
icy fingers in his bones and skin, its

deadly smell in his breath and flesh
and his parting words were lost in
the final rattle. I am the artist of life’s
dark wars and ancient wounding battle.

Elisheva pinned back
her hair, her thick lens
glasses enlarged her eyes,
she eyed her lips
fresh red lips ticked.

She pressed
her lips together
as she’d seen
her mother do
to spread the red.

She put away
her makeup case,
clipped up her bag.

Tuviya took in
her plump frame,
his eyes wandered over
the tight jeans and top.

She had ordered
latte and cake.
The counter girl,
thin and pale,
took money
and tilled away.  

He followed her
as she walked
to a table
in the corner
where another sat,
a female of older years,
plump but not fat.  

Elisheva mouthed words,
gestured with hands.

Tuviya studied her
with an artist’s eye,
took in fingers, nails,
gestures and moving lips.

Imagined her
in his studio,
the sharp light,
the battered sofa
holding her frame,
her hands in lap,
her naked *******
like piglets
in deep sleep.

A girl served Elisheva
her drink and cake,
then walked away.

Tuviya drank
his Americano,
his eyes moving over
Elisheva’s moving hands
and lips, the taking
of the latte and cake,
red lips opening
and closing
like fish on land.

He painted her
on his mind’s canvas,
set her down
with inner eye,
shaded in
the dull beyond,
filled in
with inward paints
her outer being
as he saw.

He could have
snapped her
with his Smartphone
camera, captured
in the state of now,
but it may have
spoilt it all,
he thought,
somehow.

She licked her fingers,
removing crumbs
and cream of cake,
mouthing each one.

He smiled,
imagined another game,
which she’d not play,
he thought,
least not here
and now in this cafe.

She talked on,
her fingers clean,
the dampness shining
in the overhead lights.

Tuviya closed up
the studio in his mind,
put away
the inner paints,
the canvas set aside,
she on the inner artwork,
on battered sofa,
legs spread wide.

She knows one day
*** will be a memory,
A nightly séance with
Her dead self. Hardwick
Will still be just one of
Her many lovers, *******
His pants in some old folks
Home, dribbling over his
Shirt, forgetting her as he
Turns to go numbly to sleep.

She inhales her cigarette,
Watches the smoke rise,
Sees in the corner of her
Room, a spider hanging.

Hardwick is due at seven.

He will bring white wine,
Foreign food, the hot ****
Movie they both want to
See, then to bed, ***, sleep.

She exhales the smoke, holds
The cigarette to one side, her
Naked body sensing warm
The sheets. Suzie he’ll say,
Putting the wine and food in
The fridge, placing the movie
On, can we try that position on
Page 35? Last time it was page
32, the position not much fun,
Too much work, quite hard to do.

Mother’d turn in her grave to
See her thus. Naked at four in
The afternoon, smoking French
Cigarettes, thinking of hot ***,
Wanting old age to stay away.

She sits up, stubs out the cigarette.

Mother died of cancer, too soon,
Too much, no answer. Hardwick
Will bring and expect the same:
The wine, the food, the *** after
The movie, the sleep after in her
Double bed, and all the time that
Humming of her mother in her head.

Anne hand pushed
her wheelchair
along the avenue of trees

towards the back gate
that led to the beach
and she saw you

standing by the gate
peering over at the sea
Hey skinny kid

push me out
towards the beach
and you turned round

and got behind her
and pushed her
out of the gate

and onto the edge
where the beach began
and she sat there

staring out
at the incoming tide
and you stood behind her

your hands on the handles
I used to swim quite well once
she said suddenly

Until I lost
my ******* leg
and she swore on

the words frightening
nearby gulls
and you said

You’ll swim again one day
when you feel up to it
I’m sure people swim

with one leg
and she turned round
and stared at you

and said
Who made you
the expert?

You know jackshit
and she turned away
and spat on the sand

beside the wheelchair
and you looked at the way
her dark hair

was caught by the wind
off the beach
and her white blouse

flapped like a small sail
and you leaned over
her shoulder

and kissed her cheek
and she giggled
and said

Get off you sad sod
and push me closer
to the sea

and you heaved her
forward over the sand
the wheels slowly sinking

as you went
until you came to a stopped
a stones throw

from the incoming tide
and she held out
her hand like King Canute

and bellowed
Hold back
you ****** in sea

and you laughed
and after a few moments cursing
so did she.

Julie sat on one
of the fountain walls
in Trafalgar Square
and lit a cigarette

she looked about her
as if she were onto
something harder
as if she had some one

looking at her
from some secret place
you gazed at her
unused to seeing her

not in her hospital
dressing gown
and slippered feet
her hair had been brushed neat

and makeup applied
and she said
I was picked up here
some months back

by some guy
who wanted ***
he thought
I was a pro

and the things
he asked for
god that was the worse
and with that

she paused
and stared at the Square
at the people
and the pigeons

and she inhaled deep
and then exhaled
blowing the smoke
out of the corner

of her mouth
like you’d seen done
in the movies
what did you say

to the guy
who picked you up
and what did he want
you to do?

she looked at you
her eyes scanning
your features
and then leaning closer

she said
I told him I wasn’t
a ***** and to go off
some place else

you watched her fingers
holding the cigarette
the way she held it
between her fingers

as if it was some
precious item she’d found
what did he want you to do?
you asked

he wanted ***
in all my orifices
she whispered
before inhaling again

the cigarette was clamped
between her lips
and she rubbed
her fingers

on her jeans
she ******* up her eyes
against the smoke
my grandfather said

if it wasn’t for ******
more women
would be *****
and attacked

you said
that guy was a creep
he smelt of strong aftershave
and body odour

she said
what a combination
you said
she stumped

the cigarette ****
onto the wall
and flicked it
across the Square

let’s go and view the art
in the Gallery behind us
she said
and you followed her

to the Portrait Gallery
her buttocks swaying
like some ship at sea
the jeans tight

and clinging
and across the Square
church bells were pulled
and were ringing.

Mr Haymaker's room
was on the first floor
up on left side
where it was quiet

except for the occasional wander
by one of the old guys
on his way to the bog
Sonia lay there

on Mr Haymaker's bed
as if it were her own
her blue uniform
pulled up

her ***** hairs
blonde and cute
Benedict sat in the chair
opposite the bed

by the chest of drawers
putting on his shoes
you can't just lie there
like that

what if Mr Haymaker
comes up?
he won't
she said

he never comes up here
until bed time
he told me
he say

I don't return to my room
until bed
I like sitting
in the lounge downstairs

with the others
especially the ladies
she had a Polish accent
which made her talk

clipped and stiff
but others may come here
Benedict said
no one comes here

she said
I'm the domestic cleaner
on this wing
no one comes

he tied the left shoelace
and then sat there
gazing at her
you best get yourself dressed

he said
I am dressed
she said
well pull down

your clothes
and put your underwear
back on just in case
he said anxiously

she smiled  
in case of what?
she said
in case I tempt you again?

no in case Matron
comes up here
in one of her
on the spur

of the minute decisions
to wander around
he said
what will she say?

naughty boy and girl?
she laughed
then sat on the edge
of the single bed

and put on her underwear
and pulled down
her clothing
there

she said
is that better for you?
he nodded
and stood up

and went to the window
and looked out
the blue sky
and white clouds

seemed warming
the sun touched his face
we should have
drawn the curtains

she said  
someone might
have seen us
she said it mockingly

can't have that
can we
she added
he looked at the other

part of the building
no one can see
from over there
he said

shame
she said
it might have been
entertaining

best go
he said
they might be looking for me
to get baths done

for Mr Grigg or Mr Elcombe
he walked to the door
but she blocked his way
so suddenly you leave me

she looked into his eyes
was it not good?
yes unexpected
but good

he said
but I must go
she pushed her back
against the door

I feel used
she said in lost girl tones
her blue eyes searching him
it was risky

he said
what if we were seen?
she laughed
always worrying

what others think or say
she said
two of my uncles
and an aunt

died in Auschwitz
my parents got out
just in time
or I wouldn't be here now

and you wouldn't
have a had a good ****
she said
people's words

or what they think
is unimportant
in the long run of things
he looked at her

I must go
sorry about your uncles
and aunt
but if Matron

sees me here with you
she'll put one
and two together
and get three

she smiled
she can count well
she said
he sighed

look I must go
she kissed his cheek
ok if you must
but there is always

another day
she moved away
from the door
and he slipped out

into the corridor
she watched him go
until he was out of sight
then went back

into the room
and straightened
Mr Haymaker's bed up
and brushed off

the duvet
she looked at the ceiling
where a spider
was making a web

she'd been watching it
from the bed
while making love
it disinterested

carried on
just above her head.

Janice folds
her new dress
quite neatly
and lays it
in the drawer
and shuts it

school next week
she tells me
nice to have
new clothes then

guess it is
I reply
got new shirts
and a pair
of trousers
my mother
got for me
from The Cut

I could hear
Janice's
grandmother
working in
the kitchen
getting us
some dinner

I like that
lemon dress
that you wear
I tell her

why that one?

the colour
lights you up

Gran told me
it's too short
to wear now
Janice says

that's a shame
I liked it

I’ve got lime
with flowers
Gran got me

she shows me
the lime dress
which she holds
against her
what you think?

it's ok

just ok?

just ok
I liked your
lemon one

it's too short
Gran told me
what is wrong
with the lime?

the flowers
too *****

too *****?
I'm a girl
*****’s good
Janice  says

she adjusts
her beret
the red one
she puts down
the lime dress
brushes it
hangs it up

I look out
the window
at a train
passing by
on the bridge

dinner time
her gran calls

the train's gone
janice takes
the beret
off her head
her blonde hair
shoulder length
her blue eyes
watery

I like lime
she tells me

we go off
eat dinner
after grace
we eating
I watching
Janice's
sallow face.

Your mother
had brought Helen

home for tea after school
and she had held on

to the handle
of the pram

your mother pushed
and you walked

along side
thinking of whether

to show her
your toy soldiers

and cowboys and Indians
and the guns

that fired
loud banging caps

or whether to just sit
and watch the TV

and eat your tea
and show her nothing

but once you got home
and your mother went off

to the kitchen to prepare
the tea stuff and such

Helen looked at you
and shyly smiled

and said
Can I see your sister’s dolls

and pram
and does she have

a doll’s house
I could play with?

you dismissed the idea
of showing her

the guns that fired caps
or your toy soldier collection

and took her
into the room

where you kept the toys
and pointed to

your sister’s dolls
and the pram

and said
Take care

my sister doesn’t like
people messing

with her stuff
and Helen nodded

and picked up a doll
and held it to her chest

and rocked it
to and fro

and walked up and down
murmuring there there sounds

that echoed softly
around the room

Where’s your sister?
Helen asked

will she mind me
rocking the baby to sleep?

Guess not
you replied

and stood watching her
as she walked

and talked to the doll
in an undertone

and you stood there
hands in pockets

like a father
of an unexpected child

wondering what to say
or do and taking in

her thick lens glasses
and her eyes

seemingly enlarged
focusing on the doll

and the way her head
moved from side to side

so that her plaited hair
went from side to side

and up and down
and she said softly

and suddenly
We may have a baby like this

one day and you had better
say something more

than you are now
or I’ll think

you didn’t want it
and off she walked

up and down the room
and hoped your mother

would come soon
and save you from the fate

of being the father
of a doll with a dodgy eye

and a painted smile
but having a tender spot

for Helen
all the while.

She’s just a chick
Greenfield said
they don’t amount to much

as he saw you gazing
at the girl whose name
you thought was Jane

walking alone
down the school passage
in morning recess

you need to get your head
around something serious
like who’s going to win

the school football trophy
or take on Big Brophy
in the school boxing finals

but you saw her hips
move ever so slightly
and her grey school skirt

go sway like caught
by some unseen wind
and you imagined maybe

you could have walked
beside her
and taken her hand

and have said
hey Sweetie
how about a kiss?

but getting back
to reality
you knew you’d say

**** all and your tongue’d
get stuck to the roof
of your mouth

and you’d stutter
like some **** fool
hey Greenfield said

you coming
or are you going to watch
the chick’s sweet ***

going over the horizon?
and he laughed
and you both

walked on
to the woodwork room
where Chiselhead

would be waiting
and the smell
of wood and glue

and unwashed bodies
hung in the air
and you imagined

she was on her way
to the gym
for the workouts

and climbing frames
with other girls
in their gym wear

and you stuck
in the woodwork room
with glue and wood

and tools and boredom
not watching her
not being there.

Dottie has the made the
bed where Sammy slept,
bakes a cake, picks flowers
from the garden to put in
the small vase on the table.

Sammy has gone away
after his three day stay.

Willie’s asleep in bed,
his window open to catch
dawn birdsong, smell of
flowers, air’s heavy scent.

She pops a pill that Sammy
left; will help you sleep he
said, during their late evening
walk in the nearby woods,
as Willie recited his poetry.

She puts two teabags in
the ***, pours in water,
lets it stand, hot steam
coming out the spout.

They have the house
to themselves again,
no more having to keep
the sounds down, no
need to whisper anymore.

She pours the tea
into Willie’s cup,
adds milk, sugar and
stirs, pours tea for herself
with no milk, or sugar, sips
slow through pursed lips.

She climbs the stairs to
Willie’s room, teacup
and saucer on a small tray,
few biscuits and a pill.

She watches her brother
sleep, his head facing
the window, his arm
outside the duvet, his
hand open, a finger
pointing unwittingly
towards the pillow
where she had lain
the night before.

He breathes slowly out,
a gentle exhalation, no
snore, as she studies
him as he sleeps and
wonders what he thinks
or dreams; what poems
are born there, what
worldly wants or care.

She leaves the tea beside
the bed, she’ll not disturb
his dreams or thoughts;
she gives a final look and
goes downstairs; the pill it
seems has begun to work, she
has no worldly wants or cares.

Blessed art thou amongst women. Sister Teresa closed the book. Brushed hand across book cover dispersing dust and thoughts. And blessed is the fruit…She lowered her hands to her stomach and tapped three times. Empty tomb; empty womb. Looked across the room at the crucified hung on the white wall; hammered and nailed; battered and bruised by time. She brought her hands together. Let flesh touch flesh. Jude long gone, in flesh at least. Papa had gone the year before; no last farewell; no last goodbye. Sighed. Lifted her eyes to the off-whiteness of ceiling; lifted her heart and mind to a world beyond. Bell rang from bell tower. Voice of Christ, some said. Closed eyes. Held breath. Then released breath as if God had touched her afresh.  Men not to be trusted, Papa had said. Last will and testament; his last words, she mused. She rose from the table and book; stood gazing at the black book cover; stood in a silence like one struck dumb. Bell rang. Sighed. Moved across the room; opened the door; closed it  with softness of summer’s breeze. Mama wore black in perpetual mourning. Black on black; death on death. She moved along the cloister; touched the wall; felt the roughness of brick on brick. Jude’s image pale as ghost; off to her right she thought he lingered. All in the mind, Mother Abbess had said; smiled; patted her hand. Not to touch, not over much. She paused by church door and felt for the stoup; dipped finger in water; hoped for blessedness; made sign from breast to breast; scanned the choir stalls for Sister Clare; not there, she mused; disappointment stabbed her; drove her inwards; struggled with her night of soul. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb. Jude kissed her once or was it more? She mused, taking her place in choir; shifting her breviary; clutching it tight. Nun followed nun; each to their own place; each to their God prayed, she mused, opening the page, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; made the sign from shoulder to shoulder; nodded the beginning of prayer and chant. Not to be trusted, Papa had said. Not seen last nine months; sorely missed; huge chasm in her breast and heart. Turned the page. Lifted her voice. Eyes flowed across the black and white as if swimming through the sea of despondency. No Sister Clare. I do declare a pain is here; wish you were here; near me now, she said inwardly, following the words like lost sheep. Where are You now my God? Sighed. Held the breviary; felt the weight of it; like her sins it weighed her down. Sunlight shone through upper windows; touched the stone floor between choir stalls; made as if fire burned between them, she mused, letting eyes move from the page; allowing memories to stir like giants waking from slumber. Flesh on flesh; hand on hand to touch. Not over much, not over much. And where are You? she asked in her silence; settled her feet in stillness. Pray for us sinners. Now and at the hour. Where had time gone? Papa gone; Mama long since dust to dust; Jude blown to the four corners in battle; all so sorely missed. No Sister Clare. Chant ended. Silence. Mother Abbess made sign; blessed all gathered; gathering her black robes she moved slowly down the aisle with her bride groomed but invisible Christ and the sisters followed each too with their battered and bruised groom inwardly held; separately loved. Sister Teresa waited and watched. Knelt and sighed. Where was her groom?  Had He gone or died? Closed eyes. Sighed. Brought hands together; moved lips and mumbled prayer, which lingered just above her head; blessed the air. Now and at the hour.

Nima doesnt see why she held be in a psychiatric ward when shes not psychiatric in any form whatsoever shes a drug addict for ***** sake pure and simple and she ought to be elsewhere but not here with these other people who do have problems but even to say the word to her parents drug addict sends them to panic and a form of denial better to have mental issues and tucked in here rather than have her their daughter labelled as a drug addict once her father- a doctor- when she was young would smack her if she crossed any boundaries he made for her but when she had grown that didnt work any more especially after the last time when he tried it and she bit his thumb and he slapped her face and she kicked his shins sending hoping around the room like loony dancer since then he had given up on any form of outer control and her mother also a doctor never knew how to control her daughter once she was out of nappies they had her put here not quite sectioned but as near as they could and visited hardly ever although her mother did come a few times out of curiosity but stayed only to see how Nima was doing or not as the case was and left Nima sits in the lawn area beyond the French windows in one of the white metal chairs around a circular metal white table smoking staring at the buildings glass and bricks and concrete and at a man sitting on the grass staring at his hands she looks away just in case he looks at her last time she saw him outside he had his ***** in his hands but not this time just his hands this time she feels like fix but there is no way to have one and the difficulties she has had getting though her days without a fix is like being emptied out and squeezed and left to dry and she wants and wants and a nurse comes out dressed in blue her hair tied in a ponytail and walks towards her in swagger have you taken your pills? pills? your medication the nurse says no I dropped them down the loo Nima says youve got to take your medication why didnt you take your medication? the nurse says irritably I just need a fix Nima says not medication youre here to get you off those drugs and the medication is there to help the nurse says I dont want drugs to get me off drugs I want the fix I like Nima says those are illegal drugs its against the law the nurse states standing hands on hips staring at Nima there is moment of silence Nima looks back at the man staring at his hands holding his ***** I want whatever medication he's on Nima says pointing to the man on the grass  the nurse follows Nimas finger and says no no Eric not here and runs towards Eric waving her hands in the air Nima looks away and smiles and takes a hug intake of smoke from the cigarette and wishes Benedict would come he would break the monotony of her life bring her cigarettes and chocolates and maybe a kiss or so and she lies back in the chair and closes her eyes and dismisses the voice of the nurse and Eric cursing at her and being taken back indoors much against his will she tries to bring to mind the time Benedict came and she sneaked him along to the small broom cupboard along by the corridor-unused on Sundays- and there they had a ****** quickie amongst brooms and mops and buckets and just enough room to lay and **** and she in a nightie lifted up and ******* tossed aside on a broom handle and he there unsure but at her in the short space and time allowed she opens her eyes and stares at the trees planted here and there on the green lawn no one knew but she guessed the nurses suspected when the cleaner on the Monday found a pair of her ******* on a broom handle-she hadnt missed them until later and forgot where shed left them- now they watch her and the cupboard and Benedict when he comes especially the head nurse who Nima suspects is a *** starved woman and is jealous that a patient gets it when she cant she stubs the cigarette end out on the white table top and lets it fall on the grass she sits and stares clothed in the blue nightgown they have given her over her white nightdress-in case she should attempt to escape without permission- some nights she lies in her bed in the ward in the semi-dark and wants a fix and *** and as the fix is out of the question she thinks of Benedict and pretends hes there beside her in her bed- ignoring the snores and mutters of other girls and women- and attempts a rather poor organism imaging it is Benedict there and not her fingers bringing her to a climate of sorts the nurse is there again swaggering over the grass towards her you have to take your medication again doctors orders the nurse says are you sure you discarded them? what? my *******? Nima says smiling no your medication have you really discarded them? Nima shrugs and says cant remember may have done she says looking at the nurses face the nurse inhales breath and stands hands on hips if you were my daughter Id...Words were lost...the sun was hot over head...white clouds...Benedict where you? well make sure you take the next medication I shall watch you like a hawk the nurse says walking away Nima raises her middle digit in a gesture at the departing back the same digit that brought her to a higher plane maybe to night she muses itll do it again.

The monk raises
the host
during Mass,
high between fingers

and thumbs,
head and eyes
look up,
the Body of Christ,

he tones.
I watch
the old monk eat;
his jaw moving

in a semi circle
as he ate,
his eyes down
on his plate,

an old French
soup spoon
half way
from bowl to lips.

I remember her hands
sorting through
my garments
for the fellow,

her eyes intent,
her fingers nimble
as an artisan's.
A French peasant monk

peels potatoes
in the kitchen
with the seriousness
of Van Gogh

in a darker mood,
thinking of deeper things
than wine or food.

I can't now
recall your
first spoken

words to me
probably
mummy or

mum or words
similar
but I can

remember
your last words
that you spoke

back to me
-that Sunday
as I left

that useless
hospital-
you said so

softly -your
breathing bad-
all right or

maybe or
was Ok
after I

said I'd see
you on the
next morning

I didn't
know those would
be your last

spoken words
on parting
2 hours

after that
your heart stopped
the first time

and even
though they got
it going

on the beat
for a while
you never

spoke your words
anymore
just silence

memories
flying round
like dark birds.

Having completed various jobs
indoors and out
such as running errands

and shopping etc
your mother gave you 2 shillings
and you went through the Square

to a shop on New Kent Road
where you bought
a small penknife

you’d seen in the window
and you showed Jimmy
whose knife collection

was large
including a bayonet
his father brought back

from WW2
but he was unimpressed
showing you in turn

a **** knife his father
took from a dead soldier
from some battle

he’d fought in  
you never showed
your mother

but Helen saw it
on the way to school
next morning

and peered at it
through her thick lens spectacles
does your mother know

you bought that?
she asked
no not yet

you replied
pocketing it out of sight
maybe another day

don’t you tell
your mother everything?
she asked

no not everything
you said
I have a need to know

basis I work with
what about truth?
she asked

you gazed at her
in her dark blue raincoat
buttoned to the throat

her wavy hair
in two plaits
her eyes peering at you

through those thick lens of hers
truth is like bubble gum
you said

sometimes
you have to stretch it a bit
to get a bigger bubble

she shook her head
making her plaits move
each side of her head

I don’t want the future father
of my children to be a liar
she said

maybe he won’t
you said
you are

she replied
you looked at
the record shop window

as you went by
a picture of Elvis Presley
was in the window

smiling
don’t you like the knife?
you asked

looking back at her
as you spoke
only if you tell your mother

she said
ok I’ll show her
and tell her

after school
you said
she smiled

and her big eyes
lit up
and she pushed her arm

under yours
and squeezed you near
and all because

of the small penknife
you’d bought from the shop
through the Square

but you did love
her big bright eyes
and wavy plaited hair.

During the half term break
from school
Janice said
come see my new canary

Gran bought it for me
and so you went with her
through the Square
and across Bath Terrace

and into the block of flats
where she lived
with her gran and bird
and she was excited

and talked and talked
of the new canary
what do you call him?
you asked

Yellow
she said
because its yellow
and the name fits

and when you got
to her flat
her gran opened the door
and Janice said

I've brought Benedict
to see the new bird
her gran said
ok

and let you in
and Janice took you
into the sitting room
and there in a bird cage

was the new bird
sitting there
on a perch
making whistling noises

some say they talk
if you teach them
Janice said
and I'm going to teach it

to say things
and won't that be good?
providing you don't
teach it silly things

her gran said
my cousin had one
and he taught it
all kinds of bad words

which made
his mother mad
what kind of words?
Janice asked

never you mind
what words
her gran said
if I catch you teaching

this bird bad words
I'll tan your backside
I won't Gran
Janice said

just teach it
sensible words
well mind you do
her gran said

now how about
some lemonade and cake?
yes please
you both said

and her gran went off
to get the lemonade
and cake
and Janice put

her finger
through the bars
of the cage
and talked to the bird

but the bird
shuffled away from her
on the perch
and was quiet

still she talked to it
and but her finger in
as far as she could
but it just walked as

far from her
as it could go
staring at her
with it stark eyes

not very friendly is it?
you said
maybe it doesn't like
your red beret

maybe red frightens it?
so she took off
her red beret
and the bird came closer

and began chirping away
and it kind of pecked
at her finger
not roughly

but inquisitively
as if to find out
what it was
then it shuffled off again

and then went
and pecked at some
food from a feeder
at the side

of the cage
maybe I could get it out
sometime
and let it sit

on my finger
like I've seen done
on TV
Janice said

what if it flies away?
you asked
I'll keep the door
and windows closed

she said
and she opened
the cage door
and put her hand in

to get the bird
but the bird
moved away from her
and flapped its wings

what are you doing?
her gran said
entering the room
Janice took her hand out

of the cage
and shut the door
just wanted to let it
sit on my finger

Janice said
her gran put the tray
with lemonade
and pieces of cake

on the table
and came over
to the bird cage
you might have frightened it

then it might die
she peered in
at the canary
which was perched there

staring back at her
now don't you
do that again
do you hear?

yes Gran
Janice said sheepishly
her eyes lowered
nice bird

you said
maybe it's shy
at the moment
I guess after

a little while
it'll get friendly
do you think so?
Janice said

sure it will
you replied
her gran smiled
and walked off

back to the kitchen again
and you and Janice
ate the cake
and drank the lemonade

and you both watched
the canary as it chirped
and walked
along the perch

and there
on the side chair
was Janice's red beret
and she asked

what words
do I teach?
but you said
I couldn't say.

His wife said, you’re too
Nice to people, too

**** nice, you ought to
Be like Rocky; he

Don’t take no **** from
People, he tells them

Where to get off and
Is down their throats far

Quicker than they can
Say, boo boo, but you,

You’re just too nice, you
Even open doors

For dames and give them
The big friendly smile,

And give them the bright
Eyed sparkle. He let

His wife’s words float on
By like butterflies,

Focussed on the art,
His word management,

Giving form to his
Notions, painting out

Scenes, putting plots to
New ideas, and for

Another thing, his
Wife added, what’s with

The dame in the ****
Photos everywhere?

Who’s she? In the frame
By the bed, on your

Cell phone, tucked away
In your pocket book?

Are you some kind of
Religious fruit? He

Looked at his wife (she
Was a looker, had

A nice face and cute
***) and watched her mouth

Move, saw her tongue, like
Some small snake go in

And out and how fine
Her eyes were in the

Morning sun, how they
Shone some, and he said,

You know, your mouth moves
Quite prettily, your

Lips, they’re like parting
Thighs and how I just

Love the way your head
Tilts slightly to one

Side just like some odd
Inquisitive bird,

And by the way, the
Dame in the photos

Is St Therese, and
She’s just there to bring

Me comfort and to
Remind me how pure

And heaven sent a
Woman can be and

That there is more to
Women than meets the

Eye, but his wife stood
And shook her head, and

Not another word
By his wife was said.

Bob West said
why are you always

looking towards
the girl’s playground?

Looking for someone
you replied

who? Bob asked  
A girl who gets

on my school bus
Bob pulled a face

and combed
his black oily hair

is she good looking?
Like an angel

you said
and peered

at the playground
across the way

where girls were
skipping or walking

in pairs
See her yet?

Bob asked
no not yet

you muttered
wishing you had

hoping she'd come
into view

don’t see any point in girls
Bob said

putting his comb away
in a top pocket

wiping his hands
on his grey trousers

my dad said
they’re only after two things

money and babies
steer away from them Bob

he said
you watched

as girls moved
about the playground

each dressed in grey skirts
and green tops

haven’t you ever
been moved by a girl?

You asked
moved? Bob said

moved?
Ain’t no girl

going to move me
he muttered

spit hanging
on his lower lip

like a suicidal
waiting to jump

what’s this angel girl got
that’s so special?

He said taking out
a handkerchief

and wiping his brow
I don’t know

you replied
and as you said it

you saw her
come in to view

outshining the sun
more beautiful

than summer
and staring at you.

Magdalene looks from the window
into the dark. Things have been
promised, secrets kept, lies maintained.
Hands washed, dried, open curtains,

hold the cloth, the patterned flowers.
She sees no stars or moon, no galaxies
beyond, just the deep dark. If she steps
back she can see her reflection, the pink

dress, the pale face, black fringe of hair,
blackberry eyes. She can mouth words,
utter silent swear words, lips motion
them, but none hear. All is forbidden,

or so it seems, the parents marking the
boundaries, punishing trespassing, both
in unison, he scornful and hard of hand,
the mother sharp of tongue can cut her

through, telling her where she can go
and what to do. Magdalene can drink in
the deep dark; can swallow mouthfuls
of emptiness like a greedy child, silent,

staring, becoming slowly rebellious,
becoming wild. She can pull odd faces in
the dark reflecting glass, poke out a tongue,
say silently all the words that they forbid,

outlaw that she is in her pink dress and white
pull up socks. He has his ways, his finger
against his lips, swearing her to secrecy,
things done, not told about or spoke of,

kept between the four walls of her room
and confines of her bed. The deep dark
stares back, the starless skies, lost moon.
They’ll come back soon, the mother to their

bedroom, giggling and laughter, he calling
for Magdalene, his voice shallow, his growing
along the walls, shadow. She sighs, waits, wonders
if, beyond the deep dark, some other life exists

for her, some other plan in later years will come
to pass, when he doesn’t enter her or beat her ***.

Benny's the new boy
in class
he sits at the back

with some kid
called Rennie
while the teacher

Miss G
yaks on
about Schubert

or some feller
putting on
some LP

as they sit
and put on
interested faces

the girl who
smiled at him
on the school bus

is there
looking over at him
beaming like

a new sun
her eyes bright
as fresh stars

he looks
at her briefly
then looks away

storing her eyes
for some
other day.

Outside Oslo
in the base camp
after showering
you met Moira

in the cafe
for breakfast
and coffee
she was in a mood

about the Yank girl
and having to share
a tent with her
(when she wasn’t off

someplace being *******
Moira said)
and always chewing gum
and those *******

she wears
I’ve seen more cloth
on a finger cut
she said

I’ll take your word for it
you said
she pouted
and stared at you

the finger cut I meant
you said
by the way
are you into

Oslo today?
you asked
mind if I hang along?
sure as long as you don’t

talk about the Yank
or football or Mahler
or whoever else
is hid up

in that brain of yours
she sipped her coffee
and ate her breakfast
saying nothing more

and you watched
as she ate
her eyes dark
and deep

her hair frizzed up
after the shower
her tee shirt
holding tight

her ****
and her blue jeans
hugging her thighs
as you’d like to do

later in Oslo
you toured about
the streets
saw the sights

had a beer or two
while you sat
with her
in some bar

she talking of Glasgow
and her job
and her brother
and his girlfriend

and how
she had this awful
wiggly ****
and floppy *******

and large eyes
like cow pats
soft and brown
and she laughed  

and you liked it
when she laughed
it made her seem better
more human

less grumpy
less critical
and had you been
more brave you might

have kissed her
there and then
but you didn’t
you just ordered

another beer
and talked of Nietzsche
and Mahler
just to watch

her lips move
and incidentally
bore her.

Lydia and I
ride a train
from the Elephant & Castle
to Victoria train station

we love the smell
of the steam train
that takes us there
the white and grey smoke

passes by
the train window
what did your mum say
when you asked

about going to Victoria
with me?
I ask
Lydia says

she looked at me
as if I’d farted
then said
asked your father

so I did and he said
-being sober and in
a good mood-
don't you two go

and elope away
together at least not
until you're 16 years old
and he laughed

and Mum just raised
her eyebrows
and tut-tutted
and Dad said

mind how you go
with that Benny boy
she smiles
and I take in

her straight cut hair
and the dull green dress
and grey cardigan
that's good

I say
I like it
when she's happy
and we get out

at Victoria and walk
along to the nearest seat
and sit down
to watch the steam trains

coming and going
maybe I’ll be
a train driver
when I’m older

I say
to be able to breathe
in the smell
of steam trains

and the sound of trains
and see them
Lydia says
black ones

and blue ones
and green ones
maybe I can be
a train driver too

she adds
do you think so?
yes that'd be good
I say

we can go off
to Scotland
and see the big castle
and see men

in kilts  
she says
we watch
as the steam train

takes off
the power of the train
the puff and shush
and shush

and she takes
my hand
and it's warm
on this little date

us two kids
of 8.

It was she, Buruch
remembered, it was

Shlomit, who during
a nature study class


at school, had raised
a hand to be excused

to go to the loo (other
kids would have said

the lavatory or toilet
depending on their

breeding or class),
but the teacher, Miss

Ashdown, said, no
you should have gone

before. A few minutes
later, Buruch recalled,

she peed on her chair
and floor and a boy

nearby the scene said,
Shlomit's **** herself

Miss. There was a sea
of sounds around and

the teacher frowned
and with beady stare

told her to get out of
there, and told another

girl to go with her to
the nurse to wash and

change (nothing worse)
and sobbing left the room.

Yes, it had been she,
Buruch remembered,

and she hadn't returned
anymore that afternoon.

Gone home, he now
suspected, in borrowed

underwear, her others
washed through by nurse

who said, that will have
to do; and home to her

parents, mother's chide
and father's hand or belt

(who firmly with either dealt).
But to day, after lunch

in the upstairs hall, he'd
gone with her to Bedlam

Park, and showed her
his killer brown conker

on threaded string, a
three penny piece his

grandfather gave, and
she showed him the new

handkerchief her mother
bought her, flowered

with red border. And
she'd kissed him shyly

on the cheek and he
smiled and looked to

the ground, hoping none
of the boys were around.

Yes, it had been Shlomit
who had wet herself

and chair and floor and
been sent away, but she

was dry now and had
kissed his cheek today.

Your mother's washed
your red patterned
woollen jumper,
the Christmas one
we call it, as that
was when
you wore it last.

She hung it on
a wooden hanger
in the hall to dry.

Seeing it there,
silent and empty,
opened in me
a deeply wounded,
unuttered cry.

Later when dry,
I took it down
to turn
the right way in
and fold,
then pressed against
my cheek and chest
to hold,
as if
for a moment
you were there again,
your beating heart,
your pulse of life,
your solid being,
but I knew you weren't,
just the coloured wool,
the red patterned jumper,
that just been washed scent.

I thought you immortal;
how sad that is,
that illusion love made,
that you will always be there, lie,
that you will
never never die.

I clutched
the jumper tight;
tried to sense you there,
your pounds of flesh,
your gentle self,
your body
within the wool.

How sad that is,
they'll say,
the old sad fool.

Your mother washed
and dried your
red patterned
woollen jumper
yesterday, today
I placed it on
a plastic hanger
and put away.

Una kissed
each one breast

at a time,
so softly,

her lover,
thought of them

as melting,
unlike when

her husband,
dear Brian,

licked at them
like some hound

lapping up
rain water.

Una put
kisses on

each rib place,
gently there,

lips brushing,
moving on,

then she kissed
***** hair

to get there,
her lover's

honey ***,
her queendom

of Eden,
arched over

her lover,
she kissed deep,

lips melting,
snaky tongue

entering,
offering

no apple,
forbidden fruit,

but soft love,
bringing on

to the boil
of deep sighs

and throat sounds.
Her lover,

in her turn,
entered slow,

her middle
firm digit,

but gently
into that

Dublin ****,
which Brian,

her husband,
never could

bring himself
to finger enter

such a place
(such as hers

not Una's).
As Una

kissed softly,
her lover,

swooning hot,
then forgot

her Brian's
*** failing,

but enjoyed
so deeply

the kisses
and tonguing

of her hot
honey ***.

It was the year
man first walked
on the moon

but the third year running
you and your brother
walked the streets
of Edinburgh

and stayed
at the guesthouse
where the Yank guy
told you how
he was mugged
in some bog
at Waverly Station

I was in the stall
on the seat
when there was a banging
on the door
and someone yelled
open up I’m going to puke
so I did the
Yank said
and some guy
stole the wallet
from my pant’s pocket
and ran off

your brother sat
at the breakfast table
bemused

why did you open
the door?
you asked

well I guess I thought
it would help
the Yank said
holding his coffee cup
with both hands
you know
kind of threw me
off course

I’d have told the guy
to go puke elsewhere
your brother said

but he seemed desperate
the Yank said
looking at your brother
with a Humphrey Bogart gaze
won’t do that again
he said
sipping his coffee

you studied the guy’s plump face
his bulky frame
his sausage size fingers
the gold ring
on his third
right hand finger
his I LOVE AMERICA tee-shirt
his blue shorts

no matter
guess we all learn
from our mistakes
you said
next time
someone bangs
on the bog door
tell them
go puke on the floor

the Yank nodded his head
his Bogart impression
faded
to a saggy dog face

and you thought
gazing at
his blonde hair
there
but for the grace of God
go I  
and your brother smiled
and winked a blue eye.

Woolgar peered
through the wire mesh
at the girl’s playground
can see that girl you like

down there
he said
you walked
to the wire mesh

and stared through
see her?
he said
no can’t see her

there over by
that fat girl
with the blue
ribboned hair

you stared harder
they keep moving about
you said
she’s there

he said
poking his finger
through mesh
her with the dark hair

you peered
at where his finger poked
Jane was by the fence
playing jump rope

with two other girls
yes I see her now
you said
what’s she like?

Woolgar said
like?
you said
what do you mean like?

Woolgar sniggered
and gazed stupidly
through the mesh
you know

does she kiss
and such
and what’s it like?
that’s for me to know

and you to guess
you said
some say
girl’s lips

are like peaches
Woolgar said
or that they kiss
all wet and warm

you watched Jane
move the rope
around and around
with some other girl

while one other
jump high and laughed
does she have *******?
Woolgar asked

peering like
some peeping Tom
or is she flat as board?
Or don’t you know?

he asked
looking round at you
his eyes brown
and round

and aping dung
what’s it to you Woolgar?
you still ****
your mother’s dugs

or so I’ve heard
you said
seeing Jane
play skip rope

once again
you leave my mother
out of this
he said

rubbing his fingers
going red
walking off
muttering

and moaning
turning round
and *******
you turned

to gaze at Jane
once more
but the skipping girls
had gone away

to some other place
to skip and play.

Look at these
I show her
in my palm

three marbles
blue and green
and one red

Helen pokes
with finger
turns over

and over
then she stares
through thick lens

of glasses
at the shades
of colours

beautiful
she tells me
standing back

her enlarged
girly eyes
look at me

I then move
the marbles
from my palm

to pocket
of my jeans
can I hold

one of them?
she asks me
sure I say

and get one
and place it
in her palm

a small palm
delicate
like a pink

rose petal
the marble
seems a gem

to her eyes
she moves it
with finger

round and round
red and pink
becoming

almost one
in her palm
she smells it

she rubs it
beautiful
she utters

you keep it
I tell her
as a gift

she lifts her
teary eyes
upon me

you mean it?
she mutters
sure I say

she kisses
the marble
and puts it

in the small
dress pocket
and leaves it

to nest there
like an egg
then we walk

slowly up
Meadow Row
to get chips

from Neptune's
for lunch time
to eat on

the bomb site
and I wish
as we walk

I was that
red marble
resting there

in the green
dress pocket
lying there
all unseen.

Elaine never told
anyone at home
over the weekend

about the boy
who spoke to her
at school on the Friday

that some boy
spoke to her
without verbal abuse

or name calling
was quite a phenomenon
in itself

and if she told
her sister
she would have guffawed

and her father
would have said
who's speaking

to my squat hen?
and her mother
would have looked at her

as if to say you
and that imagination
of yours

so she kept it
to herself
tucked it into

her small *******
next to her heart
and repeated

what he had said
when no one
was around to listen

even in the bath
sitting there
breast high

in soapy suds
(borrowed
from her sister)

she went over
his words
and how

he had said them
and how
she had blushed

as he came up to her
on the sports field
as she stood

by the wire fence
away from others
hands in pockets

snuggled up
into her black coat
her head down

her black hair
center parted
untidily hanging

and said
most birds
have nested by June

but you can still see
where they've nested
she looked at him

wondering if it
was some kind of joke
and that others

may have put him
up to it
but none was there

he stood alone
his brown
brushed back hair

his hazel eyes
gazing into her
as if they saw

her soul
and were feeding there
o I suppose so

she said
her features she knew
had reddened

her words came
out of pitch
do you know much

about birds?
he asked
she gazed at him

standing there
one hand of his
on the fence

by her head
the other in his pocket
she fumbled

for more words
opening up her mind
from its exile

not really
she said
thought not

he said softly
girls don't tend to
I'm John by the way

he added
pointing to his chest
moving back

giving her room
to move
she hesitated

wondering if
she should tell him
her name

she bit her lip
then said
I'm Elaine

he smiled
nice name that
think Tennyson

wrote a poem
about a woman named that
or was it some other?

he looked distracted
for a moment
anyway that was

way back
he said bet
no one has written a poem

about you yet have they?
she looked at his forehead
there were lines there

as if he thought a lot
or maybe too much
no they haven't

she said
shame
he said

you look like
the type of girl
who needs a poem

written about them
she looked over his shoulder
a group of boys

were kicking ball
a group of girls
further over

were sitting on the grass
laughing and talking
but were not

looking her way
but seemed
other wise engaged

shouldn't think anyone
would write a poem
about me

she said
looking at her
black scuffed shoes

course they should
he said
I would

if I was that way
inclined
but I'm more a reader

than writer
she wondered why
he was speaking to her

why he was there
standing in front
of her

staring at her
with his hazel eyes
you've nice eyes

he said
chocolaty brown
and warm and deep

she felt out
of her comfort zone
as if she wandered

into someone else's head
the bell rang
from the school

lunch recess was over
and the boys
kicked the ball

into the tall grass
and the group of girls
rose up from the grass

and walked school wards
like cattle
at milking time

she looked back
at the building
through the wire fence

at the returning pupils
best get back
to being brain washed

he said
see you around
and he touched

her arm gently
as he moved away
walking in a slow

couldn't-care less
-if- I-go- there-pace
she watched him go

her feet
seemingly
rooted to the spot

and her body
was tingling
and feeling hot.

Early July
and Judith sat
on the wooden fence
beside you

over looking the pond
which she called the lake
dressed in a plain grey skirt
and green blouse

her brown hair
brushed untidily
as was per norm
her hands beside her

balancing her
on the top beam
mum said men
are not to be trusted

Judith said
me included?
you asked
you especially

she said smiling
she didn’t mention you by name
just said men in general
and my dad looked at her

sideways on
pulled a face
then carried on
with his breakfast

a jackdaw flew across
the pond noisily
making Judith jump
****** bird

nigh on made me
wet myself
she said
following the bird’s flight

what made your mother
go on an anti men campaign?
you asked
watching two ducks

move across
the water’s skin
I think she saw us
coming through the woods

behind your house
yesterday after school
Judith said
we were too close together

mum said
but where she was
to see us I have no idea
hanging from a tree maybe

you said
don’t think so
Judith said smiling
maybe she’s spying on us now?

you suggested
Judith looked around her
then back at you
don’t say that

I almost had kittens
it’s not kittens
you have to worry about
you said

sunlight flickered
through high branches
birds sang
white clouds

moved slowly overhead
you touched her hand
with yours
felt her warm skin

her fingers
her short fingernails
she looked at the flickering sunlight
I know

she said softly
come on
let’s go near the lake
she said

and jumped off the fence
and so did you
and walked over
the grass

to the pond’s side
under a vast sky of blue.

After Friday school
after two boring lessons
with Mr Finn
you went home

with Janice for tea
and to see
her gran's new canary
and she told you

the blue one
had died
and her gran
had bought

a new one
and you told her
about the Ivanhoe book
you'd bought

out of your pocket money
about this Saxon
and King Richard 1
and you said

your old man
had made you a sword
out of metal
at his work place

and painted it blue
and you wore it
through your elastic belt
with the snake buckle

and she listened politely
as she always did
even if she was bored
which she probably was

and when you got
to her gran's place
she took you in
and her gran said

glad you could come
I saw your mother
the other day
and she said it was ok

for you to come
and Janice showed you
the new canary
in the cage

hanging from the holder
over by the window
and she asked her gran
if she could get

the bird out
and her gran said
she could but be careful
it don't fly away

and so Janice let
the canary out
of the cage
and it flew around

the room a few times
then settled on
her red beret
and started pecking

at it
what's the bird called?
you asked
Gran's started calling it yellow

Janice said
because its colour
is yellow
you watched the bird

pecking at her beret
and her eyes looked upwards
and she held out a finger
and the bird flew down on it

and perched there
and she stroked its beak
and then after a while
she put it back

in its cage  
and shut the door
and her gran said
what would you like for tea?

and you said
bread and jam
would be fine
and a mug of tea

to go with it
and her gran said
is that all?
nothing cooked?

Janice said she was having
scrambled egg on toast
and some rice pudding
for afterwards

and so you said
ok that sounded good
and her gran went off
and you sat with Janice

and she turned on the radio
and listened
to some classical music
which bored the hell

out of you
but at least
you were with Janice
and she smiled

and looked at you
all kind of seriously
and you liked her red beret
and her white blouse

and grey skirt
and her fair hair
touching her shoulders
and her thin fingers

reaching out
and touching your
slightly ink-stained ones
and she talked

of the names
of the children
she was going to have
when she grew up

and how many
boys and girls
she was going to have
and you nodded

and took nothing in
except the beauty
of her lips as she spoke
and her gran called

from the kitchen
lay the table ready Janice
and she got up
leaving your fingers

to tingle
which you guessed
was nice.

There's a boy
at the door for you
Elaine's mother said
talking to Elaine
at the door of her room

what boy?
Elaine asked

he said his name was John
her mother said
looking unhappy
her voice strained

he's here?
Elaine asked

I’ve just said he is
her mother said

Elaine frowned
how did he know
where I lived?

how do I know
her mother said

where is he?
Elaine asked

by the front door
now get along
and see him
and then tell me
what is going on
her mother said

Elaine went down stars
to the front door
and there he was
the boy John
standing by the door

how did you know
where I lived?
she asked him
leaning by the door
unsure what to do
or say more than that

I asked someone
in the village
and they said here
I got the bus here
from my village
he added

O I see
she said
looking at his eyes
hazel and bright

well invite him in Elaine
don't need to stand
on the doorstep
the mother said

ok
Elaine said
and invited John in
and they walked
into the living room
where he was invited
to sit on the brown settee  

I’m Elaine's mother
and you are John?  

yes,I'm John
he said
we go to school together
he added
on the bus
he put in
after a few seconds silence

I see
the mother said

she sat in an armchair
opposite him
and Elaine sat
on the settee
beside John

Elaine's not mentioned
you before
the mother said
eyeing the boy seriously

O I see
he said
looking at Elaine

never thought to say
Elaine said
looking at her slippers

are you friends
at school?
the mother said

yes
he said
we are

Elaine looked
at her mother
hoping he wouldn't
mention the kiss
he'd given her

we share an interest
in birds and butterflies
he said
gazing at the mother

birds and butterflies?
the mother said

yes I bring my book
to school and we
exchange what
we've seen
he said

O I see
the mother said
unsure of the boy
but thinking
he seemed all right

can I get you
a drink of tea?
the mother asked

he looked at Elaine
then at the mother
yes that would be lovely
he said
one sugar if I may
he added

the mother nodded
and smiled
and went out
to the kitchen
leaving the two alone

why did you come here?
Elaine asked
looking at the boy

I wanted to see you
he said
and I didn't want to
wait until Monday
he added

O I see
she said
feeling uncertain
feeling unsure
what she should
say or do

you don't mind do you?
I didn't think
I came on impulse
I don't usually
but I couldn't get you
out of my mind
he said

really?
she said
a smile lingering
on her lips
but not breaking out

yes
he said
ever since you got off
the bus on Friday
I’ve been like this
and he leaned forward
and planted
a gentle kiss.