Waiting’s worse. She knows it.
That old feeling known since
childhood. Then it was the parent,
the heavy hand, the punishment.

This is like it, but not like it. She
waits for him to come home. His
footfalls in the hall, his voice along
the passage. To gauge the tone,

the loud or softness. She sits, waits.
Be prepared, the mother said,
years back.  The clock in the hall
sounds loud with its tick tock. Puts

hands between the thighs, anxiety
bites. For better for worse, the
vows said.  Bruises like medals,
black eyes as reminders, a colour

ranging from black and blue to green
to brown or whatever it is. She *****
an ear. Him? Maybe. The last time
it was she’d been seen with some

feller. She’d not of course. But it suited
as an excuse. She’d lost the baby by
the fall down stairs. What was that
all about? Was that the time she had

been late with his dinner? Or was that
some other? Baby’d be walking now.
Missed the first steps, the first word,
the live birth. Is that him? She bites a

finger nail. Feelings seem to run along
the nerves. What to say? What words?
The door opens along the hall, his voice
echoes mildly, we shall wait, we shall see.

Breakfast time
a school day
Lizbeth sits

poking at
her breakfast
scrambled egg

and sausage
tomato
her parents

sit there too
her mother
looks at her

what is up
with you now?
the mother

asks Lizbeth
nothing's up
Lizbeth says

poking egg
with a fork
I know you

my young girl
you're moody
and poking

at your food
Lizbeth stares
at the lips

moving of
her mother
more moaning

she muses
it's a boy
I expect

her father
interjects
what's a boy?

Mother asks
her bad moods
Father says-

unless he
muses it's
genetics

and she's got
her mother's
moody genes-

what boy's this
Lizbeth dear?
Mother asks

-Lizbeth thinks
of the boy
Benedict

and how she's
attempted
to have hot

*** with him
umpteenth times
without one

successful
episode-
not a boy

Lizbeth says
forking in
scrambled egg

just Monday
and the blues
and I'm on

on what Liz?
Father asks
looking out

over his
newspaper-
on the rag

Auntie's come
periods
bleeding lots

she muses-
Lizbeth stares
at Father

in that way
that she has
and he says

o I see
and looks back
at the big

newspaper
something more
Mother says

more than that
you've not got
pregnant

with a boy
have you Liz?
No I've not

Lizbeth storms
spitting egg
throwing down

her steel fork
on the plate
I've just said

that I'm on
and would I
just have ***

just like that
without you
knowing all

before me?
what about
that Benny

you talk of
he's a boy?
Mother says

Lizbeth sighs
I am still
a ******

innocent
of all crimes
she utters

just moody
Father says
like most girls

Lizbeth picks
up her fork
and eats more

scrambled egg
and thinks of
Benedict

and how she
tried to get
him to have

*** with her
on her bed
some weeks back

but he said
not like this
not just now

we're too young
but Mother
knows there's more

than just moods
and studies
the young girl

as she eats
wondering
if Liz has

with that boy
signs are there
she muses

but deep down
the mother
refuses

to accept
such could be
and sips tea

Lizbeth stares
at her plate
thinks of ***

with Benny
when it comes
if it comes

and what place
it might be
lifts her cup

and sips tea.

Yesterday was a dark doomer.
I thought I saw you
here and there
in the other town
where once we wandered
years ago.

Grief had a field day,
keeping me low.

I wandered shops
with the others
and alone, feeling
on the edge, looking
into that dark abyss.

I bought a Hunter
Thompson book
from the cheap
book shop,
the girl gave me a,
why did you buy that?
kind of look;
young girl,
bored maybe,
thinking of her
boyfriend or girlfriend
or whosoever.

I thought of you,
you, my son,
the way you went,
the unanswered
questions so far,
holding your hand
as you slipped away,
flat-lining heart.

We had sandwiches
and drank,
in the inside café;
watched other people
do their thing,
life going on,
unaware
that dark doomers
were sitting there.

But of course,
you knew, you were
probably there
unseen by us,
eating a burger
and sipping a cola,
(at least
in that spirit world
as we think,)
looking at us,
sipping your drink.

You can’t get the stink
Of the hospital
Out of your mind, that
Aspect haunts as
Much as the mindless
***** (who handed
You your dead baby)
Who had icy eyes
And a hint of so what
Written there framed by
The blonde hair, the blue

Eyes and all around
Inside your head the
Buzz of flies. You can’t
Get the colour scheme
Out of your turned back
Memory, the walls
And doors and window
Frames, the nurses and
Doctor’s faces a
Whirl and buzz, and you
Holding onto your

Dead baby’s name there
Amongst discarded
Other names, wanting
The hold to last, to
Feel the soft parcel,
To want her then to
Open eyes, to breathe,
To prove them wrong, to
**** them in their chilled
Cosiness. You can’t
Get the baby out

Of your hurt mind, can’t
Forget the last hug,
The wanting for her
To cling on, to take
Your dug and **** and
****, but she never
Did, never moved, not
Opened eyes; that’s when
It aches the more, that’s
What brings the deep cries.

What have you got there?
Record, LP.

Nima looks at me.
Which one?

Ornette Coleman.
I show her
the record sleeve:
three men standing
in snow.

She nods,
loses interest,
looks away.

Pigeons make noises
about us;
people pass by.

We're in Trafalgar Square.
How are you?
I ask,
sitting on the low wall
around the fountain.

*** starved,
need a fix
and a smoke,
she says.

I can give you
a smoke.

She sits beside me.
There is the sound
of water
from the fountain
behind us;
chat of others
around us.

I give her a cigarette
and light it for her.

She inhales gratefully.
Needed that, said
the bishop
to the good-time girl,
Nima says.

How's your *** life?
She asks
after a few  minutes
of silence.

Non-existent.

Likewise;
I feel like
a ****** nun.  

I watch traffic go by;
a boy and girl
walk by
hand in hand.

Nima watches them.
Bet they're *** life's
up to the top rung,
she says.

How's it
at the hospital?
I ask.

The usual:
stupid quacks,
*** starved nurses
and medication
to help me get off
other drugs.

And is it working?

Don't know;
all I know is
that I am aching
for a fix.

What about a drink?

Not allowed.

Coffee?

You know how
to get to
a girl's heart,
she says sarcastically.
Coke and burger  
and you're on.

I nod my head.

We walk through
the Square
and up towards
Leicester Square
to a burger bar
where we sit
and order both.

If you come visit me
at the hospital next time,
bring me
a packet of smokes.

Sure, if you like.

And they'll look at you
suspiciously.

Why?

They suspect
we had ***
in that cupboard.

We did.

I know
and so do they,
Nima says, smiling.

I picture the scene
some weeks back,
she and I
in a broom cupboard
off the ward
in the semi-dark,
risking it.
Quite a lark.

I’ll not get over George,
Alice said, not manage
to get him out of my skin
or memory. Her psychiatrist

said she might. ****. Her
word. Heard it someplace.
Not sure where. No, George
she misses. Known him for

years, ever since the work
house closed and they were
dumped in some home for
homeless.  He was partially

blind, saw badly, spoke in
a jumble of words. But she
was drawn to him; first out
of pity, then deeper out of

love. Possible, her psychiatrist
said, love may help whatever
it is. ****. Her word. Heard
it somewhere, not sure where.

She kissed George first; then
he kissed her. Each carried the
work house haunting with them.
Young staff at the home for the

homeless, smirked, spoke behind
their hands. George seeing her
poorly imagined her better maybe,
she didn’t care, at least he was

kissing her and he was right there.
Once they almost did it, but
George fumbled and they lost
concentration. And they gave

that up as a bad job. Best not to,
her psychiatrist said. ****. Her word.
Heard it someplace, not sure where.
Then George died; stiff in bed, his not

hers, heart gave out, the doctor said,
poor Alice, loved mostly, cared much,
all gone, not wed, she alone, missing
George, in her single noisy spring bed.

She comes in
Yochana
with her friend

Angela
a squat girl
with blonde hair

and sit down
in two seats
at the front

of the class
I watch her
from the back

with Reynard
my best friend
the teacher

old Miss G
is writing
on the board

with white chalk
before she
sits down she

looks at me
(Yochana
not Miss G)

there's a hint
of a smile
then she turns

and I see
just the back
of her head

(straight black hair
reaching down
past shoulders)

sometimes when
when she turns
left or right

I catch her
pale profile
and secretly

take a kiss
from my lips
put it down

on my palm
and blow it
towards her

pallid cheek
no one sees
the palm blown

small kisses
then Miss G
plays piano

some Schubert
piano work
and I watch

Yochana's
thin fingers
move along

the desk top
her response
to Schubert

not to me
I sit there
wishing hard

those fingers
were playing
upon me.

Sheila waits
by the school bus
where she'd seen
the boy John

leave that morning
and she thinks
that if she can see him
before he gets on the bus

she might settle
for her mind and heart
how he feels
if he feels about her

other kids are coming out
of the school
some going home on foot
some getting on

to school coaches
or buses
she adjusts
her thin wired spectacles

on the bridge
of her nose
pulls her school tie neater  
and pats her hair to tidy

she focuses
on the entrances
and exits
but still no sign of him

she's nervous
and uncertain
of herself
or her mission

it seems to her
as if the boy
occupies
her whole mind

at that moment
she feels as if
her life is upside down
and she hasn't

even spoken to him yet
just seen him pass by
and he seemed -
she's certain-

to smile at her
she doesn't know
what to do
with her thin hands

she tucks them
into her coat
out of the way
like unsettled children

then she sees him
coming out
of the exit
with a boy

named Rennie
they pause
laugh and talk
and laugh again

then part
and Rennie goes off
his own way
and the boy John

comes towards her
she's unsure
if she can speak to him
she panics

looks at him
he approaches the bus
and she says
can I speak with you?

he stands there
gazing at her
for a moment
sure but it'll

have to be quick
as my bus goes soon
he says
she walks away

a bit from the bus
and he follows
can I hang around
with you?

she utters shyly
hang around?
John says
she flushes red

be your friend?
she says
looking at his
brown hair

with a quiff
and his hazel eyes
peering at her
he studies her

looks at the bus
at her again
what's your name?
he asks

Sheila
she says
he smiles
sure

but we'll have to talk
about it tomorrow
as I must go
he says

and he touches
her hand
then climbs the bus
and walks along

the aisle
and out of sight
on the bus
she stands there

gazing up at the bus
wondering if she'll
see him
but the bus starts up

and drives away
and she looks hopefully
at the bus as it departs
but there is

no sign of him
at the window
so she holds onto
his image

and watches
the bus go.

You’re the boy
from near the farm
aren’t you?

Jane asked
standing by
the school bus

after school
had finished
for the day

yes
you replied
yes I am

and you wanted
to say more
but your tongue

dried up
as if stuck
in some desert

someone said
you’re new there
she added

looking at you
with her pale blue eyes
a few months

you said
taking in
her smooth skin  

how dark her hair
how straight
and touching over

her shoulders
you ventured words
are you

the parson’s daughter?
she nodded
rather than spoke

her reply
then looked away
as other kids

came towards
the school bus
and stood back

as they climbed aboard
their noisy voices
drowning out

the ambience
of her being there
like big guns of war

breaking through
the peacefulness
of a pre-war dawn

and you waited for her
to speak again
but she looked back

at the school
as if the audience
granted you

had ended
and you stood there
waiting to board the bus

like all the rest
come on Jane
someone called

and she turned
and climbed aboard
leaving you to stand

and watch
the lifting
of her leg

the black shiny shoes
the white socks
the way her hands

pulled her up
the next step
and you savouring

each moment
of her motion
full of a love

like one
for a work of art
full of emotion.

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.

Yochana-
my bird thin,
dark haired,

Schubert loving,
once kissed
now shy, girl;

see how time
has sped
by us both.

How many stars
have burnt out
in that time and space?  

I dreamed of you
at one time,
tucked you away

in my dreams box,
placed you
at the bottom

of my mind's depth.
A photo of the old school
reminded me of you,

the background,
the playing field,
the other kids older

like you and me,
just before
the Beatles' first LP.

Yochana-
with whom
did you share your life?

Who touched your body?
Shared your lips,
sat with you

at the Schubert recitals?
I remember you
in front in class,

your head to one side
as the teacher played
that Schubert piece,

your thin frame,
narrow waist,
you titless,

Reynard said,
of you, he spoke.
I saw how

your hands moved
to the music's flow,
the fragile fingers

mock playing
on the desktop.
Reynard considered

the colour
of your underwear,
I studied you,

your far away,
music tranced stare.
Yochana-

where are you now?
In whose bed
did you lay?

Whose arms
embraced you?
Who fingers searched

you out and on?  
I recall
your bird-thin frame,

wiry arms,
the dark hair
the length

of your back;
how the Schumann piece
had you spaced out

in dream mode,
your eyes closed,
and I –

Benny,
watching you,
you,

unaware of me,
giving you
the desiring stare.

Where you been?
Nima asks

train was late
I reply

the ward smells
of *****
and bodies
and nurses
disinfect
up the nose

Nima sits
in a chair
by her bed
in a white
dressing gown
her bare feet
on the floor

what'd you bring?

cigarettes
chocolate
usual stuff
I tell her
putting them
on her bed

need a drag
she utters

so we go
out of large
French windows
and sit down
in two chairs
in the grounds

we light up
cigarettes
and exhale

how's it going?
I ask her

miss my fix
and hot ***
she mutters
between drags
miss music
miss Hendrix

she looks out
at the grounds
the tall trees
the bushes
a porter
walking by
two doctors
over the way
talking loud

glad you came
she tells me

glad to come
I reply

she looks thin
her hair lank
no make up
cigarette
held between
*******

she tells me
her parents
didn't show
had to go
off some place
with others
Nima exhales

you know what?
they're doctors
yet don't come
to see me

I don't know
what to say
so I say
not a thing

watch a bird
swooping low
gracefully
black winged bird
with large beak

I need ***
nima says
suddenly
I need you
inside me

her dark eyes
eat me in

no place though
I tell her

she inhales
the white smoke
blows it out
making rings

someday soon
she utters
in London
in some room
some hotel
if they let
me go out
next weekend
with a pass

let's hope so
I reply
studying
the sun's light
in her right
gazing eye.

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.

Naaman's father
frequented ******
or so his mother said.

Naaman had no idea,
as a kid, what ****** were,
but his mother's tone
of voice and look
gave the impression,
this was not good.

His father never mentioned
the said ******,
never a gave a hint
or clue, so Naaman
just accepted the fact
his father did; what more
could a Jewish kid do?  

There was the woman
who stopped his father
in the street Up West,
gave smile
and whispered words,
looked at Naaman
and walked away,
waggling her slim behind,
rattling keys
from her fingers,
looking back,
then away,
what it was about,
his father didn't say.

Maybe, thought Naaman,
that was the said *****,
but what she did or what
she was for, he wasn't sure.

His mother didn't say,
just glared and froze
her husband out,
or rowed and rowed,
and slammed things down
in the kitchen while cooking,
Naaman just played
with his toys
and pretended
he wasn't looking.

But that dame
in the street
who stopped his father,
her wiggling behind,
her red lips,
big blue eyes,
her keys
and ringed fingers,
maybe she was the *****,
maybe she was the lady
who made
her mother angry,
the one his father frequented
( whatever that might mean),
but to Naaman
she was just a painted lady
who smiled a lot
and whispered soft words
and wagged her behind.

Whatever his mother thought,
Naaman mused,
his father didn't mind.

Lizbeth lies
on her bed
after returning
from seeing Benny

in the small hamlet
outside town
she lies and fumes
and muses on the day

Benny talking
of birds of prey
and all she wanted
was for him

to have her
although she knew
it'd be a waste
of effort

but she thought maybe
he might weaken
if she tried enough  
and wore her

shortest skirt and such
but no
all talk of birds
and butterflies

and his
****** queen
from school
on his mind

as they walked
no doubt
worth an effort
she muses

maybe one day
he may
downstairs her mother
plays the radio

some classical stuff
her mother's
croaking voice
attempting

a Schubert song
the bed is soft
the pillow holds
her head

she pretends
Benny's there
closes her eyes
imagines its his fingers

touching her now
not hers
his fingers
lifting the skirt

his finger and thumb
lowering
her underwear
the Schubert song

is done
her mother's croak
is silent
some other

composer's music
fills the air
up from the stair
she wants it to be him

not her
his fingers not hers
its not the same
despite the pretence

her fingers stop
and lay by her side
and she opens
her eyes

with no
pretended ride.

Yiska smells
unwashed skin
the old girl

nearby her
foreigner
in long robes

browned fingers
cigarette
between them

smoke rising
I watch her
leathery

old lined skin
deep brown eyes
inhaling

the self rolled
cigarette
stinks in here

Yiska says
need some air
so we go

from the lounge
of the ward
to the large

dining room
where we stand
looking out

of the large
French windows
she never

washes or
cleans herself
Yiska says

just sits there
smoking that
cigarette

muttering
in her own
foreign tongue

eating meals
with her thin
brown fingers

what's really
bugging you?
I ask her

the old dame's
been here weeks
I can't sleep

Yiska says
all the time
thinking of

my wedding
which wasn't
just jilted

standing there
being watched
the white dress

and white shoes
and the prat
doesn't show

the cruel clown
jilting me
giving me

a breakdown
I touch her
thin white hand

by her side
sensing her
life pulsing

through her veins
her thumb rubs
my last scar

on my wrist
a rook caws
in high trees

above us
my scar damp
where she kissed.

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.

Enid's old man
passes me
in the Square

he gives me
the tough guy stare
trying to scare

I give a smirk
(the ****)
look at his dark eyes
his stubble
then he's gone by
off to work
down the *****
out of sight

I look up
at the flats
a bag of bread rolls
in my hands
(my mother's shopping)

I wonder how
Enid was
whether her old
man had had
a go at her
had left
a fleshy medal
on her skin
blue green
sinking in

I walk up
the concrete stairs
passing by
the landings
until I saw Enid
on the top step
sitting there

what you doing here?
I ask

my dad threw me
out here
said I was not
to go back in
until my mother
called me in

why's that?

he said I'd been naughty
and had to wait
in the cold air
as punishment

I sat beside her
on the cold stair
when will your mother
call you in?

he said not
for twenty minutes
she says shivering

you can't sit
out here that long

I must

no way
come to our flat
and wait
then go out

I can't
what if mother calls
and I'm not there

will she tell him?

yes she's frightened of him
of course she will
Enid says

how long
to wait now?
I saw your old man
just go

twenty minutes
from now I guess

then come to our flat
for fifteen minutes
then we'll wait
on the stairs?

she closes her eyes
hugs herself
I can't
in case he finds out
she says

wait here
I say
and go in my flat
and give my mother
the bread rolls
and tell her

she butters two rolls
and puts in cheese
and I take them
out to Enid
on the stair
and we sit together
eating
as if we
didn't care.

Yaakova said the caravan
we slept in
was too crowded.

It was Belgium
on the outskirts
of Zeebrugge,
some base camp,
no tents
arrived for us.

Couldn't move legs
without touching others,
she said.

I'd seen her in the night;
I had slept on the floor,
near the door, draft,
chill, legs stiff.

Frightened I kick
some one in my sleep,
she said.

We were in
the base camp café
eating breakfast
and drinking cokes.

No tents, why is that?
She asked.

**** up, somewhere,
I said.

What is the **** up,
as you say?
She said.

Poor planning
and execution of plans,
I said.

Execution?
She said,
my father he talked
about executions
in old days.

He said his uncle executed
in Stalin's time.

I lit a cigarette
and inhaled.

I didn't mean
that kind of execution,
I said,
I meant the carrying out
of plans made.

I like to sleep
with more room,
she said,
at home I sleep
in big bed.

I can imagine,
I said.

I could.
Even what type of bed
it was and what
colour sheets
she'd have and covers.

She ate her bacon and eggs;
I sipped my coke.

How you imagine
my big bed?
She asked,
you not see
my big bed.

Imagination,
I said,
I can picture it.

She looked at me
with her big brown eyes.

You think of me?

No, your bed,
I said.

Although I could imagine her
in her bed
all laid out there
arms spread wide,
legs too,
but I didn't
tell her that,
I just sipped
the coke
and inhaled
my cigarette.

She talked of her home,
her family,
but she lying there
in her bed,
that image,
I couldn't forget.

From cloister
he walks,
the black robed
monk,

pausing in the aisle
of the abbey church
to genuflect;
stopping,

he gazes at us,
then into
the bell tower
to ring the bells

for Compline.
I watch
as the red altar light
flickers

into semi dark
of the abbey;
remembering she
who kissed

in another dark
with warm
kissing lips.
The bells break

the silence
of the evening chill;
one by one
the monks enter

at their own pace,
hooded
in black robes,
each to their own place.

He swam
in the sea
of her moistness-
warm waves,

tide on tide,
her fingers,
shark like,
set about

his flesh as
of fish; -
who else
could swim

as such?
he recalled
the *******
hot finger tips

of her love,
the way
they dived
into waves

of oncoming
passions;
you-
you,

my young love,
he said,
I the youth,
diving, deep,

breath held,
eyes closed.
Where are you now,
my long ago love?

He asked,
in what waters
do you now dive?  
Or are you

in Davy Jones' Locker?
Or are you still alive?

Lizbeth let me out
the front door
while her parents rowed
in the kitchen
at the back

she was still only wearing
her ******* and bra

she wanted me to stay
but I couldn't stomach
her parents finding me there
especially as they
were in a foul mood
rowing

she closed the door
and was gone

I waited for the next bus
back to my house
miles away
and wondered what
she would be doing
back at her place

would she get dressed?
would her mother notice
her own long red dress
had been taken out and worn?

I imagined her back
in her room sulking
because I hadn't
had *** with her
despite her planning
despite her standing
by her bed
in ******* and bra

even when her parents
came home early
she was still up for it

I tried to imagine her
in her untidy room
putting on
the Fats Domino LP
and playing it loud
and prancing around
dancing

my bus came along
and I got on
and paid the fare

but unknown to me
she'd put on
the Buddy Holly LP
and sat
in her ******* and bra
staring
and not caring.

I sat on the bank
by the pond-
or lake as Yehudit
termed it-

Yehudit lay on her back
with one leg stretched out
and the other bent
with the knee
pointing skyward

I watched dragonflies
skimming
the water's skin
then taking off
zig-zagging
then off
out of sight

that cloud
looks like a swan
Yehudit said

I looked up
looks like your mother
I said

that's not nice
she said
saying my mother
looks like a swan

it's the neck
that does it
I said

she looked at me
smiling
her neck is not
like that at all
she said

or maybe it's the beak
like her nose?

she slapped
my arm playfully
that neither
she said

now the clouds changed
I said
the swan has dissolved
or moved on

she became serious
I thought
I was in trouble
last week
she said

I gazed at her
why was that?

I was late
she said
looking at me
seriously

late for what?
dinner?
school?
lessons?

no I mean my...
you know...
my thingy

I watched
as a duck landed
on the water
and swam towards
the edge

thingy?
I said  

it was green
and yellowy feathered
it had a sense
of gracefulness
as it swam

my periods
she said

and that means?
I said
turning to gaze
at her

she sat up
and sighed
I thought
I was in
the pudding club
she said

o I see
I said
taking in
her features
the brown hair
a few loose strands
over one eye
her thigh visible
where the skirt
had moved down

but I was just late
it's ok now
she said
turning on her side
back to normal

I said nothing
it was a science
beyond me
another duck landed
on the water
skimming along
like an airplane
crash landing

must be careful
she said

guess so
I said

the image
of the duck's landing
and her thigh
stuck inside
my 14 year old head.

Nima's not
in the mood
for the quacks

visiting
the mental
cases ward

coming round
in white coats
stethoscopes

and closed minds
she's outside
in the sun

that despite
the nurse’s
wanting her

on the ward
not outside
chain smoking

a doctor
with a nurse’s
comes outside

the doctor
not happy
you should be

on the ward
for our rounds
not out here

the quack said
Nima sits
on a seat

her legs crossed
the night dress
with no belt

reveals sight
of her thighs
and she smiles

at the spark
alive there
in his eyes.

Shoshana sees him,
watches him, he walks
through the playground
towards the cloakrooms,

his head turned away
from her, his profile,
snaps it with her eyes
like a camera, Naaman,

she thinks his name is,
the stride of him, so
goose-bumpily he makes
her, somersault of her

innards, her brain alive
like a wire shot through.
He stops, holds out a hand,
palm upwards, eyes the

sky, then her, standing by
the fence, Monkey's Wedding,
he says, smiling, then down
it comes rain and the sunshine

almost hand in hand like a
weird bride and groom, then
downwards falling, go run,
she hears him loudly calling.

It is Saturday morning
I open my eyes
and run through
my inner calendar

yes Saturday
no school
no need to rush
to get up

but I do
no time
to waste in bed
up I get

and walk through
the sitting room
to the passage
to the lavatory

and do the business
then into the kitchen
come bathroom
and put on

the kettle
for hot water
to wash
I stare at the room

while I wait
the kitchen table
is down
over the bath

I remember my uncle
sitting there
a few months back
crying

in my mother's arms
because his son
had been killed
in some war

some place
he looked
quite broken
for a while

sitting there
on the table
my mother
holding him

and I watching
from the door way
trying to make sense
of it all

the kettle boils
and I put a plug
into the one sink
and pour in

the hot water
and put the kettle
back on the stove
and undress

the top half
and taking soap
from the shelve
I do

a school boy wash
face and neck
and hands and arms
then dry all

on the towel
behind the door
I hear my mother
in the front bed room

(a wash hanging room)
she's humming a tune
must be happy
my old man

at work
(half day)
I take my top clothes
back through

the sitting room
to the bedroom
and dress
ready for breakfast

then out
to the Saturday matinee
at the cinema
at the ABC

just Helen
with her two plaits
and glasses
and me.

Yochana
sitting next
to the blonde

Angela
is in front
of the class

at the back
of the class
Reynard R

sits with me
while Miss G
is yakking

about Bach
his music
walking slow

between rows
peering deep
through her

thick lens specks
Yochana
looks at me

and mouths words
do not kiss
me again

I smile back
and mouth words
it was good

she stares back
unsmiling
while Miss G

stops yakking
glares at me
then looks at

Yochana
this lesson
is on Bach

and music
Miss G says
not ***-tat

Yochana
blushes red
looks away

I watch her
sitting there
her figure

her shoulders
her black hair
as Miss G

goes to her
gramophone
and puts on

boring Bach
as I think
of holding

Yochana
and kissing
on the cheek

or her lips
tomorrow
or next week.

Liz put the plate
on the table.

I watched.

First day, new job.

The patients grabbed
at the contents
of the plate
and a fight
almost broke out.

Take turns,
yer idjits,
she said.

A Downs gazed at her
with his large brown eyes,
his tongue sat
on his lower lip.

Maybe, a plate each
would be better,
I said.

Not so much
fun though,
she replied.

The contents that
had been on the plate
was now being eaten
or lay scattered
on the floor
beneath the table.

A few patients
looked on bewildered,
staring at me
or Liz as she moved
about the table,
her hands stuffed
in the pockets
of her white coat.

She walked
past the table
and walked
to the window
and gazed out.

Is there nothing else?
I asked.

Later,
she said,
give it to
them later.

One or two patients
got down
from the table
and walked
about the room,
some playing
with their fingers,
some nodding
their heads,
some just walked
past each other
and spoke gibberish.

Think you'll
like the job?
Liz asked.

I shrugged
my shoulders.

Don't know.

The Downs got down
from the table
with his handful of food
and passed Liz
contentedly,
eyeing her
sideways on,
his nose running,
his tongue poking
from the side
of his mouth.

Hours past.

The smell of *****
soaked into my
white coat,
the smell of it
in the air,
hanging there afloat.

Two mental breakdowns
In as many years;
The ECT, she
Knows too well; the dark

Corridors; the sharp
Broken mirrors, all
Reflecting different
Selves; the slashed wrist;

Bath-almost-drowning
Business; the white
Coated nurse and docs
And the tricks up their

Long thin sleeves; and the
Emptiness inside
With the long slow fall
Into that so long

Awaited and wished for
Oblivion and
No more echoes from
The sad ghostly dead.

Remember
Abela
that café
we sat in

in the city square
and you'd be drinking
your white wine
and I’d have my beer

and we'd talk
of the sights
and places we'd go
in a day or so

and about the Greens
and what they
were like
and how he

(Mr Green)
would always
contradict
what she

(Mrs Green)
was saying
like she'd say
it's hot in here

and he'd say
no it's not
it's quite cold
or he'd say

this fish
is under cooked
and she'd say
no it's overcooked

and I’d talk about
Schopenhaur
and you'd sit there
dumb eyed

and secretly fuming
(so you told me
later that day
in bed as you turned

your back on me
and I had to stare
at your rounded
shoulders

and silent ***)
or I'd talk about
or read some
Dylan Thomas poems

to you and you'd
put your fingers
over your ears
and say

enough already
and if I used to
gawk at the waitress
as she went by

you'd give me
the eye
(that no no
kind of look)

and I’d return
my eyes
to my book
but that was over

40 years ago
(where you are now
I don't know)
but I often think

about that foreign place
and you and ***
and your nice ***
pretty face.

Your brother
has laid flowers
on your stone
today Ole.

Tulips, pink,
purple and white,
I think.  

The black
memorial stone,
sculptured book,
what beauty
here stands;
chiselled words,
name and dates,
else all said,
to mark and say
you’re dead.

Aba wishes,
as do others,
it was not so,
that stone
was not in place,
that you were
here still,
face to face.  

But fact is
that you are
and that it is
in place,
book sculptured
and designed as such,
skilfully done
and made to last;
outlive us
who come see
and make our visit,
steady and firm,  
granite made,
and there
beside you,
Ole, we also
will be boxed
and gently laid.

Nima holds
the **** in
her bladder

another
occupies
the toilet

she can hear
the woman
*******
seemingly
hear talking
explosions
of farting
muttering

Nima stands
with hands
held in place
between thighs

hey in there
what the ****
you doing
laying eggs?
Nima says

go away
a voice says
go elsewhere
I’m busy

Nima sighs
where to go?

her bladder
is ready
to explode

she rushes
through the ward
passed nurses
out through doors
to the next
lavatory
and pushes
it open
and shuts it
and locks it
undresses
and sits down
and lets go

she thinks of
Benedict
and that time
that they ******
in some cheap
boarding house
in London

another
deep release
not of ****
but of ***
held in place
by a kiss.

This is where they sat
and watched the sea
and incoming tide.
Now he has gone.

The waves still come
in and go out regardless.
The sunset brings memories.
The way the sun sits on

the horizon like a Buddha
clothed in a red gown.
He held her hand on
these sands. They kissed

beneath that sun the warmth
like an embrace. It was
here that he spoke of love
and their future and the house

and maybe their children
running in and out of the garden
on summer days. She holds
a handful of sand. Squeezes

between fingers. Gulls fly overhead
making an awful din. If she
closes her eyes she can imagine
him still there. Almost smell

his presence. She sniffs the air.
Sea salt and after sun lotion.
His body shining with sweat
after making love up there

by the rocks. Children and
parents and others enjoy
the sea and beach nearby.
He said so many things.

They are still in the air.
The words about her head
like invisible birds. Then came
the suicide. The final note.

Out at sea some one waves
To her from a small white boat.

We're on the grass
around Arrol House
and I have my blue
painted metal crossbow

in my hand
with the two arrows
that came in the pack
and Ingrid says

what are you going
to fire at?
if I had an apple
I could do

the William Tell trick
what's that?
she asks
well he put an apple

on his son's head
and fires the apple
off with one
single arrow

and whose head
would you fire
the apple off of?
she asks

I look at her
and smile
no not me
she says

looking fearful
of course not
I say
just joking

I'd not do that
to anyone
I'm a lousy shot
she smiles uneasy

I mean it I say
so what are you
going to shoot at?
she asks

I pull out
a small
cardboard target
out of the back pocket

of my jeans
at this
I say
and try and hit

the bulls-eye
she takes the target
and says
where do I put it?

put it against
the bomb shelter wall
and up on
the first ledge

I say
she walks over
to the bomb shelter wall
and puts it

on the ledge
by standing on tiptoe
that's it
I say

just right
she moves away
and stands beside me
fingers held together

and watches
as I put an arrow
onto the crossbow
and set

the crossbow
ready to fire
and aim
at the target

with one eye closed
and set the arrow off
and it misses
the bulls-eye

by a mere fraction
you missed the bulls-eye
Ingrid says
I smile

told you
I was a lousy shot
I say
just as well

I didn't have
an apple
on my head
she says

or I'd be dead  
I wouldn't do that
to you
no matter what

I say
and she gets
the arrow
just a part

of another
childhood day.

She's pointing
at some bird
on a pond
in a wood
half a mile
from the farm

a moorhen
she tells me

it walks odd
I reply

I like it
like its eggs
the colour
she relates

she's happy
her eyes bright

I watch her
her brown hair
the grey dress
the black boots
thin figure

Daddy says
all creatures
are God's gift

she watches
the moorhens
some swimming
some walking

she has fine
bone structure
a fine nose

I guess so
I reply

we walk near
her hand soft
white near mine
close to touch

don't suppose
a London
boy sees them?
she asks me

I haven't
before now
I tell her
just pigeons
and sparrows
in London
except parks
then there's ducks
and such things

she walks near
the pond's edge
be careful
she tells me
a child drowned
here last year

I gaze out
at the pond
imagining
the dead child

my father
said the prayers
at the church
afterwards
very sad
Jane says

she's buried
in the small
church's ground
I’ll show you
when we're there
the next time

I recall
the last time
at the church
in the grounds
watching clouds
overhead
laying down
with the dead.

Yochana seldom seems
to get flustered
never seems out of key

with what's going on
and as I wait
by the school

before getting
the school bus home
I wonder if she'll come

or if it was just a ruse
by her to get me
off her back lunchtime

kids pass me by
even Rolland goes by
see you Benny

see you mate
he says
and I feel like

a doughnut stuck
on a baker's shelf
at close of day

then she's there
cool eyed
prim and proper

in her uniform
her school tie
tied just so

her shoes shining
her skirt uncreased
didn't think

you'd show
I say
not sure

of your
attracting power now?
she says smiling

not that you have much
but I had to come
and see you off

she says
I look at her
then at the school bus

getting crowded
then back at her
standing there

neat
well groomed
black hair

she's too thin
too sweet
out of my league

but a kiss
just a lip to lip job
she eyes me

I could have
caressed her
a thousand times

(exaggeration)
lunch time
but no

here I wait
anxious
about the bus going

and she knowing
then she leans forward
and kisses me

just the once
and then turns
and my lips

seem hot
and my heart
burns.

Yehudit sat by the pond.

The morning was warm,
sunny, white puffs of clouds
drifted overhead. Benny lay
on his back beside her, eyes
closed, hands behind his head.

She gazed at him. Not sleeping,
eyes motionless behind lids.

Resting he'd say. She took in
his blue jeans and off white
short-sleeved shirt, open necked.

She looked away, back at the pond.

Drakes and ducks swam. A swan
was over the far end. Elegant.

Can be vicious. Suppose they
can be. She put her hands around
her knees, fingers entwined.

Her skirt just over the knees.

Green stockings. Itchy. She
sniffed the air. Flowers, farm
smells over the way, water smell.

She looked at the long grass
behind her. Some months back
they'd been there. She gazing at
the sky, he on top of her. His
hazel eyes, looking into hers.

His quiff of hair on his forehead.

She liked that, the way it moved
as he did. She listening for sounds.

Footsteps in the grass, old broken
branches crunched under foot.

Voices on the wind. Wonder if
we would have? Maybe. Another
time. Too  soon. She looked away,
back to the pond. The swan was
nearing the ducks. Circles of water
spread over the pond. There was
that time further in the woods,
dense wood, tall trees, bushes.

Unexpected. Suddenly they were.

She wondering: was this how it was?
He eyes closed, moving in a motion,
entering, sensed him. Her coat on
the ground, cushioning. The tree
tops swaying, his quiff of hair,
clouds moving slow overhead.

She looked at him beside her,
eyes closed, his breathing slow,
but regular like one who dozed.

Lizbeth sits
on her bike
by the hedge

her short skirt
showing thighs
her white blouse

open necked
Benny sees
her from his

bedroom view
sitting there
on her bike

he goes down
out the front
to see her

well I'm here
Lizbeth says
weather's warm

we could go
for a walk
or a ride

Benny knows
why she's come
and stands there

by the gate
I'm with Jane
not with you

he tells her
but will she
-****** queen-

that Jane girl
let you have
*** with her?

Lizbeth asks
I don't want
to have ***

with you or
anyone
Benny says

not until
I'm older
not thirteen

Lizbeth sighs
inwardly
wanting him

sexually
and had come
very close

a few times
the ******
that girl Jane

needn't know
if we do
Lizbeth says

anyway
we can still
have a walk

I promise
to be good
Lizbeth says

just to talk
nothing else
Benny says

but of course
she tells him
so Benny

walks with her
down the lane
by the side

of the house
between high
hedges filled

with song birds
she speaks of
her mother

and her moods
her father's
indifference

the latest
rock and roll
long player

she'd bought
he listens
to her talk

smelling her
strong perfume
her red hair

tied in two
ponytails
the freckles

on her skin
she thinking
as they walk

side by side
how he'd look
above her

having ***
in her room
back at home

both naked
and that Jane
watching them

Benny thinks
of the hawk
-sparrowhawk-

he had seen
while with Jane
its power

flying high
hovering
waiting for

the big ****
and Jane's hand
near to his

as they walked
but Lizbeth
talks about

a new dress
she'd been bought
a bright red

with flowers
of yellow
and quite short

and Mother
doesn't like
its shortness

she says it
shows too much
nonetheless

I have it
Lizbeth says
then she stops

you can come
and see it
at some time

at my place
I promise
to be good

Benny says
that he could
-not that he

ever would-
then he tells
her about

seeing the
sparrowhawk
hovering

above them
Jane and him
powerful

and mighty
in the sky
Lizbeth thinks

it boring
just a bird
she muses

wanting him
inside her
in her bed

in her room
but she'll wait
bide her time

like the hawk
for her prey
and have him

some hot day.

And choir practice is over
and you and the others
leave by the vestry door
and look at the night sky

few stars
bright moon
and she says
wait a while

and so you wait
while the others
move off
towards the cars

or for the long walk
down the drive
from the church
and you see her there

in the moonlight
and she is standing
by one of the graves
and you go to her

and she draws you
to her and you kiss
and the warm lips
are on yours

and she has
her arms around you
and you smell
her scent

and feel her there
her body close
to yours
her hands touching

and her lips
and you touch her
and sense her
and it's as if

time has stopped
and nothing else
is in the world
except you and she

and the moonlight
and stars
and that slight wind
you sense

and her fingers
through your hair
and your hand
feeling along

her ****
and warmth
and no thoughts
no philosophy

no music
none of that stuff
just you and she there
and the kissing

and touching
and time moving
but you both unaware
that some other guy

would have her
and marry her
and that cancer
would take her off

into its deadly grasp
and there was moonlight
and stars
and lips

and kissing
and she saying
she loved you
and you saying words

that floated there
bird-like flapping
and her lips
soft as cotton

and her tongue
touching yours
entering
and sensing

and O boy
that was hot
and love
and only

in the dark hours
when her shadow
lingers nearby
do you see

that time
and feel
the need
to cry.

Jane and you stood
in the church porch

as rain fell
making large splashes

on the path
that led from the lane

to the church
and the sky was dark

and the clouds heavy
with more rain

like pregnant sheep
and you said

Don’t think
we’re going to make

the Downs today
so what should we do?

she looked out
at the rainfall

the drips from the porch roof
making puddles

by the entrance
and the wind was getting up

and she shivered
and said

Either we go into the Parsonage
or sit in the church

but the church’ ll be cold
and maybe

if we’re not noisy
Daddy’ ll let us sit

and talk in the lounge
and you looked at her

and she looked at you
and you said

Ok let’s go
to the Parsonage

and into the warm and dry
and she nodded

and so together
holding hands

you ran through the rain
to the Parson’s house

and went in
by the back door

and into the warmth
of the kitchen

where you both stood
drench and looking drowned

and her mother
stood there

staring at you both
her eyes on you

standing there
in your old coat and jeans

and Jane wet through
so that her dress

clung to her
outlining her figure

and plastering
her dark hair

to her face
and her mother said

Where have you been
and how wet you have got?

and she looked at you
and said

Best get you dry young man
don’t want you

getting a death
and she smiled

and Jane looked at her
and you and her eyes

sparkled like stars
on a winter’s night

and you smiled too
relieved that all

would be good
and all right.

Yiska sat by the window
of the locked ward
looking out
at the dawn light
coming through
the trees of the wood

behind her snores
from the sleepers
coughs
words spoken out
in dreams

she looked back
into the ward
and semi dark
lights from the night nurse's office
smeared into
the locked ward's
space

she looked back
into the wood
and the light of dawn
breaking through
the trees
like an army of ghosts

out there he was
he who ditched her
at the altar
she and her
upside down day
wedding that wasn't
bride who near died
can't live
without him
she'd said
wish I was dead

the light spread
through the trees
******* branches

you're not going to
until after the wedding
she'd said
they never did

maybe that was it?
she asked
the coming light
pushing aside night
because I’d not do it
before the day?
wouldn't let him
have his way?
she said

a voice muttered
behind her
words muffled
by snores

out there
somewhere
he's there
he who betrayed
(he hasn't turned up
I’m afraid)
the best man's words
let lose
like angry birds
flapping
about her head

I want to be dead
she had cried
and almost died
(handful of pills
all sorts
colours
types
strengths)

the light was spreading
through wood
burn it all
nothing now
(she said
recalling Auden)
can come
to any good.

Can you
buy me
an Augusten
Burroughs book?
You asked.

I'd not heard
of the guy
until then;
read Bill Burroughs,
but this guy
was new to me.

Anyway,
I sought him out
in the local book store
and purchased
the book you said;
wrapped it up
for the birthday gift
and gave.

Now and then,
if house sitting
for you, while you
were at work
and some workman
came to do a job
or sort things out,
I’d pick out
the Burroughs book
and read
a paragraph
or so, smile,
get the drift,
the humour
pretty much
like yours,
then put it down
until another time arrived
to carry on
the quest to read
where I’d left off
the time before.

Now
since your sudden death,
I’ve inherited them all,
the large book
and medium range
and the small.

I've all the time
to read them now;
they sit there
by my bedside cabinet
waiting to be read,
silent, well behaved,
orderly, all in line.

I wondered if
you read them all,
or if time ran out
before the end,
that illusive
final paragraph
or so, that last book
unread.

I guess
I’ll never know;
you being
on the other side
of the curtain,
they label:
being dead.

Sure I’ll read
the books
read them
until the end
each
and every one;
but I’d rather
see you again
my dear
departed son.

Ingrid usually wore
the faded grey
flowery dress
that had seen

better days
I saw her crossing
Rockingham Street
I was getting

bread rolls
and she was standing
by the wall
of the flats

red eyes
hair unbrushed
where are you going?
she asked

getting rolls
for breakfast
I said
how comes

you're out here
so early?
I asked
my dad

pushed me out
said I was getting
on his nerves
she said

have you had breakfast?
I asked
no not yet
she said

I looked up
Meadow Row
the early morning sun
was breaking

through clouds
you can come back
to my mum's place
I said

have rolls and butter
she looked at me
can I ?
she said

of course
I replied
taking in her red eyes
and untidy hair

and a fading bruise
under her left eye
real butter?
she said

yes and maybe
cheese if you want
I said
she looked at me

her eyes
feeding on me
what now?
she said

yes
come to the bakers
with me and we
can go back

to my mum's place
together
I said
so we went across

to the baker's shop
and I bought
crusty bread rolls
my mother had said

and we walked back
through the Square
and up the stairs
to the flat

are you sure
your mum
won't mind?
she said

as I opened
the front door
no she won't mind
the more the merrier

I said
and so we went
into the kitchen
and I told my mother

and she said fine
and cut open the rolls
and buttered them
and put in

some cheese
and Ingrid and I
went into
the front room

and we ate them
in an early morning
silence
and as she ate

I gave a secret sigh
seeing the fading bruise
beneath
her left eye.

Jane looks confused.

I kissed her
when I met her
by the water tower
in Bugs Lane.

Why did you
kiss me?

She's wearing
her grey dress
and cardigan;
her eyes look at me.

Impulse,
I didn't think,
I say,
presumptuous of me.

Presumption
is like a kind of theft.  

Sorry,
should have asked.

She looks over
the hedge
towards the farm,
then back at me.

I wasn't expecting it,
but it was nice.

I feel like a ****;
I look at her
dark hair
long and untied
by ribbons
as she does sometimes.

If you'd been a peach
I’d have nibbled.

She smiles
and looks up
towards the Downs.

A blue tractor
is climbing upward.

I hope he's careful,
she says,
a tractor driver
was killed
a few months ago
doing that;
he was crushed
beneath the machine.

I look at the tractor.

He seems competent.

So did the one killed;
my father had
to comfort the widow
and perform
the funeral service.

I take her in
side ways on:
her complexion is pale,
her lips
a washed out pink.

Maybe I can show you
his grave
in the churchyard.

Ok,
I say.

Churchyard viewing
is not
my favourite pastime,
but if I’m with her
I don't mind
watching paint dry.

I want to kiss her again,
but feel unsure.

Sorry about
the presumptuous kiss.

She looks at me.

Imagine I'm a peach,
she says.

I kiss, not nibble;
we kiss
and she nibbles
my lip with her lips.

I feel electricity
tingle my finger tips.

My name is Milly Aswillbe,
I wish there was just one of me,
But in fact, there’s twenty-three,

Each takes their time and place
To occupy my frame and face,

And have their stint upon the stage
Being good or madly rage

Or being sweet and kind
Or being wild and speak their mind,

Each has a different name from mine
One of which is Cassy Kline,

But each is odd to some degree,
For each is some part of me.

We lie there
on the grass
in the park
of St James

young Nima
and young me
both smoking
looking up
at the sky

you know what?
she utters
if I don't
get a fix
pretty soon
I'll dry out
be withered
like a nun's
******

you won't get
out of that
hospital
or get those
mind quacks off
of your case
if you get
more fixes
I tell her

I know that
my parents
tell me that
when they come
to visit
both doctors
of a kind

what about
having ***?
are you up
for a ****?
she says loud
disturbing
the wild ducks
near by us
and others
passing by

not right here
I tell her

of course not
some place else

what place else?

some hotel
some cheap joint
like we did
a month back

not today
getting late
you've to be
back in that
hospital
before long
I inform

she looks round
stares at me

can't go on
not like this
I'll go slit
my **** wrists
if I don't
get a fix
or a ****

she lies back
on the grass
cigarette
held aloft
like some young
movie star
in a role

I lie there
watching clouds
and birds fly
and thinking
of the ***
that we had
in that cheap
hotel room
on that bed
that made sounds
like migraine
in the head.

You met Julie
in St James’s Park
as was arranged
(better than some

pokey hole
at the hospital
she’d said)
she clothed in jeans

and open necked
blouse
a thin jacket
on which

she lay
and you’d already seen
the ducks and swans
and the telling

of her latest
cold turkey plunge
and four lettered expressions
of the nursing staff

you lay on the grass
beside her
taking in
the sun

and sky
her talking
along side you
you seeing her form

from the corner
of your eye
she smelt
of oranges

fresh pressed
her voice carried
bittersweet
her hands conducted

in the air
some invisible
orchestra
you remembered

that sexuality
she exuded that day
at the hospital
how it was then

the best *** ever
she’d said
love this place
she said suddenly

breaking out
of her tale telling mood
my parents
bless their

middle class souls
brought me often
as a child and
on she went

words spun like silk
and you laying there
taking it all in
wondering if she’d

break out
of the grip
of her addiction
wondering if

she thought of you
each time she undressed
in that ward
before bed

that best ***
of all times claim
still ringing in your head
where after this?

you said
oh
she said
there’s this cafe

I adore
in Leicester Square
we’ll go there
and that was it

all sorted
except it wasn’t
as such
the future

is some distant land
you may never reach
some shore
you’ve dreamed of

and ached for
many times before.

O
she said
life is such a bore
don’t you think?

I looked at the way
she’d done her hair
such hair
I could nestle

my nose
amongst those locks
and had done
quite often

but she would talk so
and I had those lips
pressed against mine
pressed soft as cherries

against them
like that summer
when we’d managed
to be alone

and were quite content
to lay
in the tall grass
and listen

to the birds sing
and buzz of bees
and she placing
cherries in my mouth

and I in hers
and o
she said
did you hear

about that
Mrs Broad’s daughter?
But the cherries
were in the mouth

firm and round
and the tongue
would move them
around and around

and it kind of
reminded me
of the time
when I mouthed

her teats
one by one
and she said
the daughter’s

in the family way
and the cherries
broke open
and the juices ran

and how that time
after making love
her juices ran
and I said

life is not a bore
at all
life is life
it is we

who are boring or not
and she said
open the window Benedict
I’m too hot.

The tall monk‭
with large blue eyes,‭
walked with his head‭

to one side‭
as if he spoke‭
with God‭

at an awkward angle.‭
I gazed at the grey‭
falling rain,‭

the church roof‭
from my cell window,‭
became a slightly‭

greyer grey.‭
The dark haired monk,‭
with the cissy girl hair,‭

moaned about‭
my apple picking,‭
in his posh boy‭

tone.‭
Down by the woods,‭
on a leaf strewn path,

the French‭
peasant monk‭
walked alone.

The Beethoven piano piece
played on an old
record player

by Miss G
the music teacher
and the class quiet

(or maybe asleep)
but you Yochana
you sat there

engrossed by it
your head moved slightly
your thin shoulders moved

as in a secret embrace
your hands in prayer mode
Reynard sat bored

and eyeing the girls
or drawing inside
his exercise book

rude pictures
I sat half listening
to the Ludwig

other half
watching you Yochana
(being back a few rows)

how slender your body
how the grey cardigan
hugged you tightly

your hair ribboned
green bow
and Reynard whispered

look at titless
how she moves
to this boring crap

bet I could
move her better
Miss G walked

the classroom
arms folded
bespectacled

hair greying
tied in a bun
the brown cardigan

with leather patches
you Yochana
lay your head

on your hands
in meditation
of the piano piece

I viewed you steady
my eyes moved
over you

like an explorer
over new horizons
unexplored seas

O to be within
those arms Yochana
O please.