The priest performed
a simple solemn service
for the internment
of your ashes.

Your close family
were there
by the graveside;
the small dug hole,
the sacred plot,
the green carpet.

Your sister brought
your wooden casket,
carrying you
for the last time.

Your nephews and nieces
cried as did we all
inside or out.

I guess you were there,
my son, in spirit
looking on, taking in
the whole service
from start to end;
the flowers;
the wooden casket
with your name on top;
watching your brother
place it carefully
in its resting place;
ashes to ashes,
the priest said,
but the soul lives on,
his words meaningful
in the afternoon warmth,
the sun lazily there;
bird song;
you listening,
my son, nearby,
silent as you
usually were,
eyeing the proceedings,
sensing our loss
and ache
at your departure
in a ****** sense;
but you are
here and there
in spirit
as our recompense.

Sheila can't settle her mind
to lessons
she sees only
the boy John

in her mind's eye
his words repeat themselves
each time
the teacher speaks

maths
English
double P.E
had to be

got through
until at last
it's lunchtime recess
and she can hope

to find him
on the playing field
after a rushed meal
and she stands

on the edge
of the field looking
out to see if he's there
but she can't see him

and worries that recess
will go and she won't
have seen him
she walks onto the field

and there are kids
everywhere in groups
playing ball games
and sitting here and there

then as she turns
he's there
coming towards her
hands in his pockets

walking across the grass
looking for me?
he asks
she nods and searches

through her mind
for the right words to say
been looking for you
she says

trying to put on
a face of not being
put out
but isn't succeeding

he looks at her
taking in her glasses
and large eyes
and hair pinned back

at one side
with a metal clip
well I'm here now
he says

her name's gone again
he says
what is your name?
Sheila

she says
feeling unsettled
that's it
he says

he looks back at the field
behind him at boys
kicking a ball
Rennie asked me

about a game of football
but I said I was seeing you
John says
what did he say?

she asks
said I need to see a doctor
John says
o

she says
looking at the boy
and wondering if
he wants to be there

with her
do you want to play
ball with him?
she asks

no it can wait
he says
and walks on
and she walks beside him

why doe she say
you need to see a doctor?
she asks
as they walk on

he thinks girls
are a waste of time
beside football
I see

she says
don't worry about Rennie
I want to be here
with you

you do?
sure
I wouldn't be here
otherwise  

o right
she says
let's go sit up
that end near the fence

away from the others
and we can talk
he says
she nods and smiles uneasily

he's is near to her
and his hand
is mere inches from hers
and as much as

she'd like him
to hold her hand
she's frightened
that he might

o what to do
she thinks as they walk
on towards the fence
and sit on the grass

and she feels undone
yet excited
to at last be there
with him

watching him
and taking in
his hazel eyes
and quiff of hair

and glad
she's sitting there.

Each evening she got
off the bus and crossed

the forecourt of the gas
station where you worked

wearing her knee length
raincoat and made her way

into the small shop inside
and you stood there open

mouthed gazing at her hot
beauty at her black hair and

dark eyes and she said I want
20 of those cigarettes and

she pointed with her thin
finger and red nail to cigarettes

behind you and you turned
around and took down the

cigarettes pack and put them
on the counter and she took

coins out of her black purse
and placed them one by one

on the counter top and said
There that’s just right and then

off she went no more words
just a wiggle of her *** and you

watched her go out of the door
and along by the forecourt of

the gas station and you sighed
and sniffed the air to capture her

perfume and held on to the sight
of her and placed it in your memory

like some rich guy putting some
precious gem in his vault and you

would sense that memory of her
wiggling *** like some fresh fish caught.

Christine stood
at the ward window
peering out
at the snow

you stood beside her
smelling the perfume
she wore
the one she was going to wear

on her honeymoon
had the ***** shown up
as she told you
a few days before

snow looks like icing
on a Christmas cake
she said
hope to Hell

I’m out of here by then
me too
you said
as long as the quack

don’t fry our brains
with ECTs again
better not have
she said

gives me headaches and ****
look at that tractor
out there in that field
see how those gulls

are following him
through the snow
she followed your finger pointing
like a ship at sea don’t it

she said
you stared up
at the greying sky
cloudless

and end of worldish
could have been
on my honeymoon
some months back

she said suddenly
could have been
well *******
and sun blessed

guess so
you said
instead I get brained fried
by some doc

in a white coat
don’t see how
he could have let you down
like he did

you said
that bridegroom
of yours
gutless worm

she said
leaving me standing there
in that white dress
and headpiece

and those fecking
pinching shoes
you sniffed her perfume
looked at her sideways

her eyes scanning
the fields and trees
her night gown
beltless

(in case we take
to hanging ourselves)
opening
to show legs

and night dress
hanging by the knees
she breathed
on the glass pane

breathed it up
and wrote
with her finger
no more ECTs.

Ole planned
to go

to Las Vegas
but he didn't make it

his untimely death
got in the way

(such are the plans
of mice and men

they say)
he even noted it

on his
Face Book page

mentioned
in passing

as if
a whole clear road

was visible ahead
(now he's dead)

but I can can see him
now in spirit

making his
own way there

taking in
the bright lights

the neon signs
the shows

to be seen
(getting in for free too

what a Mutley laugh
that will bring)

and Ole
in his black hat

and coat and shirt
and dark shades

making his way
at his own

slow pace
around the casinos

his ghostly hand
pulling a few arms

of one armed bandit
machines

while the punters
look on

**** witless
as the arm

goes down
again and again

or in the other games
I can see you

taking your own part
your sense

of gamble and fair play
wandering the tables

ghostly whispering
advice

(in your quiet voice
being nice)

having a cool beer
at the bar

or Jim Beam
or Jameson

if they've got it
you sitting there

the barman unaware
you there

taking in
the whole scene

the big shows
the bright lights

neon signs
wish I

could go there
with you

walk at your side
sharing a beer

or whiskey
a soft conversation

or that special silence
we often shared

when words
weren't needed

where the bond
was strong

go to Vegas my son
go to Las Vegas Ole

take in
the whole scene

of Vegas fun
my departed son.

Geraldine
riding home

on the bus
after work

sitting there
in the crowd

thinking of
her lover

sweet Holly
lying there

in the ****
all the night

her small globes
kiss ready

legs parted
hotly moist

waiting for
Geraldine's

snake like tongue
spider like

*******
between thighs

watery
sea blue eyes

uttering words
I love you

between the
oohs and ahs

whispered sighs
of just there

gets me hot
just that spot

she sways slow
to bus's swerve

a bell's pressed
at the front

but all that
Geraldine

can think of
is Holly

and Holly's
moistful ****.

Bukowski whispers
his beery breath on my neck
don’t forget the cats.

After morning matinee
and after dinner
of sausages and mash
and baked beans

you met Helen
by the post office
at the end
of Rockingham Street

she had on
the red flowered dress
you liked
and held Battered Betty
her doll
by an arm

her hair was held
in plaits
by elastic bands

and her thick lens spectacles
were smeary where
she'd touched them
but not cleaned them

where are we going?
she asked
how about London Bridge
train station?
you said
we can watch the trains
come and go
and watch the porters
rush about with luggage
and things

she gazed at you
through her thick lens
shall I tell my mum
where we're going?

sure if you think
she'll worry
you said

be best if she knows
Helen said
don't want her to worry
where I've gone

ok
you said
and so you both
walked back
to her mother's house
and she told her mother
and her mother came out
and looked at you
and said
ok so long
as you're with Benedict

and so you walked back
along Rockingham Street
and got a bus
to London Bridge
railway station

and sat on the seats
downstairs
by the conductor

and this guy with glasses
and a thin moustache
gazed at Helen
from the seat opposite
his eyes moving over her
his gaze focusing
on her knees
where her dress ended
he licked his lips
his hands on his thighs

Helen looked away
pretending she didn't
see him looking
you stared at the man
watching his eyes
dark and deep
they say it's rude to stare
you said

the man looked at you
kids should be seen
not heard
he replied

and you're seeing a lot
you said
he muttered something
and got off
at the next stop
giving you
a hard stare

Helen said nothing
but seemed relieved
after a while you got off
the bus at the railway station
and went inside

there were crowds
of people
and the smell of steam
and bodies washed
and unwashed

and the sound of trains
getting ready to leave
and voices and shouts
of porters and rushing
and going and coming
of people

and you sat
with Helen
on a seat
on the platform
she with Battered Betty

and you with your
six-shooter in your
inside pocket ready
to get any bad cowboys
who came your way

and Helen said
why was that man
staring at me
on the bus?

just a creep
wanting a peep
you said

peep at what?
she asked
I'm not beautiful

yes you are
you said
anyway it wasn't
your beauty
he was looking at
you said

what then?
she asked

oh something
he oughtn't
you said

and a loud blast of steam
echoed around
the station
and a voice called
and a whistle blew

and you all
sat watching
Helen
and Battered Betty
and six-shooter
carrying cowboy
you.

Della walks
with her father
onto the beach.
Sand, sun,

sea going out.
Sea,
she says
love it.

Her father looks at her,
takes in her smile,
her well kempt hair,
the tip of her tongue

resting there
on her lower lip.
Did your mother
pack your swim gear?

Packed it in my bag.
Where's the bag?
She looks back
towards the car

parked by the road.
You must try
to remember
these things.

I did, then I forgot.
It doesn’t help.
Angry sounds.
He sighs.

Stay here, don't move,
he says
and walks back
towards the car,

over the sand,
hands in the pockets
of his black jeans.
She watches him walk.

Angry walk,
she thinks.
She sees him
most Saturdays,  

sometimes Sundays,
since
the divorce.
He gets to the car

and takes out
her pink bag,
locks the car
and treads back

towards her,
his face dark
and unsmiling.
Like smiling faces.

There you are,
he says.
She takes the bag
and they

walk down
towards the sea.
He gets out
a large beach towel

and lays it down
on the sand.
Here we are.
Sea smells salty.

It does.
If you sniff it
it gets up your nose.
He nods,

gets out a book
and begins to read.
Makes your nose feel salty.
She looks at her father,

he stares at the page
of his book.
Can I go into the sea?
Be careful.

She stare sat him.
Shall I get on
my swimming
costume here?

Yes,
he says,
turning a page.
People will see me.

They do.
Mum holds the towel
up around me.
He sighs and gets up

and gets out
a large coloured towel.
OK then,
get your gear on.

She takes out
her swimming costume
from her bag
and drops the bag

on the sand.
She looks at him.
Mum puts the towel
around

me so people
can't see me.
He sighs
and puts the towel

around her,
stares out
at the beach.
She takes off

her cat patterned top
and drops it down.
Then she removes
her skirt and underwear

and quickly,
but awkwardly
puts on her costume.
He looks at ships

on the horizon.
Seagulls,
bathers,
families and lovers.

She pulls at the costume
to get it comfortable.
Done it.
Good.

He folds the towel,
puts it beside him
and begins to read again.
She stands looking at the waves.

Mum walks me to the waves.
Why?
In case I slip.
You're a big girl now.

What if I slip?
He lifts his eyes
from the page.
You won't.

Mum holds my hand in case.
Your mum does
a lot of things
I don't.

He reads on.
She stares at him
for a few moments,
then unhappily

walks down
towards the waves.
She has her hands out
like a tightrope walker,

to balance herself
over the sharp stones,
here and there.
She reaches the area

where the waves rush in.
She stands there looking out.
She sniffs the air. Salty.
People around her stare.

A child laughs.
Two boys whisper.
She walks into the water.
The sea is warm,

rushes over her feet.
She clutches her hands together,
looks at the boys.
Warm water.

Wet, too.
The boy grins.
She's a Mongol,
the other boy says.

Funny features,
the other says,
big lips, and tongue.
She looks back at her father

reading up on the beach.
She paddles deeper.
Leaves the boys behind.
The waves rush against her knees.

She claps her hands,
hugs herself,
feels hers small *******.
The sea is crowded

with bathers.
Noise, laughter
and shouts fill the air.
She stands still.

A boy splashes her.
She puts her hands
over her face
to keep the water

from her eyes.
He rushes back
towards the beach,
laughing.

The water rushes
to her thighs.
Best not get out too far, deary,
a woman says nearby.

I'm Della,
not Deary,
she says.
The woman nods and smiles,

well be careful, Della.
The sea can be  dangerous.
Mum says
be careful.

Yes, you must.
Mum's not here.
Who's with you?
My dad's with me.

Where is he?
Della points towards the sand
where her father
is reading his book.

Be careful, Della,
the woman says.
Be careful, mum says.
Yes, be careful,

the woman repeats.
The woman gazes at Della.
Sees her vacant expression.
Her daughter died

the year before.
Drowned.
Della  looks back
at her father

sitting reading.
Mum watches me.
So she should.
Dangerous place the sea.

Della stares
at the incoming
rush of waves,
loud shush of the sea.

Your dad should watch you, too,
the woman says.
He reads.
He should watch you.

Della hugs herself tighter.
Best not get in
much deeper, Della dear,
the woman says.

Deep.
Gets to my thighs.
Yes, higher
than you ought to go.

Frightened.
Let's go back,
the woman says.
Della clutches

her arms tighter.
I fell last time,
and got salty water
in my mouth.  

Sickly.
Was sick after.
In the car.
The woman smiles.

Let's walk back  
to your dad.
The woman holds out
a hand.

Della hesitates.
Her father
is reading his book.
She puts out her hand

and holds
the woman's hand
and they walk up
towards the beach.

The warm hand holds her.
Far from
her father's sight
and the deep sea's reach.

The small hut
on the Downs
unused now

near the hedge
is not what
Lizbeth thought

it would be
is this it?
she mutters

Benedict
nods his head
this is it

there's no light
inside there
probably

got spiders
Lizbeth says
likely to

he replies
and woodlice
and beetles

and field mice
she stands back
mouth open

wide open eyes
she had thought
before this

she could get
Benedict
to have ***

with her here
a nice hut
she had thought

the blanket
an old one
she had brought

from her home
on the ground
cosy warmth

making love
Benedict
entering

into her
with birdsong
going on

the outside
having him
at long last

after months
of planning
and now this

this old hut
damp and dark
with spiders

and field mice
and beetles
and woodlice

making love
in that place
she muses

looking in
wouldn't be
one bit nice

Benedict
unaware
of her ploy

to have ***
in the hut
says mildly

with a smile
bet this place
hasn't seen

no action
in a while.

Anny Horowitz
pressed her nose
against the glass
window pane

of Nero’s coffee bar
where you sat drinking
coke in ice in a glass
her ghostly

blue eyes
peered at you
a smile lingered
her small hands

were palm flat
on the pane
so that her lifeline
and headline were visible

where she pressed
you beckoned
with a nod
of your head

for her to come in
and she came in
and sat in the seat
beside you

her phantom
1940s clothes
seemed neat and clean
and her blonde hair

was ribboned
and looked fresh washed
Anny’s hand touched
the back of your chair

her eyes searched
about her
the fingers
of her other hand

toyed
with an empty glass
on the small
round table

she talked
in her soft voice
and asked about
the drink in the glass

and you told her
and she smiled
and was fascinated
by the bubbles rising

around the ice cubes
a couple came in
and a took a seat nearby
he went off

to order drinks
and she sat
and looked at you
then away again

not seeing Anny
sitting there
Mozart music
playing

in the background
Anny sat listening
her head
swaying slowly

to the music
she said
she remembered
the music

her feet
in black shoes
swung back and forth
under the chair  

she said
at Auschwitz
they played music
but it made her sad

to remember
you took out
your mobile phone
and spoke into it

did they play Wagner
at Auschwitz?
you asked
she said she thought so

the woman nearby
looked at you
wondering who
you were talking to

then looked away
what is that?
Anny asked
my mobile phone

you said
phone?
she said
it’s like the telephones

in telephone boxes
years ago
but smaller
and you can go around

with them
in your hand
Anny nodded
but the woman frowned

giving you a stare
you sipped your coke
nice and cold
refreshing

against heat
coming through
the coffee bar window
Anny gazed

at the woman
then put out
her hand
and touched yours

and it was cool
and soft like silk
as if a breeze
had blown

against your skin
you gazed
at her ribboned hair
her blue eyes

then she faded
and was gone
just the nosey woman
giving you a stare

not knowing
your little Jewish friend
had come and gone
and was no longer there.

The soft machine is my body, said Sonia, it gives pleasure to men. I sit in my bath, rinse away the touch and feel of them, while in the other room Dimello lies upon my bed, gazing up at the ceiling, smoking his fat cigar, singing between puffs some song he thinks I like, some verses he’s remembered from some former times. Mi máquina suave, he calls me, his soft machine, supple, malleable machine. He knows little of me; his mind is of lower things, of orifices and *******, of *****, drugs and ***** deeds. He knows nothing of my needs, my little wants and desires. I lay back in my bath, let the water soothe me, my ******* sit upon the water’s skin like dolphins about to skim the waves, but these just sit and wait, two small whales, my fingers touching them as if some lover had felt and loved. Sometimes I embrace this soft machine, my hands around me as if some secret lover held me close, or I kiss my arms with my soft lips, mocking Dimello with his damp thick lips, his ***** breath in my ears, his words like pinpricks on my flesh. Besaré la máquina suave, he says, I will kiss the soft machine, he repeats, his smile oily, his eyes dark as prunes. Last night he made love to me, his body like some pounding shark, his teeth nibbling my flesh, his fingers entering, feeling their way in the dark, his coarse voice mumbling his words of lust and love. My uncle loved this soft machine, he would tickle and touch in the summer days when I stayed for the holidays when my parents were away on their business trips abroad in other climes in my childhood times. Nuestro secreto, Uncle said, our secret, none must know, he would whisper, his hands seeking  smooth my flesh, to soothe my troubled mind and me. The water in my bath grows cold; I hear Dimello singing from the other room, his head on my pillow, his cigar smoke invading my space. I arise from my bath; look at my soft machine, my body, with its suppleness, its litheness, its agility. I know each inch of this machine, feel it with my finger’s touch, hold it in embrace, kiss it with a self-love, a tenderness lacking in other’s touch. Dimello calls, his patience lacking, his lust returned. Apresure mi máquina suave, he calls, hurry, my soft machine, my body awaits your return, he says. I want him gone, want his body from my bed and home. He does not love as I wish to be loved, his love is of a lower kind, his wants and lusts feel me with dread. I look out of the window and see the morning sun, see the day coming with its freshness blooming, the birds singing from some nearby trees, and Dimello singing like some strangled cat, his voice echoing through the walls of my one roomed flat and lowering my lips I blow a kiss to the birds in flight trying to forget Dimello and his lustful night.

Picking out
the right sized stone
was just the start
and Lydia helped

picking up
this one then
that from
the bomb site

and showing it
to him
in her small palm
he took it

and placed it
in the catapult sack
and pulled back
and aimed

at some tin can
he'd set up
some distance away
and it go

and the tin can
went flying with a zing
and she laughed
and said

you got it straight on
and clapped
her hands together
then looked around

for another
while he went
and set the tin can
up again

on the stone wall
of what had once been
the side of a house
now blown

wide apart
he watched her
searching
all intent

as if
she were seeking gold
or coins that had dropped  
she liked being

his ammunition collector
better than being
at home
with her snoring

older sister
and her mother
in hell frozen over mood
and her father

sleeping off
the night before *****
better here
with Benedict

being his
ammunition supplier
his right hand girl
besides he often

bought her a drink
of pop or sweets
from the Penny shop  
his 9 year old features

seeming older
and her 8 year old face
seeming younger
thin

pale
her hands
frail looking
fingers

skin and bones
here
she said
here is this OK?

and she ran to him
and showed him
and he said
yes just right

and he put it
in the sack
of the catapult
and aimed

then said
hey you want to try?
but she shook her head
no I might hit

something
I ought not to
and besides
I like watching you

and so he aimed again
and let it go
and it zoomed
through the air

and caught the tin
and it flew spinning
with a yelping sound
and hit the ground

and she thought
of her big sister
throwing up
in the early hours

after the binge
and night out
and her mother
bellowing out

in the early hours
you ****** *****  
and her father saying
O quit the mouth

let the kid learn
her own way
and she Lydia
turning over

away from
her sister's ****
and back
the sound of vomiting

in her ears
and he tucking
the catapult in
the back pocket

of jeans
thought of his younger sister
getting herself
run over by a car

cuts and bruises
a small scar
otherwise OK
the other day

and right
he said
looking at Lydia
come let's go

get us
a penny drink of pop
from the Penny shop
and she smiled

and walked beside him
his John Wayne swagger
cowboy hat
on his head

ready to shoot
any bad cowboys
who came along
bang bang dead.

You had never seen kale before
it looked like large cabbage plants
reaching skyward
so that you could hide in it

and not be seen
from the farm
and Jane walked
with you there

and you both sat there talking
she about her father
and how he prepared
his Sunday sermons

right after the one given
on the previous Sunday
and how he liked
to close himself away

from the family
for hours at a time
with just his Bible
and other books

and God of course
and get it down
and afterwards
polish it up

until he had it off to pat
and you listened to her
trying to imagine
what it must be like

to have a father
who was a pastor
and you'd met her father
a few times

and her mother more
(and was told
she liked you)
and tried to think

about what her father's sermons
were about
(you never went
to the services)

and as she sat there
with her flowery dress
red and yellow
and those white ankle socks

and walking-about
-the-farmland-shoes
and dark hair
tied at that moment

with a red ribbon
you noticed
how beautiful she was
in her own way plain way

and how her hands
were held together
over her knees
as she raised her legs

and how the sun light
still reached
you both there
in the kale

and warmed
and eased you both
and you talked
of London

and when you left
and why
and how so different it was
and how you could walk

to at least to two cinemas
whereas here
there was none
but that you didn't mind

as it was a new life
and next to nature
and you could learn
new things kind of life now

and she smiled
and that thrilled you
that smile
that spread of lips

that pierce your heart
and mind kind of smile
and her wrists
slim and white

and the fingers
thin and white
and the nails
had white half moons

on them
and you wanted
to sit there
with her forever

in the tall kale
with the bright sun
and secret love
and feel inside

and 13 year old
sensibilities
each wanting to touch
but not at least not much

and she pointed out
a Red Admiral butterfly
fluttering over the kale
and slowly by.

Tommy passing Nana’s room
hears her say
can you help me
with my corset?

sure
he says
walking into her room
a cigarette hanging

from the corner
of his mouth
what do you want doing?
he asks

can you pull it tight for me?
and she offers him
the two corset strings
and he take them

between his fingers
and gives a pull
she breathes in
and holds it there

her arms by her side
her face vacant
as if she’s awaiting
something to happen

her mouth slightly open
he holds the strings tight
studies her eyes
the curl of hair

the way her mouth is open
her arms by her side
thinking how beautiful she is
how he’d not noticed before

smelling her perfume
trying to place
the make and kind
that’s it

she says
can you tie it there?
sure
he says and ties the strings

behind her back
his nose a few inches
from her naked shoulder
breathing in her scent

wanting to kiss the flesh
the neck
the ear
to put his hands

upon her hips
that’s done
he says
tight as a miser’s purse

thank you
she says
that’s much better
and kisses his cheek

and says
aren’t you the man
from upstairs?
yes that’s right

he says
do you play the saxophone
that I hear?
yes the alto sax

he mimics a saxophone
with his hands
and runs his fingers
along imaginary keys

usually I’m taking a bath
when I hear you
she says
or lying in bed

your sounds sinking
through the ceiling
oh sorry if it disturbs
he says

gazing at her small ****
under the cloth
I love the haunting sounds
she says

they sound so sad
as if your soul
were speaking
or calling from across

an abyss
he gazes at her neck and chin
her moving mouth
the pink of tongue

the sparkling eyes
yes
he says
that wide abyss

wanting to hold her tight
and place
upon her moving lips
a hot lips kiss.

Lydia's mother
sliced the bread thinly
and buttered sparingly
and handed Lydia

two limp slices
and said
get that inside you

can't have you going
everywhere
with your stomach rumbling
people'd think

you've not been fed
Lydia took the two slices
and a mug of stewed tea

but she hadn't been fed
that was why
she went and got
the rolls and bread

but she said nothing
just nodded her head
and followed her mother

into the living room
and sat at the table
her big sister
had gone to bed

her father was sleeping
off the beer
Lydia nibbled like a mouse

a thin long haired girl
of a mouse
can I go up West?
she asked

up West?
her mother repeated
as if her daughter

had sworn at her
up West?
she said again
turning the words around

in her head
to see how they fitted in best  
can I?

her daughter
asked again anxiously
you can in the sense
that it's possible

but if you mean may
as a permissibility
then no

her mother said
what?
Lydia said
uncertain where

she was
in her request
your gran always said

that the difference
between can and may
is one of possibility
over permissibility

said Lydia's mother
may I go?
Lydia asked softly

no you may not
her mother said
why not?
her daughter asked

because I said so
her mother replied
why do want to go there?

her mother asked
Benedict said
he was going there
and that he'd take me

Lydia replied
oh him
her mother said

she sat and took a bite
from her sandwich
picturing the boy
from upstairs

in the flats
with his hazel eyes
and big smile

and self assurance
about him
why does he want to go
up West?

she asked
he likes adventures
Lydia said

adventures?
her mother said
repeating the word
as if

it were unknown to her
who does he think he is
Biggles or someone

like that?
Lydia sat nibbling
frowning
holding the bread

in her thin hands
he's never mentioned Biggles
Lydia said

don't talk
with your mouth full
her mother scolded
Lydia swallowed

the bread
he's not said nothing
about no Biggles

Lydia said
well you can't go
her mother said firmly
looking at her daughter's

thin frame
and lank long hair
do you mean I mayn't?

Lydia uttered gently
I said what I mean
her mother said
and don't get mouthy

like your big sister
or you'll feel
my hand

across your backside
Lydia nibbled
and looked away
a train steamed crossed

the railway bridge
leaving grey white smoke
behind it

lingering there
unsettling the air
her mother muttered words
but Lydia didn't listen

she watched clouds
cross the sky darkly
carrying a storm

or rain
she liked her backside
as it was
she didn't want

no pain
she'd not ask
again.

Miryam meets you at the bar
of the base camp in Madrid.
She has an orange juice
and cereals
and a coffee chaser.

Did you sleep o.k?
you ask, sitting beside her,
with a coffee
and toast and cigarette.

Sure,
she says,
afterwards.  

Her eyes light up
like lights
on a pinball machine
when it's played well.

You? she asks,
you sleep all right?
Sure, but the ex-army guy
wasn't too pleased,
me getting back in the tent
at that hour,
you say.

**** him,
she says.
No thanks,
you reply.

She sips the juice,
her lips hold the glass
as she drinks,
her mouth is fish-like
as she swallows.

You talk about
the ex-army guy's moans
about his mother's boyfriend,
how they don't
get along(he
and the boyfriend),
and how he feels
left out and how
he got thrown out
the army because
he was suicidal.

She sips,
and you watched
her eyes feasting on you
as they did
the night before,
and you recall her
******* in
the small space
of her tent,
the girl she shared with
off ******* some guy
she'd met on the coach,
the tall guy
with an Australian accent.

You watched her,
as you disrobed yourself,
the space throwing
you together,
each touching each,
kissing and *******
and kissing.

He still feel suicidal?
she asks.
Guess so,
you say,
tried to talk him
through it all,
laying there
in my sleeping bag,
half asleep,
listening
and talking to him,
eyes closing,
and his voice
becoming a drone.

Anyway,
he seemed happier after,
snoring not long after,
as I was laying there
thinking of you.

She eats the cereal,
talks about the girl
coming back
just after you left,
well ******
and happy,
glassy eyed,
giggling
and stinking of *****.

You sip the coffee,
take in her small ****,
pressing against
her coloured top,
flowers and balloons,
patterns, eye catching.

She begs a smoke
from your packet
and you nod,
and she takes one out
and lights up
from the red
plastic lighter,
the cigarette,
held between her lips,  
kissable lips,
lickable.

Yes, it had been
a good night,
you and she
and someone
strumming a guitar
from the bar,
nearby,
loudly singing,
not far.

The morning mist
that hung over

the pond (or your lake
as Judith called it)

had moved away
by the time she came

and stood next to you
wrapped up in her

Sunday best
waiting until the time

for the bus to take
you both to sing

in the church
her breath flowing out

on the air
like cigarette smoke

her eyes focused
on the skin

of the still water
I dreamt of you

last night
she said

you and I
were snuggled

together in my bed
having made love

you watched
a magpie take flight

over the water
nice

wish I could
have been there

in person
you said  

more breath
left her lips

and rose upwards
maybe next time

you can
she said

turning her head
spreading her lips

into a smile
just be my luck

your mother
will invade the dream

and catch us
you said

yes
Judith said

that would
spoil the dream

some what
there was a mist

over the pond earlier
you said

it looked beautiful
she turned

and stared
over the water

I missed that
as you missed

making love to me
in my dream

she whispered
drawing closer

her hands
taking hold

of yours
what did you

dream about?
she asked

an empty bed
and cold sheets

and a space
where you should

have been
you said

she smiled
and said

I couldn’t be
in both beds

at once could I?
once more

there was the rising
of her breath

you couldn’t tell her
you’d seen

an image
of her death.

Lizbeth's hand
is on the metal ring handle
to the church door.
The hand twists.

Hard to move,
jerks, pushes.
The door gives
and they are in.

Smell of oldness
and damp.
He closes the door
behind them, his

hand giving gentle push.
It clicks, holds firm.
Small and old,
the walls a fading white.

Old beams, pews,
altar table clothed
in white a cloth.
She looks around,

eyes scanning,
hands by her side,
fingers of one hand
holding her blue dress.

He follows, footsteps
after hers, scans her
before him, the walls,
the old wood pews.

They stop and turn
and look back
at the smallness
of the church.

Here will do,
she says,
pointing to a pew.
He shakes his head,

we can't, not here,
people may come.
No one comes here,
except on the monthly

Sunday or the odd
visitor or tourist.
He scans the pew,
old wood, wood knots.

Who's to know?
She asks. He walks
down the aisle
touching pew tops.

She watches him,
his reluctance,
his hesitation.
Some boys would

jump at the chance,
she says. But not
here, he says, turning
to face her, not in

a church, on a pew.
Some might, she says,
running a hand
over the pew top.

They had parked
their cycles outside,
at the back
of the church wall.

The sun shines through
the glass windows.
What if someone
comes and finds us?

She smiles. Moves
towards him.
Touches his face.
Imagine their faces,

she says. No, I can't,
he says, not here.
He stares at her,
her smile, her eyes

focusing on him,
her red hair loose,
about her shoulders,
her blue dress,

knee length,
white ankle socks,
brown sandals.
We're only 13,

he says, shouldn't
even be thinking
of such things,
let alone doing them.

His body language
tells the same.
She gazes at him,
his short hair,

his eyes wide
with anxiety,
his grey shirt,
jeans, old shoes.

We'd always
remember it,
she says, here
on a pew, me

and you, this
small church.
We could come back
years later

and view
our love scene.
No, he says,
not here, not

anywhere.
He looks at
the walls,
the roof,

the pews,
the altar table,
white cloth,
brass crucifix.

She sighs, looks
at the pew,
imagines the place,
the area of pew.

He and she.
But it is just
imagination,
mere thought,

she has not so far,
nor he, just an
impulse on her part,
an urge, a hot

compulsion to
experience,
experiment.
Let's go, he says.

Wait, she says,
let's just sit
in the pew,
just sit.

He studies her,
her eyes lowered,
her smile gone.
Ok, he says,

and they enter
a pew and sit.
The sunlight
warms them.

He looks at
the high windows,
at sunlight.
She sits and looks

at the brass crucifix,
the distorted Christ,
the head to one side.
She wonders how

they would have done it,
he and she, here,
on this pew.
She is unfocused.

She feels the sun
on her. Blessed,
she thinks, maybe.
He feels a sense

of gain and loss.
He has stepped
to an edge,
stepped back,

gazed into
a dark abyss.
She turns to him,
leans to him,

thank you,
she says.
They close eyes,
lips kiss.

You purloin books from
Monsieur Marteau’s large
Library; you like

The slightly saucy
Ones best; the books he
Hides from his wife. You

Can smell his sweaty
Palms all over them.
He has an eye for

You; you can tell by
The way he follows
You around the room

As you slowly dust
And polish around
The shelves, removing

Books and wiping them
Clean. You are very
Thorough Mimi, he

Says, not all maids are
As dedicated
As you, and he laughs

And you laugh with him
Putting on one of
Your pretend blushes.

Madame Marteau has
The face of a smacked
Bottom; her thin lips

Seldom spread into
A smile; her eyes are
As olives in snow.

Don’t be too long with
That dusting, girl, there
Is much to do and

When are you going
To tidy yourself
Up, you are so slow

And slovenly; not
What I expect from
A maid at all, she

Moans, her haughty voice
Echoing around
The hall. You love to

Read his saucy books,
His fingerprints are
On the edges, dark

And oily; his pipe
Tobacco stinky
Smell escapes from each

Page and you as you leave
The library and
Pull the door behind

You with a gentle
Click, you imagine
Him alone in there

Scanning over the
Saucy books; his lips
Drooling, his dull eyes

Being feed ****
Images and his
Sad wife elsewhere, now

Forgotten or too
Busy or moaning
At you; and while you

Snuggle up in bed
At night with the book’s
Thrilling dark pages,

His wife lies in her
Bed untouched, unloved,
Unkissed and cold and
Has been for ages.

Walking through a field of kale
Jane in front and you following behind
brushing on your hands over

the dew damp leaves
breathing in the morning air
she looking around

in case the farmer
or one of his farmhands
sees you wander

through the tall kale
you notice she has a slight wiggle
as she walks ahead

not intentional
not like some of the girls at school
you put on the wiggling hips

to attract the boy’s searching eyes
it’s just a natural movement
and you watch and take in

the decisive tread she makes
maybe in fear of mouse
or just cautious of doing damage

to the kale’s green stems
then she pauses and turns around
facing you and says

I come here sometimes
and sit amongst the kale
just to be alone and away

from the pressures
and eyes of others
you nod and say

it gets like that sometimes
and as you speak
your eyes move over her face

and at her eyes
and the way her hair
is neatly brushed

and her lips parted slightly
as if about to speak
mother warmed me of boys

she says looking over your shoulder
at the farm beyond
she says they’re not to be trusted

then she pauses
and looks you in the eyes
and oh you mutter inwardly

the way she looks
the way her eyes
move over me like an artist’s brush

and you sense
a kiss waiting to happen
lips paused to press

tongues ready to explore
each other’s orifice
warm and wet

but nothing happens
and you both walk on
through the dew damp kale

hoping for another time
another fresh dawn
another sexier now.

All through science she has thought about him, scribbling his name on the palm of her hand, doodling his name on the inside cover of her exercise book. The teacher rattles on about chemicals, about combinations, of numbers, but Christina isn't listening, she's gazing out the window at the sports field over the way, there where she and Benedict go some lunch times if it's fine and she's not stuck in the girls playground watching other girls play at skip rope or other childish games or chatter. The weather looks fine, the sky blue, clouds sparse. Good. Be out there. He will be there, too. Miss him when he's not about. A piece of chalk whizzes by her head and the teacher calls her  name and to concentrate and not daydream. She turns to the front and picks up her pen and takes down the writing on the board. The teacher scowls, eyes like hawk's. She saw him at morning break in passing by the tuck shop. He gazed at her. Sent tingles through her. Watched until he was out of sight. She scribbles in the exercise book, writes down the script on the board. Last night she dreamed of him. Had his photo under her pillow. Her head inches away from him. She pretended he had come to her room at midnight(the parents were downstairs still) and stood by the door looking at her. She told him to come closer and he came and sat on her bed. Seemed so real. Mere inches away. Hand near mine, pretended to touch. The teacher talks on boringly, she writes faster. The other kids seem to focus, make effort, look up, write down. At breakfast her mother was in a mood. Dark mood day. Moaned about state of my bedroom. Clothes everywhere, she said, books, paper, I won't have it. Christina puts down her pen. Inky fingers, pen leaks. ****. She wipes on a tissue, rubs away. Still stained. The other day she held Benedict's hand palm upward and read his lines. Wanted to see how many children he'd have or his wife. Couldn't decide. Wasn't sure. She liked his hand in hers, his fingers, the smoothness, the skin on skin thing. They kissed briefly, other kids were watching, making silly sounds, comments. She thinks her twin brother says things about her to their mother, not out of spite or telltale, but innocently in chatter over the dinner table or by way of idle talk. Her mother invited Benedict to lunch one school day. Studied him, questioned him. One of her black mood days. She managed to take him to her room for a few moments while her mother was out and showed him her bed and her doll collection and such and kissed quickly until they heard her mother's return. The lesson will soon be over. She cannot wait. Bored titless. She closes her exercise book and puts the cap on her pen and stares at the teacher as she finishes her talk. Her big brother has books under his bed. She saw one the other week while looking for his record player to borrow. Magazines of naked women. Piles stacked neatly. She removed one and opened the pages. She stopped at a page where a woman was kneeling dog like. A man was there ,too. She blushed, closed the magazine, shoved it back under the bed and went out of the room and to her own room. What the hell was that all about? She tried to push it from her mind. Her big brother had touched her in her room and she said nothing. The magazines were still there, she supposes, watching the teacher answer questions of those who were interested or pretended they were to get in the teacher's good books.  Hands rose in the air by those with questions of science. Christina ponders a question:  why do some women kneel dog like? She doesn't ask. Imagines the teacher's face, giggles from other kids. Best not to. The biology teacher was best to ask. But he will probably blush. So would she. She wishes time would fly. The sky is still blue. Clouds drift lazily. Her big brother lifted her skirt under the dinning room table and touched her leg. She said nothing, but stiffened, he smiled. Mother moaned about my untidy room, the ***** clothes under the bed, put in the wash basket, she went on. A bell rings from the passage, lesson over, thank God, she thinks, shoving her books in her bag. She goes to the washroom and enters a cubicle. The fingers are still ink stained. Benedict's name is written small there on her palm. She kisses her palm. She remembers the first time she saw him. He was new to the school, came just before Christmas. He stood in the assembly hall in a year above hers. His sister was in her class. They talked about him. She introduced him to her one lunch time on the sports field. They talked shyly, sat near, didn't touch, uneasy the first time. She left the cubicle, washed her hands, scrubbed her fingers with the white soap. Cleaner, still slightly stained. Try again later. She leaves the wash room and goes along the passage  hoping to see him. Crowds of kids pass by. A boy and girl by the gym door smooch, his hand on her thigh, her hand on his neck. But no Benedict. She stares about her. No. Not about. She moves towards the next lesson, maths, double, time passes, boring, wants to see him. The bell rings, next lesson, his sister walks beside her, not him, o if it was him, if only.  The passageway is dull, her life seems dim.

You met Judith
in the woods
at the back
of the cottage
you had the mutt with you

taking it for a walk
on the lead
in case it ran off
she was by
the small pond

in her summer dress
her hair tied back
by a dark blue ribbon
why did you bring your dog?
she asked

the parents said
she needed
to stretch her legs
you replied
looking beyond her

at the small pond
where you used to sit
trying to fish
but caught nothing
where shall we go?

she asked
let’s go sit
by the small lake
(as you called
the large pond)

and we can sit and talk
what about your dog?
oh she’ll be ok
I can tie her lead
to the nearest tree

she’ll have room
to move around
and sniff and root out
insects if she likes
you said

I bet you say that
to all the girls
Judith said
and laughed
and you smiled

and took in
her laughter
and the way
she laughed
her eyes

brightening up
her lips parting
like a breaking dawn
and taking
your spare hand

she walked you through
the woods stepping over
brambles and fallen branches
to get to the outer fence
which she climbed over

but you climbed through
and the mutt walked under
and as you walked
across the field
to the lake

she said
I hope no one saw us
the other day
when we did those things
why

what makes you think they did?
you asked
holding the mutt in check
as it tried to run off
just something

my mother said
before I came out
this morning
when I said
I was meeting you

oh
you said
was she on the war path?
no
but it was the way she said it

as if she knew something
about us or me and you
and that day
and where we were
a rook flew overhead

a black flap of wings
a loud call
shouldn’t think
so you said

watching the rook
fly off
the mutt barking
maybe
she was just trying

to dig out something
or maybe she just thinks
the worst of me
you said
maybe

Judith said
and became silent
as you both moved
towards the large pond
( the lake as you called it)

and sat down
after tying the mutt
to the nearest tree
where it sat staring
at you both

with its dark eyes
as Judith laid her head
on your shoulder
staring out
at the skin of water

on the pond
and the slight shimmer
where dragonflies
came and went
on the surface

and whispered
I love you
which vibrated
along your shoulder
and into your heart

and you couldn’t see a time
you’d not be together
or ever
this side of death
be apart.

You entered the single
factory door
into a noisy
and busy shop floor

with a guy called Brian
who was older than you
and had a worn
and worried expression

a foreman came
and asked Brian to go with him
and set him to some job
over the way

then he came to you
and said
what’s your name?
Collins

you said
right Colin
he said
follow me

and you were puzzled
why he had called you Colin
as you followed him
down the aisle

between machines
and people
he introduced you
to a middle aged dame

with glasses
who was short
and dumpy
there was another dame there

who was thinner
and a bit younger
who smiled
the plump dame

showed you around
her department
and set you to work
on a drilling machine

where you worked
most of the morning
then you had to go
to the work office

where a dame sat
you gave her the job sheet
how long were you
on the job?

she asked
about 6 inches
you said
she looked at you

a hint of a smile
on her lips
how long?
she repeated

how long what?
you asked
how long in time
were you on the job?

she said slowly
you said
3 hours it says here
mmmm

she said
you’re new aren’t you?
no
you replied

I’ve been around
for 21 years or so
she gazed at you
with her dark eyes

her lips were about to speak
but she nodded
then shut
the slide window

leaving you staring
at the window glass
you walked back
through the aisle

towards the plump dame
and her department
ready for the next job
before lunch

hoping it wasn’t
another drilling operation
but assembly
or cranking

or any other job
than drilling
thinking of the dame
in the office

and something
more thrilling.

Dodo draws on the cigarette.
The smoke hits the throat.
The city ***** her in with its
huge sick well of emptiness.
Bagteller wanted her to go
to his place last night and make
passionate love. What a laugh
that’d been. Him and his fetishes.
The schoolgirl uniform was not
her thing. Too many memories.
She told him to stuff that in one
of his tight dark orifices and walked
out into the city’s cold night. Went
home to her own place and took
a hot shower. She is still sore from
the scrub. She wants to scrub her
past away with the brush and soap.
Nothing washes away the memories
that have sunk deep. She wakes to
a new day. The city is buzzing with
the walking dead and half living.
The cigarette smoke fills her lungs
and then out into the air. Mother said
men were not to be trusted. Father
said don’t listen to her she’s biased
and ****** and smells of sour cream.
Oh that I could open up my mind and
wash it out and not have to see that
shrink once a month just after my bleeds
have gone she says. Dr Glexity with his
black suit and blue tie one green eye and
one grey. All that **** money and nothing
to say. She inhales the smoke and the city
and the living and the dead and ***** them
into her lungs broken heart and stuffed head.

Elaine sat in class.
She'd seen John
on the bus, but he
had not looked over

at her, but gazed out
the window, sitting
beside the boy Trevor.
She looked back and

he was sitting at back
of class with a boy
called Rowland, he
looking at some book

the boy was showing him.
Once the pupils were
all there Miss G took
the register calling out

the names. Elaine wished
John was beside her at her
desk; wished he was talking
to her not the Rowland boy.

She sat uneasy, her body
plumpish, her glasses smeary
needing cleaning. Miss G
talked about music; about

Mozart; about his piano
works and put on a LP and
the pupils sat arms folded
or hands over faces listening

-or not- to the unfolding
Mozart music piece. Her sister
talked of boys over breakfast;
what so and so had done and

where and their mother had said
NOT AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE
loudly but did boys really sniff
after girls as her sister had said?

Elaine never heard John sniff her.
He had kissed her that day, but
not sniffed-thank God- and she looked
at Miss G as the music played away.

The dark night was out there
even though the shutters
were up at the windows
and the night nurse sat

in the small office
with her coffee
and wearing glasses
and you entered

unable to sleep
you wearing pyjamas
and dressing gown sans belt
in case you tried

to hang yourself again
and you sat opposite
taking in her big blue eyes
behind the lens of her glasses

her hair brown
and well kempt
and you said
when can I go home?

when you’re better
she said
when will that be?
you’ll know

she said
and sipped her coffee
how good does better feel
you have forgotten

but do not ask
her upper lip has skin
from the milky coffee
hanging

and she wiped it off
with the back
of her hand
and Christine stood

by the door of the office
dressed in her nightgown
pale green  
and open at the top

showing the indentation
of her throat
and the small valley
where her ******* began

can’t sleep
she said moving in
and standing by the desk
you looked her

feeling an intrusion
yet glad she is there
her being there beside you
the smell of her

her hands on the desk
tapping
what is it with you two?
the night nurse said

if it’s not one
it’s the other
or both
can’t sleep

Christine repeated
had a nightmare
dreamed I was at the altar again
and he didn’t show again

and it happened again
and again
the nurse said
I’ll get you both something

but if the doctor
hears of this
he may recommend
ECT again

she looked at you opposite
across my dead ****
Christine said
but the nurse had gone

just you and Christine
and her nightmares clinging
gazing out the office
onto the sleeping ward

in semi dark
and the dread
of the ECTs
hauntingly present

remembering the last time
in the small back room
waking with a head heavy
and in pain

and Christine
lying beside you
on another bed
eyes closed

stiff like one sleeping
but acting dead.

Ingrid would mostly get out of bed in the mornings last of all after her sister had done and her father had gone off to work and she had heard the front door go and knew it was safe to go wash and dress and brush her hair and sit down to breakfast her mother had prepared(if she was up) or she'd get her own cereal and mug of tea(stewed after her father had made it) and listened to the radio some ladeeda voice talking about something she didn't understand or music by so and so's orchestra watching her sister mouth in her cereal or her brother chewing the doorstep slice of bread he'd cut she sat in the wonky chair sitting still in case the leg broke and her dad'd leather her for being reckless when he got home she mouthed her cereal slowly knowing her mother'd say you got to chew it properly Ingrid you don't half gobble your food down like a blooming turkey you are and her brother sat opposite looking at her pulling a face now and then or poking out his tongue or her sister sitting back lounging as her mother called it and if her mother was up and dressed she'd be brushing the carpet in the other room or putting the copper on for the wash or hanging out washing from the night before on the line her dad put up out on the balcony Ingrid scratched her nose looking at the small television set in the corner the small black and white number her uncle said fell off the back of a lorry and no questions asked no lies told he'd say laughing she gazed at the mantelpiece with the old clock and a few small statues of birds and animals she tried to sit comfortable as she could tried to avoid sitting on her right buttock too much where her dad'd hit her the night before for a tear in her school skirt think we're made of money do ya do ya? she moved to her left ate the last mouthful and sipped her tea stewed or not at least it was still sweet and hot and it made her inside warm it was near time to go to school she thought looking at the clock only half listening to her brother talking about some bird he had been out with the night before oh yes she was up for it he said but up for what Ingrid didn't know or care her sister sat mouth open gazing at him the spoon half way to her mouth as if frozen in time and I fancy her a bit and said I'd take her to see that new picture that's out and we can sit in the back row and well he laughed you know what it's like in the back row but Ingrid didn't and looked away and wondered if she dared have a biscuit from her father's tin she liked the chocolate ones he bought for himself but if he found out there'd be hell to pay and he'd say it was nothing but theft and give her a good hiding no best not to risk it she thought getting down from the table and getting her coat and satchel ready to leave don't forget to brush your teeth her mother bellowed from the other room you know what the dentist said last time about your teeth as how you don't brush them enough OK I am Ingrid bellowed back going into the kitchen and taking her pink brush from the cup on the red tiled shelf and dipped it in the tin of tooth paste and brushed as hard as she could until her gums bled staring at herself in the small mirror her dad shaved in staring at her teeth the gums bleeding the toothpaste white and red her brush held by her mouth and washed her brush under the cold water tap the getting a handful of water she washed out her mouth until the bleeding stopped then wiped her mouth on the towel behind the door get a move on her mother bawled from the living room or you'll be late OK just going Ingrid bellowed back over the clutter of sounds from the radio and her mother banging around and she opened the front door and closed it behind her nosily so that her mother would know she'd gone and not bellow anymore and so off she walked along the balcony looking over at the Square below wondering if Benedict had left yet hoping he hadn't wishing to see him she went down the concrete stairs until she reached the entrance and out into the Square where she walked by the other flats on the ground floor looking ahead to see if Benedict was about but she couldn't see him and so walked on down the ***** towards the road then along by the flats wondering if he r mother was watching her walk along from the flat window above and behind her that's how her mother knew about Benedict and her how they walked together to school and sometimes they stood on the balcony in the evenings looking at the sky darkening or the down at the Square below but Benedict wasn't with her this morning maybe he'd gone earlier or maybe he was late leaving but she couldn't wait in case and besides her father didn't like Benedict said he was a bit up himself a bit soft what with his reading books and collecting stamps and so on but that was what she liked about him he was different and he was kind to her and didn't tease her like most of the boys did didn't call her four eyes or say she stank or that she had fleas(which she didn't except that one time she got them from Denise) or try to lift up her school skirt to see the colour of her underwear like some of the boys did or tried she went into subway the lights glowing the echoes of voices in her ears the hum of traffic above the sense of being walled in the smell of ***** where tramps had slept and **** the walls when she came out the other end she saw Benedict waiting for her by Burton's clothes shop his hands in his pockets a big smile on his face and she felt all warm inside all safe and happy as if blessed by the good God's grace.

You had been in Tangiers
until the early hours

of the morning
and was brought back

to base camp on the truck
as the sun was beginning to rise

over the horizon
and had then gone

to crash down
in your tent

too tired to undress
and slept through

until midday
then showered

and sat in the bar
when Mamie came

and sat beside you
and said

where’d you go last night?
I thought you

were going to walk me
down by the beach

and watch the sun rise
from the sea?

I was too tired
you said

I crashed out in my tent
she looked at her glass of coke

I could have joined you there
she whispered

and done what?
you said

slept beside me?
she shifted her buttocks

on the stool and said
well it would have been better

than sleeping in my tent
with that Scottish hen

as her brother calls her
you sipped your drink

and watched
the old Moroccan guy

in the corner
inhale on his marijuana smoke

plus I had her snoring
and moaning in her sleep

Mamie added
giving you her side on stare

yes
you said

it would have been
better than that

and she put her hand
on your thigh

and rubbed it back
and forth and said

but it didn’t happen
maybe next time

you replied
imaging it all

in your mind
right down

to the last removing
of clothes

and trying to move
in the tent’s small space

your body drained
of all strength

wanting only sleep
the Tangier *****

and belly dancers
and nightclub smoke and music

clinging on your flesh
and ringing in your ears

and she trying
to get you in

the right place
and you closing your eyes

and drifting away
like one who dies.

Johnny watched
the girl
in the coffee shop
with the small tattoo

on her neck
just visible
above her collar
of the blouse

she was dressed in black
like a direttore funereo
rather than a bar girl
she had dark long hair

in a ponytail
and eyes to sink ships
or raise men's *****
he watched her

while he sipped
his large latte
taking in
each aspect

of her visible being
her ****** gestures
her smiles
her tone of voice

the skin tone
of her hands and arms
-that aspect
alone visible-

she moved
with firm intention
going about her tasks
with resolve

and ambition
but she seldom
gazed at him
or if she did

when he came in
it was a small smile
of recognition
a quick glance

as she took
his order
from the menu
and all the while

he drank her in
from strand
of dark hair
to tone of pale skin.

One legged Anne
sat in her wheel chair
by the white table
on the lawn

watching the other kids
at play
on the swing
and slide

or sitting around
playing I Spy
hey Kid
she said to you

push me out
to the beach
I can't watch this crap
makes me

want to throw up
with all this
goody two shoes stuff
so you pushed her wheelchair

along the back path way
towards the back gate
where you going?
Malcolm asked

away from you lot
as far as possible
she replied
o

Malcolm said
what will Sister Paul say?
couldn't give a fig
what she says

Anne said
push on Kid
she said
so you pushed on

along the path
I'm going to tell her
Malcolm bellowed
go kiss her backside

for all I care
she bellowed back
come on Kid
push push

so you pushed
and out the back gate
and on to the path
that led by the beach

you smelt the sea
the sound of gulls
you moved along
the path pushing

the wheelchair on
here here will do Kid
she said
pointing to an area

of beach
so you wheeled her
onto the beach
but got stuck

in the sands
ok ok here will do Kid
so you stood behind her
and stared out

at the sea
and the horizon
thanks Kid
she said

here come stand beside me
and so you stood beside her
her one leg sticking out
from the short blue skirt

the stump just visible
out of the skirt's hem
thanks Kid for being a friend
she said

that's ok
you replied
thank you for helping me
out of the bath last night

she said
didn't want those pesky nuns
getting me out
with their constant

mutterings and prayers
that's ok
you said
recalling the bath episode

she calling you in
the bathroom
sitting there
in the bath

she beckoning you over
don't shut your **** eyes
how can you see
to help me out

with your
******* eyes shut
she'd said
so you remembered

putting a hand
under her arm
and she was able
to get up and out

and said
hey bring me that towel
so you recalled
bringing the towel

your head averted
here
you said
and she took it smiling

and covered herself
and began drying
and said
ok you can go now Kid

and you left
and closed the door
behind you without
looking back

see that horizon Kid?
see the seascape?
she asked
yes

you said
well that's what I want
to be like
free and open

not some hemmed in girl
with a thousand hormones
bashing against my skull
hormones? you said

what are they?
never mind
she said
you'll know

when they kick in
and she gazed out
at the sea
her black hair moved

by the slight wind
her hands on the side of the chair
just you and she
silently being there.

Hers was a life of compliance.
Fulfilment of another’s wishes,
observance of another’s needs,
conformity to the rules set down
in stone. She was the rubber of
beads through fingers, touched
by thumbs; the beads of the rosary
would be sealed by prayers.

She was the self denier, who put
herself last, one who sacrificed
pleasures for a promised salvation,
whose menstruations were reminders
of babies that would never be,
children which would never be hers,
dugs that would never be ******.  

She carried the cross through cloisters,
sandaled feet trod the paved paths,
heard birdsong, saw butterflies in flight,
moths at night in the candle’s flame,
she hidden away, unknown, no fame
with a saint’s name. And each morning
rising with the bell, kissed by the early
dawn, touched by the chill of early frost,
she lived and moved, all for love of Christ.

Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, Sister Maria, the refectorian, had said, Sister Teresa remembered walking passed the refectory, touching the wall with her fingers. God is my witness and guide, she translated, feeling the rough brick beneath her fingers. She stood; turned to look at the cloister garth. Sunlight played on the grass. Flowers added colour to borders and eyes, she thought, letting go of Maria's words as if they were balloons. Ache in limbs; a slowness in her movements. Age, she muttered inaudibly. The war had taken her cousin's sons in death. Two of them. Peter and Paul. Burma and D-day. Three years or more since. She brought hands together beneath the black serge of her habit. Flesh on flesh. Sister Clare had touched. Not over much, not over much. Papa would lift her high in his arms as a child, she mused, her memory jogged by the sunlight on the flowers. Higher and higher. Poor Papa. The spidery writing unreadable in the end. She sniffed the air. Bell rang from church tower. Sext. She looked at the clock on the cloister-tower wall. Lowered her eyes to the grass. So many greens. Jude had lain with her once or was it more? She mused, turning away from cloister wall and the sight of grass and flowers. Thirty years since he died. Blown to pieces Papa had written. Black ink on white paper sheet. Flesh on flesh; kiss to lip and lip. She paused by church door; allowed younger nuns to pass; so young these days, she thought, bowing, nodding her head. Placing her stiff fingers in the stoup, she made cross from breast to breast. Smell of incense; scent of wood; bodies close; age and time. She walked to her place in the choir stall, bowed to Crucified tabernacled. Kneeled. Closed eyes. Murmured prayer. Heard the rustle of habits; clicking of rosaries; breathing close. Opened eyes. Sister Clare across the way. A nod and a smile, almost indiscernible to others, she thought, returning the same. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; chant began; fingers moved; sign of cross; mumbled words. Forty years of prayer and chant; same such of fingered rosaries; hard beds; dark night of soul and such. She sensed Papa lifting her high in thought at least; Mama's touch on cheek and head. Jude's kiss. Embrace of limbs and face. Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, she recalled: God my witness and guide. Closed eyes. Sighed. Sister Clare had cried; had whispered; witness and guide; witness this and guide, she murmured between chant, prayer, and the scent of incense on the air.

As you sit in the cafe
in the shopping mall
you see Sophie
and her man friend

smooching across
the table
he with moustache
and thinning

combed back hair
and she
with dark black hair
straight to the collar

of her white blouse
they purse their lips
he closes his eyes
leans forward

she likewise
as if
in some French cafe  
in some 1950s film

you sip your latte
watch the show
he once worked
pushing trolleys

in some super store
she unsure
but with a carer
sometimes seen

walking the mall
or in the bank
or shops
and some days

she’ll come up
and say hello
in a loud voice
as if she’d not

seen you
in a thousand years
other days not at all
or she’ll tell you

some news
about her life
or some small trouble
that’s got her down

today she sits
and kisses
and converses
with the man friend

and he’ll laugh
and maybe she too
and hold hands
over the cokes and cakes

you sit back
in the chair
and watch them there
repeat their kissing

or holding hands
the Romeo eyes
now open
leaning near

mouthing words
you cannot hear
she lips still pursed
says loudly

of a love
she feels
or how hot
the weather is

or how his scarf
untidy looks
or unbuttoned shirt
others who do not

know them sit
and gawk
and make snide comment
behind their hands

make judgement
in their bourgeoisie world
but you like others
who know them of old

sit and drink
and make no judgements
of what they say
or do but watch

the kissing
and holding of hands
like in a B feature
at the cinema

waiting for
the real thing maybe
but content to see
the movie through

having no where to go
or other things to do.

Ingrid sat on the brick wall
of the bomb site
her hands in her lap
her untidy hair

held in place
with wire grips
the plain grey
cardigan and dress

had food stains
here and there
you sat beside her
in jeans

and bought for you
cowboy shirt
the Saturday film
matinée

just seen
suppose I'd best be home
Ingrid said
before Dad gets back

he doesn't know
I went to the pictures
and he'll say
it's a waste of money

but it's only 6d
you said
surely he wouldn't
begrudge you that?

she said nothing
but stood up
and brushed down
her dress

best go
she said
wait a while
you said

let's buy some chips
before you leave
I've no more money
she said

I have
you replied
patting your jean's pocket
*******

the 6 shooter
toy gun
hanging
at your waist

best not
she said
if Dad sees me
he'll go off

the deep end
she stood there
half undecided
chips with salt

and vinegar
and maybe
an onion or two
you added

giving her a look
your head to one side
she bit her lip
as she fingered

her cardigan
but Mum said
not to be late
Ingrid said

sometimes
they throw in
a slice of bread
and butter

you said
especially for kids
if you give them
I'm starved look

she smiled
her hands going
into the cardigan pockets
what if he sees me

go in there?
she said
he won't
you said

he couldn't see
the end of his nose
without getting dizzy
you said

anyway he might not
be back until later
she shrugged
and then said

ok if we're quick
and so you stood up
and walked her
up Meadow Row

and across the road
to the fish and chip shop
and bought
2 bags of chips

and onions
and 2 slices
of bread and butter
because you both gave

that we're starved gaze
you walked her back
down Meadow Row
eating in silence

she eating ravenously
her fingers busy
her mouth opening
and closing

once you'd finished
and you'd stuffed
the waste chip papers
into a bin

by the grocer's shop
she said
thank you
that was scrumptious

and she kissed your cheek
and walked off
and across
Rockingham Street

towards the Square
at the top
by the entrance
with arms crossed

grim face  
Ingrid's father
stood scowling
standing there.

Chana had a bike
and I had a scooter
she moaned a lot

and I did not
she wore clothes
her mother said

she had to wear
I wore
what was left to wear

from the day before
she loved sweets
and ice lollies

I loved licorice sticks
and sarsaparilla
she  hated vegetables

and meat pies
I hated liver
and fish with eyes

she said
why don't you
go play elsewhere

and leave
my brother to me?
go ask your brother

I said
and then we'll see
he said not her but me

so Chana went off
in a huff
riding her bike

like a bat
from Hell
Chana

was my best friend's
sister not
(thank God) my girl.

I saw this black
and white
photograph once
of a Deep South lynching

of two African Americans
(or black guys
as they were termed then)
hanging from a tree

by their necks
eyes closed
(as if they dozed)
dressed in rag clothes

one with his head
to one side
hands untied
a crowd looking on

one white guy pointing
the rest looking
with acute interest
what the two guys did

or why
they were lynched
I had no idea
or why the need

to photograph
a sense of justice?
or threat?
or for a laugh?

I had no clue
but looking at them
hanging there
surrounded by a crowd

I thought
of the Crucified
the Christ
and wondered

if He'd been hanged
by the neck
from some gallows
instead of being

nailed to a cross
and His followers
wore small gallows
instead of a cross

it was alter
His sacrifice
or lessen
the sense of loss?

Hank’s mother lectured
Him on the objectification
Of women. Never objectify

Women as ****** objects,
She’d say emphasizing each
Word with a slap to the back

Of his head, (he hadn’t seen
Women as such up until then,
Being only ten), women, she

Added, her dark eyes boring
Into his, are not there for men
To paw over with their eyes

Or hands of any other part
Of their anatomy, poking Hank
In the chest. Yet, when he later

Considered her words, he recalled
That she and that Mrs Baldof were
Always leering over that Jack

Hynde, saying, look at those biceps,
Wouldn’t mind those arms about
Me, imagine those muscles rippling

Over you and they’d laugh and
Giggle like a couple of schoolgirls
Being tickled, and although his

Mother was dead now and his
Father brain drained in some
New York hospital ward, he did

Try not to objectify women as
****** objects, did try to see
Them just as human beings, but

It was pretty hard when a nice
*** went by or a pairs of *******,
Casually caught his eyes, going

Down the subway stairs for a train,
Bouncing there like punch bags
In a boxing gym or a slim figure

Came into view as he stood by
The window looking at the late
Afternoon sun, puffing a smoke,

Listening to jazz, a bottle of beer
In his hand, but he did try, and his
Mother’s words were still there,

The echo of them and the slap of
Flesh on flesh still vibrated inside
His head, despite the passing of time

With the clock’s tick-tock and him
Still turning his head and old eyes,
Watching a pretty woman going by,

In a tight fitting, breast hugging,
*** clinging, short shock frock.

Benedict stands
in the porter's lodge,
circa 1969, waiting
for Dom Tyler the monk,
to bring the large key
to open the church for Matins.

Dawn, cold air, smell of age
and incense and baking of bread.
He remembers Sonia,
the domestic at the home,
who pushed him to the bed
of old Mr Gillam and said
in her soft Italian,
Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
then in her broken English said,
I could have *** with you here.

Another joined Benedict
in the porter’s lodge,
some holy-Joe type,
breviary under arm,
starved gaze.
The silence,
the smell,
the chill.
Dom Tyler opens the door
from the cloister
and rattles the key,
smiles, but does not
break the Grand Silence.

He takes them out
into the morning air,
opens up the church.

Lights are on, monks
are assembling, bell rings,
Benedict takes a seat
on the side pew,
the other sits
more in front.

The old monk who last time
talked to Benedict
of monastic life,
slides by, his body aged,
his habit like a shroud.

How he escaped Sonia,
how he managed
to get away unmolested,
he finds it hard to fathom,
except the promise
of the cinema,
the seats at the back,
the kisses and touching,
all in the dark,
the flashing images
of the film going on.

Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
he utters under-breath.
The Latin of early morning
Matins begins, he dismisses
her image and her words.

The holy-Joe opens his breviary
in the semi dark, his finger
turning pages, muttering,
his head nodding
to an invisible prayer.

Benedict imagines Sonia
creeping into the pew,
muttering Italian,
sitting there.

That year they gave Tess
her first typewriter. She’d
not need to borrow her
brother’s battered old piece
or write down her fragile
poems in her spiderlike
scrawl as her father called it.

The promise came while
she was getting her mind
together in that mental
asylum, after the mucky
love affair that went no
place and left her hanging
there, like one crucified
for all to see and most
to softly mutter and stare.

Get yourself mended girl,
Father said, and we’ll buy
you your own typewriter,
so you can stab away on
the keys to your heart’s
content and bring out
those poems of yours.

He never read her poems,
never read much apart
from the back page sport
or gawked at page 3 girls
with a tut tutting tongue.

That year she gazed out
of the wide barred window
of the asylum at the snow
on fields, at the seagulls
gathering and feeding behind
the faraway tractor as it
ploughed, at the grey
depressing sky, wondering
what it’d be like to not be,
wondering what the woman
with a cast in her eye, was
doing to herself in the toilets,
one night when she’d gone
in to *** unable to sleep.

The typewriter idea
and promise kind of got her
through the dark hours and
the ECT, and the following day
headaches and numbness.

After slitting her wrists (mildly,
a cry for help) she said on the
phone to her father, Come get
me out of this place, help me
get back together. Ok, he said,
Miss Humpty Dumpty, and he
put down the phone, and she
stood in the hall of the asylum
with the receiver in her hand,
the image of the typewriter
before her eyes, those poems
banging on the inside of her
head, new ones wanting to
get out, old ones left for dead.

Hes gone. I heard the door go. Ingrid relaxes, her shoulders unwind, the nerves untense. Just wait; he may return. She waits, listens. He does that sometimes; returns and stands looking at me as if he cant decide about me. No sounds of him. Mum in the kitchen; pots and pans; water running, but not him. Ingrid stares behind her in case her father has sneaked in without her hearing him. No one. She bites her lower lip. That time shed thought hed gone and she turned and he was there and he walloped her one about the head saying she was looking at him evil eyed. She looks at the table; at her breakfast bowl and cereal. He would deny her even that some mornings. Been too naughty hed say and made Mum take it out and hed sit there eyeing her and if he thought she was making faces hed slap her leg. Hes gone. Relax. She begins to eat her cereal. Spoons it in slowly, just in case he comes in suddenly out of nowhere and whack and shed choke. Relax. Her mother in the kitchen washing up. Spoons in more cereal. She thinks of that time shed taken a biscuit from the jar and he said she was a thief and whacked her hard and made a big mark on her. Benny noticed. Benny knows. Her father hates Benny. Youre not to see that Benedict kid, her father said, if I see you with him youre for it. She sees him still. Were the same age, in the same class at school. Nine years old. She mouths in more cereal. Licks the spoon after. Looks at the photograph on the sideboard. Black and white. Five of them. Back then. Her father is at the back grim  as death, black suit and tie, white shirt. Mums next to him wide eyed and pale as death. That grey dress. Her big brother Tom at the front. Smiling. Gone now after that big argument with Dad last week. Sylvia my big sister sitting next to Tom. Gone last year with that Spiv. And me at the end glasses and buck teeth even then. A bang at the door. Whos that? Mumll go. Listens. Puts her spoon down. Bites her lip. Blinks. Maybe hes back forgot his keys. Blame me. Last time he did he blamed me. Said I hid them. Voices at the door. Not him then. She relaxes. Picks up the spoon. Eats a small mouthful. Nervous. Always am. Footsteps coming. Is it him? She puts down the spoon and stares at the doorway. Mum. Standing there a cigarette in her mouth; eyes ******* up against the smoke. That Benny boys here at the door. Benny? Here? Good job your fathers not here or thered be hell to pay, the mother says. What does he want? Says he wants to take you out. Ingrid looks at her bowl, fingers with the spoon. Can he come in a minute? Not good idea, what if your father returns unexpectedly? Just a few minutes while I eat my breakfast? The mother sighs. Have to be ****** quick in case your dad comes back for some reason. Then well both be for it. The mother goes out and disappears. Voices. The door closing. She hates the sound of the door closing. It usually means hes home. If hes singing or humming it means all is well, but if hes quiet and sullen then Im for it or sometimes Mum gets it first and me after. That sound. Door closing. She stares at the doorway. Benny appears smiling. His hair with the quiff; the hazel eyes. Coming out? He asks. Where are you going? He sits on the settee, looks around the room. Thought wed go to see a bit of art. Art? What paintings and that? He looks at the her. Yes, National Gallery. Costs nothing. She picks up her spoon and eats cereal, looking at him, listening for the door. How do we get there? Bus to Trafalgar Square. How much is the fare there? She asks. Not much for kids. He looks at the photograph on the sideboard. See your old man is as grim as ever. She licks the spoon for the last bits of cereal. She can hear her mother banging about in the kitchen. Will she tell Dad when he gets home? Hard to say. Well, are you coming? Benny asks, looking at the fireplace. You shouldnt have come here; my dad might have been here still. I saw the old ****** go, Benny says, watched him walk through the Square, Benny says with that grin of his. He might have come back, she says, putting down the spoon. Then what? Who knows? Benny says unconcerned. She gets up and walks towards him. He would have hurt me for you being here. He hurts you anyway. She feels uneasy. The bruise on her thigh is still there just under her dress. Ill ask Mum if I can go. He nods and smiles. If only she could smile like that. If only. Ill ask her. He looks at her go. She finds her mother sorting out washing for the copper. Can I go out with Benny? He still here? Ingrid nods. Yes. Where? See paintings. Where? National Gallery. Too far. Not far, Benny says, standing behind Ingrid at the door. Bus ride away. You shouldnt come here, the mother says. Not welcoming, Benny says. Not meant to be, the mother says. Ingrid bites her lip. Her stomach tightens. What shall I say? Will she tell? Her mother stare stares at her. On your head be it; I dont want to know. The mother turns away, sorts more washing. Got to go to toilet, Ingrid says. Ok, Benny says, Ill wait. Ingrid goes off to the toilet; locks the door. Benny stands by the door staring at the mother. Ingrid sits down. Her stomach churns. She listens for voices. Nothing. What if Dad comes back? She waits.  The bruise on her thigh is blue and black.

Kenton comes to tea.
Dunne serves at table.
Kenton knew Hazel

even as a child.
Her late father’s friend
watches Dunne pour tea

into his teacup.
Your dear father’s death
was quite sudden he says.

We were in Paris
touring when news came
Hazel says softly.  

Who was the other?
Kenton asks Hazel.
Dunne here my maid came.

Oh I see he says
gazing at Dunne’s thighs
hidden behind cloth.

He was a good man
Kenton says firmly
I’ve known him for years.

Dunne wants to refute
but remains silent.
Her master’s abuse

of her sexually
remains in her mind.
Hazel looks at Dunne

she knows the secrets
knew her father’s deeds.
Kenton rattles on.

Hazel remembers
her months in Paris
with Dunne at her side.

Art and galleries.
Cafes on corners
smoking and drinking.

Talking and laughing.
Both of them bathing
always together

touching and feeling
kissing and holding
in one bed at night.

Dunne slices the cake
pours Hazel’s black tea
her blue eyes searching.

Kenton eats his cake
talks between mouthfuls
spluttering small crumbs.

Dunne studies Hazel
her eyes *******
her tongue like a snail

moves slowly between
her mistress’s thighs
her hands embracing

the smooth naked skin
in her memory.
Hazel looks away

the room is so warm.
She knows that soft stare
****** and hot

and she whispering
more of that don’t stop
scratching through the air.

Dunne hears her and smiles
pours Kenton more tea.
He is unaware there’s love in the air.

Anne didn't like
the sight of the rain
she saw from the upper bedroom
she stood supported

on her crutches
gazing out
through the net curtains
look at that ****** rain

she said
I suppose we'll be stuck
in here all day Kid
you stared out

standing next to her
we could do jigsaw puzzles
or read books
you said

I don't want
to do any more
******* jigsaw puzzles
I've had enough of them

she said
stomping her crutches
on the wooden floor
I want to go out  

she said
but it's raining
you said
and they won't let us out

while it's like this
who cares about them
she said
I'm going out

but they'll see you
you said
not if we're careful
she said

we?
you said
yes we Kid
me and you

are going out
you stared at her
beside you
her dark hair

brushed neatly
her dark eyes
gazing at you
how?

you said
the sisters are everywhere
they'll see us
she closed her eyes

and stomped to the door
of the room
and pushed it shut
with one of her crutches

we're going Kid
and that's it
you looked at her
standing there

her back to the door
her one leg firm
on the floor
ok

you said
which way out?
we'll go out
by the side door

and along through
the side trees
but you can't get
the wheelchair down there

it's too narrow
you said
we'll walk then
she said firmly

ok
you said
and she smiled
good Kid

now go see
if the coast is clear
and I'll come down the stairs
as quiet as I can

she said
she moved out the way
and you went outside
and along the passage

looking to see
where the nuns were
and if any
were near the stairs

none was there
you walked back
to the bedroom
and told Anne

who nodded
and followed you
along the passage
and down the stairs

her crutches click clicking
on the way down
at the bottom she stopped
and looked both ways

you listened for voices
or footsteps
come on Kid
she said

and crutched her way
along the side passage
which led to the side door
you followed

at the door she paused
and looked out
at the rain
you looked by her

and saw the rain
hitting the glass panel
open up Kid
she said

and you opened the door
and she pushed you out
and followed close behind
her crutches going

at quite a pace
as you walked
through the rain
along through the trees

you sensed your clothes
getting wet as you moved
the raindrops falling
through the branches above

she was just behind
cursing and swearing
her dress clinging to her
as she moved along

then you moved
under the shelter
of the small summer house
at the back of the garden

near the back wall
here you both stood
out of the wet
watching the rain falling

and near by here and there
birds were calling
and there as you turned
to look at her

the dress showing
the outline of her leg
and stump
the dampness showing

her 11 year old frame
and from the nursing home
someone was calling
out her name.

Teatime done with
I went with Helen
across the bomb site
off Meadow Row

and crossed
the New Kent Road
to the ABC cinema
and along side

the dark alleys
dim lights
damp stink
she just behind me

clutching her doll
Battered Betty
by one arm
was that a rat?

she half said
and screamed
could be
I said

you see
them at night
down here
she clutched my arm

with her free hand
Battered Betty
swaying behind her
what we looking for?

she asked
cigarette ends
I said
why?

What do you
want them for?
she asked
make up a smoke

with Rizla *** papers
I said
you smoke
old tobacco?

she said
put it
in your mouth?
If I get

enough tobacco
sure
I said
looking around

the ground
yuk
she said
sometimes

I find dropped coins
I found a cuff link once
silver it was
but one

ain't much good
unless you're
a one armed man
I said

does your mum know
you smoke?
God no
I said

she has enough
to worry about
without me
adding to it

she frowned
clutched my arm tighter
well you shouldn't smoke
she said

you're only 9 like me
and I would never smoke
and our children
when we have them

won't smoke either
she said
she looked
at Battered Betty steely

I pushed her words
and images
out of my mind
for the moment

I saw a semi-smoked
Senior Service
on the ground
by the wall

and stooped
to pick it up
it's got lipstick on it
Helen said distastefully

it's has a woman's
spittle inside
I looked at her
disapproving gaze

and threw it away
yes you're right
I said
men's spittle's best

she frowned darkly
ok
I said
not really

I just jest
another time maybe
I thought
taking her deeper

into the dark
and rats
and damp stink
of drains

remembering it all
it sinking
into my
9 year brain.

Jimmy opened his suitcase in the room
at Lourdes and said Oh no there’s molasses
all over the clothes and shoes and I’ve got

a whole week here and he sat down in a chair
his head in his hands saying What have I done?
What am I going to do for clothes now? you

went over and looked in and sure enough
the molasses were over his clothes and shoes.
What am I going to do? he said and you said

Leave it to me Jim I'll sort it and you went through
the clothes taking out the items untouched
by the molasses and set them aside on the bed

and then carried the suitcase of black sticky items
Into the washroom and there one by one you carefully
washed them through with soap and water until

they were clean and smelt of soap and fresh air
and all the while 94 year old Jim sat in a chair
watching with his eyes watery and jaw hung loose

seeing the black water run down the wide plughole
and once it was done you wrung the clothes out
like your mother used to do when you were a kid

and hung them out on the balcony on the small
clothesline and placed the washed out black shoes
by the outside wall to dry out in the hot afternoon

sun and Jimmy came over and stood on the balcony
with one hand on the rail and the other on his stick
looking over at the Pyrenees in the distance and he

said That was real good of you. I owe you big time
and you stood next to him feeling the hot afternoon
sun on your face and arms and felt good and you

said You owe me nothing Jim I just did what some
good guy would and his watery eyes swept over you
matching the French sky’s watery afternoon blue.

What's a Mongol?
Della asks Froggie,
her cousin. He sits
beside her on her bed,

flicking through her
CDs. What people
used to call people
with Downs, he says,

taking out a Talking
Heads album, gazing
at the cover. Why?
Who said it? Della

stares at him, tongue
resting on her lower
lip, her eyes bright,
drinking him all in.

Man on the bus said
to me. The *******,
Froggie says. *******?
Della looks at Froggie's

tattooed hands. Not
nice person, he says.
She lays her head on
his tattooed arm. He

flicks some more CDs.
Man said sit elsewhere
to me. If I'd been there,
I'd have floored him.

Floored him? Della
twirls a finger in a lock
of hair. Flattened the
***. She closes her bright

eyes, imagines the man
flattened. Did you? What?
Sit elsewhere. She nods.  
I'd have thrown him off

the fecking bus, Froggie
says, taking out an Oasis
album and turning it over.
She opens her eyes, rubs

her head on the tattooed arm.
Man said I shouldn't be
out in public. Why? Said
they used to lock my type up.

Who was this prat? Don't
know. Stranger on the bus.
Froggie puts down CDs and
rubs her head.  She looks at

him, feels his hand rubbing
her head. Never should have
been locked up years ago,
Froggie says. Were they?

Yes, Uncle said they were,
he worked in a mental hospital
years back. Why? Froggie
kisses her head. People were

ignorant or ashamed; locked
them out of sight. Why?
She hugs Froggie's tattooed
arm. Don't know, Del. She

closes her eyes. Tears seep.
Run her cheek. Froggie wipes
them off with his finger and
licks it. Not worry crying over.

She kisses his arm, hairy,
tattooed, blue and red, yellow.
Put on the Stone Roses. Della
takes the CD and puts it on her

lap top and sits next to Froggie.
They kiss lips and rub noses.

Alice walks with
the thin maid
to the stables, holding
the thin hand with

red knuckles, the
mild limp crossing
the narrow path like
a wounded ship. Do

you like the horses,
then? the maid asks,
bringing the eyes
upon the child,

holding tight the
pale pink hand.
Alice nods, yes,
I like the black one,

like its dark eyes
and coat. The maid
eyes the pinafore,
the hair tidy and neat,

the shiny shoes, the
tiny hand in hers.
Have you ridden
any yet? the maid

asks. No, not allowed
as yet, Alice says,
feeling the red thumb
rub the back of her

hand. Shame, the maid
says, perhaps soon.
Alice doesn't think so,
neither her father nor

the new nanny will
permit that; her mother
says she may, but that
amounts to little, in

the motions of things.
She can smell the
horses, hay and dung.
The red hand lets her

loose. The stable master
stares at her, his thick
brows bordering his
dark brown eyes,

conker like in their
hardness and colour.
Have you come to
look at the horses?

he says, holding a
horse near to her.
She nods, stares
at the horse, brown,

tall, sweating,
loudly snorting.
The maid stares
at the horse, stands

next to the child,
hand on the arm.
You're not to ride
them yet, he says,

but you can view,
I'm told. Alice runs
her small palm down
the horse's leg and

belly, warm, smooth,
the horse indifferent,
snorting, moving the
groom master aside.

The maid holds the
child close to her.
Be all right, he won't
harm, he says, smiling.

He leads the horse away,
the horse swaying to
a secret music, clip-
clop-clip-clop. Alice

watches the departing
horse. Come on, the
maid says, let's see
the others and lifts

the child up to view
the other horse in the
stable over the half
open door, then along

to see others in other
half doors. Alice smiles
at the sight and smells
and sounds. She senses

the red hands holding
her up, strong yet thin,
the fingers around her
waist. Having seen them

all, the maid puts her
down gently. Ain't that
good? the maid says.
Alice smiles, yes, love

them, she  says. She
feels the thin hand, hold
her pale pink one again,
as they make their way

back to the house, the
slow trot of the limping
gait, the maid's thumb
rubbing her hand, smiling

through eyes and lips,
the morning sun blessing
their heads through the
trees and branches above.

if only, Alice thinks, looking
sidelong on at the thin
maid's smile, her father
did this, and showed such love.

Benedict turned the page
of the Dostoyevsky novel.

His brother puked in the bidet,
too much cheap wine,
Benedict thought,
but he’ll be fine.

He immersed himself deeper
into the Russian world
of ****** and fear
and dark corners.

Crime and Punishment
was one good tale all right.
Even the book cover held
the attention, he thought,
turning it briefly over.

His brother’s moans
interrupted the puking.
Benedict asked an
are you all right?
There was a groan
of response.

Benedict recalled the time
he had been in that condition
in Yugoslavia the year before,
same cause: too much
cheap wine.
And that beautiful guide
came to his room
to see how he was
and sat on his bed
and all he could think of
was when would
the puking end.

No thought at all
of her presence there,
her body so close,
her perfume making him
more nauseous.

She was Croatian,
he thought, pausing at the page
of the Dostoyevskian novel.

And that waitress
he and his brother had liked
in the restaurant
at the Yugoslavian hotel.

*****. Yes, that was the name.
Got no where though.
Just the luck of the draw.

His brother returned
from the bathroom
and flopped on the bed.

The puking over maybe,
Benedict thought
and his brother hoped,
pale of complexion,
perspiration on brow.

Outside the window
the Parisian streets
echoed with life:
Cars, coaches, buses,
people, natives, tourists,
males and females.

Tomorrow they’d be out
on the streets again.
Sit in restaurants where
the famous once sat
over coffee or beer:
Hemmingway, Sartre,
Picasso, Henry Miller
and the others.

Art thrived here.
Ideas born
from philosophic minds.

Benedict book marked
the page and closed
the book and put it aside.

Some one laughed outside
in the street, another sang,
voices of ghostly singers
of the past, breathed
from the walls.

His brother returned
to the bathroom,
more puking.
Benedict thought:
poor brother.
Of course, he mused,
gazing at the Parisian
night sky, they’d never
tell their mother.

Janice
sans red beret
walked with you
to Bedlam Park

where you swam
in the open air
swimming pool
(she swam

you tried
but failed)
there in her
green swimsuit

her arms pulling her
through water
her hands
pushing away

the water’s skin
while you stood
waist deep
gazing at her skills

her wet hair
her bright eyes
you gingerly standing
feet on the bottom

feeling the water’s
pull and push
come on
she said

try to swim
be brave
and you dived forward
into the water

and splashed
and sunk
like some broken boat
water in your eyes

and ears
you rose
helped by Janice
to the surface

choking
and spluttering
wiping water
from your stinging eyes

she had her hand
in yours
holding you steady
keeping you balanced

she apologised
for not helping
should have helped
she said

not just stood
and stared
and you gazed at her
through wet eyes

forming an image
making sense
of the shape of her
her eyes on you

her damp hair limp
against her skin
o mermaid of the deep
you said

where is your tail?  
and she laughed
and took you
by the hand

into the shallower water
her warm hand
in yours
her thin fingers

clutching
her damp swimsuit
dripping
try here

in less deeper water
she said
and let go
of your hand

and she lowered herself
into the water
and showed you how
to put your body so

and hands and arms
to move and legs
to kick and push
but all you could hold

in mind
could bring to bear
was her beauty
swimming there.

People build their own prisons,
she said, build up their own walls.
He said nothing, knowing not
what to say. He liked just that

she spoke, her voice, the tone
and timbre of it. As she spoke he
watched her lips move, the way
her tongue danced inside her mouth,

upon teeth. Mental wards are full
of people who have totally entombed
themselves, she added, placing one
of the sandwiches she’d bought

inside her mouth, while she spoke.
The park bench was hard, there
was a smell of spring in the air,
he watched her chew, now silent,

her mouth closed, masticating.
Her silence drew his attention to
the way she sat, one leg crossed over
the other, the black shoe and foot

dangling. The lower length of stockinged
leg, showing, the dark skirt just over
the knee, nothing else to see. He lifted
his gaze to her cloth hidden thighs,

the way they disappeared into her
waist, slim, drawn in. Ones I used to
see on my tour of the wards had drooling
mouths and cross eyes, she said,

swallowing the small sandwich bits.
He moved his eyes from her waist to
her impressive ****, let his eyes settle,
rested them there, as if they were weary

travellers after a long journey.  And the
smell, she added, reeked of *****; everywhere
one put one’s nose. He wanted to lay his
head between or upon or even beneath

those beautiful *******. She jawed on, he
wasn’t listening anymore, he was engrossed
in a different story, an actor in a different play.
She took another sandwich and was silent

again, staring at him, taking his measure,
unaware, no doubt, of his silent pleasure.