Remember
Abela
that café
we sat in

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

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

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

(Mr Green)
would always
contradict
what she

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember
Yehudit
the first kiss

that Christmas
beneath moon
and far stars

lips to lips
bodies close
the others

singing songs
or carols
while we held

out of it
as lovers
on the edge

of the world
now you're dead
claimed back then

by cancer
Yehudit
remember

you amongst
the far stars
the bright one

brighter than
moon or sun.

You used to sit
on the cross beams
drilling holes through
for the wiring

circa 1965
on some building site
where Clifton
had left you

with the tools
for the jobs
he wanted done
hand drill

screwdrivers
hammer
chisel
and enough electric cable

to reach
the North pole
in the background
transistor radios

were blasting out
pop music
Bob Dylan
the Beatles

The Rolling Stones
and here and there
other guys
plasterers and painters

and bricklayers
all doing their job
when and where
they could

and you wondered if Clifton
would remember
to pick you up
after work or if

you'd have to get
the bus home spending
your own money
which he seldom repaid

(the tight ***)
but sometimes
you thought of Judith
and what

she was doing
and whom
she was seeing now
thinking back

to the  days
when she was yours
the bright days
the days you spent

by the pond
(which she
called the lake)
the kissing

the loving
the sun over
the pond
making shadows

and bright places
or the days at school
on the sports field
after recess

her words
her wisdom
her bright eyes
and smile lingering

as you bored the hole
in another cross beam
yours hands aching
from the constant turning

and Dylan singing
Blowing in the Wind
from some transistor
across the way

another hole to bore
another boring day.

We went by train
to an old familiar
seaside resort
with children
and grandchildren
and others as such;
and it was a good day
with fine weather;
and the laughter of children
and the distraction
of their enjoyment
on the beach, but you
my son,weren't there,
or if you were in spirit,
I was unaware.

But I guess you were,
there amongst us
tagging along,
your silence and humour
there in spirit,
remembering as I did
the days when you
were young and played
upon this beach
with your brothers
and sisters
of a much tender age.

I wish now I was able
to turn back to that time
as if in a book's page;
to relive those times,
hold on to the excitement
and youth of that time,
but time passes us on,
and on we go whether
we wish to or no;
the times passing us by,
moving us on
in a continuing motion.

The children played
on the sand, I watched
the wide expanse of ocean;
the constant rush of the tide;
the memories of you, my son,
out there, playing on the edge
with your bucket and *****,
engrossed in the game.

We went to the seaside and beach,
but it will never be the same;
now you will always be,
seemingly, out of reach.

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

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

How was the journey?

Long, but worth it.

Bit like life, then.

Sometimes.

She smiles
and we walk
through the park.

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

That'd be good.

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

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

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

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

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

Our coffees come
and we sip in silence
for awhile.

How's your work?
I ask.

Steady; I have a few
acting bits.

How's your work?

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

What do you do
when you're not working?

I write.

Write what?

Plays and short stories.

Have to read them sometime;
especially the plays.

Not up to scratch, yet.

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

Am I that interesting?
She asks

Yes, you are, pretty.

She laughs.

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

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

She smiles.

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

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

A brass band
is playing over the way.

People pass by;
kids calling,
laughing.

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

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

I look at her.

That's good;
how long for?

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

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

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

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

They must be
A couple
Of right *******
To ill threat

The young man so;
One blonde,
One brunette,
Thinking themselves,

No doubt,
God’s gift,
Gift of the gab
More like,

Strutting their
Henhouse tracks
With feathers
Prim and proper

They like to think.
Smell the perfume stink,
The eyelids painted,
Nails clipped

And primed,
Tongues wagging,
Like tails of *******
On full heat.  

Karma has its way
Of making things
Right in the end.
Sufficient lies

To hang themselves
Given time, enough
Tall tales to drown in
Like plump frogs

Caught out
In the last fast
Downpour.
Like snakes

They spit their
Joined venom;
Like snakes
They prefer

The long grass;
How each of them
Moves like a hippo
To the waterhole,

Each with their
Swaying fat ***.

Elaine feels
as if she's the center
of the world,
as if

she was
standing there
in all her frumpish ******
for all the world to see.

She stands
against the fence
in the girls' playground
as the boys stream by

to theirs.
She knows John
was on the school bus;
he was across the aisle,

but she hadn't looked,
she gazed out the window
the whole way.
She had stood

by the the steps
of the bus
after she'd got off
hoping he would

speak to her
or touch her arm
or ...or what?
her inner voice asks

kiss you again?
his lips on yours
in view of all?
Silly fool.

She stands there,
hands in the pockets
of her dark green coat,
eyes lowered,

*******
a boiled sweet.
Morning Frumpy,
two passing girls say,

have *** last night?
They walk on
giggling.
What is ***?

she'd asked
her mother
some months back
***** things,

don’t' indulge
or talk about it
came the reply.
She stuffed

the words in a box
in her head
marked: *****,
do not open.

Have ***? she muses,
was it a kind of gift
given wrapped?
She looks at the two girls

walking away,
arms linked,
giggling together,
dark green coats,

white socks,
blacks shoes,
shoulder to shoulder.
John had kissed her

the day before.
What was it for?
For real? A joke?
The impression

of his lips
presses still
on her lip’s skin.
She licks to see

if he's still there,
lingering
in some spittle
somewhere.  

She can't get him
or his kiss
from her mind,
he resides there

like a secret tenant,
being,
moving about,
not heeding her,

not paying rent.
She feels the ends
of her black shoes
pressing on the tips

of her toes,
too tight, not right.
He presses against
the tips

of her soul
and heart,
slowly ripping
each apart.

The coach had left Paris
and it was still dark
apart from street lights
and they became less

as we got
to the countryside
music was coming out
the coach radio

some Mozart
some French
radio station
Miriam sat next to me

her head slowly
resting on my shoulder
her curly red hair
tickling my cheek

she'd swapped with Bill
at the restaurant
in Paris
he sat with

some other guy
whom she's *******
beside her
music makes me sleepy

she said dreamily
don't mind me
resting on you
do you?

no sure
go ahead
I'd said
and she had

I thought of my mother
and her parting words
be careful
of your wallet

and your morals
and changed
your underwear
every day

I had my wallet
safety-pinned
in my coat pocket
and I changed

that morning
at the Dover B&B;
Miriam was nodding off
the slight sway

of the coach
meant she slowly
drifted into me
I saw her reflection

in the darkened
window beside me
her eyes closed
her mouth open

my shoulder
her rest
I studied
the pink

reflection cleavage
of her soft breast.

Yochana
sits beside
Angela
her best friend

Miss G plays
Beethoven
on the old
gramophone
piano piece
sonata

Yochana
likes this one
the music
stirs her up
conjures up
images
desires

Angela
looks behind
at the back
of the class

she sees them
the two boys
sitting bored
eyeing her

Rowland pokes
out his tongue
but Benny
has that smile
that hair quiff

how is she
he lip talks
Yochana?

she turns back
to the front

he's looking
she informs
Yochana
that Benny

I don't care
about him
Yochana
says softly
(not wanting
to disturb
Beethoven)

but she does
she senses
his hazel
eyes touching
her body

bringing out
hot flushes
distracts her
emotions
from music

Beethoven
(poor Ludwig)
pushed aside

and she feels
Benny’s eyes
hazel warm
look inside.

Room is the same,
she knows, even
the curtains hang
similar to those she
had when it all began.  

The bed has the
memories soaked
into the very fabric
and springs, she
bounces minutely,

to set the memories
in motion. She stares
out at the window’s
view, the same old
houses and trees as

was before. She sat
here once listening
for the door. He’d come
back, he said. Would
have it set out in ******

play, she would wait
until told, just her, the
bed, the silk flowered
curtains, the plain walls.  
He came many times

after, played his games,
licked and kissed and
had her when and as
he pleased. She listens
to the wind now that

plays in branches of
the trees, that shakes
the window frame, that
seems to whisper her
naughtiness, echoes

her name. Yes, the room
is, she sighs, the same.

I remember Herr Ackerman being a rather stern man with neatly trimmed whiskers, dark eyes that seemed like olives stuck in large bowls. His wife was an unhappy woman who appeared always in his shadow, never said anything she didn’t think he would agree with. They were the parents of my school friend, Greta Ackerman, with whom I stayed that summer in their large house in the countryside. Rosa, Herr Ackerman said to me, where are your parents living? When I told him, he pulled a face, sniffed the air as if he could smell them. I am not sure that you may come and stay again after this summer, Rosa; he said stiffly, times are changing; there are people about now who take a dim view of being too associated with Jews. I nodded and was glad at least that summer I could stay with Greta and be with her in that fine house. She was very sad when I told her what her father had said. We must make the most of our time together, she said, and forget about next summer. I had only arrived that day, so she took me to the upper landing of the house where along a corridor she showed me the bedroom where I was to sleep. It was cosy, far better than my own at home which I shared with my sister Rachel. Where do you sleep? I asked. Come and see, Greta said, and taking me by the hand pulled me along the corridor to a door at the end. Here, she said excitedly, I sleep here. Come in, close the door, she whispered as if someone might hear. I entered; she pushed the door shut behind us. What do you think? She said. It’s beautiful, I said. It was the best room I had seen as far as bedrooms go. She took me by the hand, ran to the window, which looked out on the fields beyond and the hills in the distance. I wanted us to share a room like we do at school, but father said, no, Greta said, but you must visit me at night, she added softly. I said I would and she leaned forward and kissed me. It was not the first time she had kissed me; we had kissed at school, but it had been only on the odd moment when we could ****** time to be alone. Here we could be alone when we liked most of the time. Greta knew this and this made her happy. Doesn’t your father like Jews? I asked as we parted from the kiss. He has his worries with his friends and associates who have their own prejudices, he thinks it might harm the friendship if he is seen to take a different view on Jews from them, Greta said, holding me close, not wanting to let me go. We spent time going around the house and grounds, talking and laughing, running across the fields, into the small woods nearby. At mealtimes Herr Ackerman would sit stern, talk about the news, discuss things with his wife, and occasionally look at me as if there was something he wanted to say, but didn’t quite know how to say it. That night as I lay in the bed in the bedroom, looking out at the night sky thinking of home, my parents and my sister, there was a tap at the door. The handle turned, Greta stood in the gap of light from the passage behind her. Are you asleep? she asked. No, I replied. She came in, closed the door behind her, tiptoed across the room to the bed, and climbed in beside me. Her feet were cold and her hands, which touched my warm body, were cold, too. I waited for you, she whispered. I forgot the way, I replied softly. She laughed and kissed my cheek. Not to worry, she said, I am here with you. Her cold feet touched mine, her arms sought out my warm body, she sighed. What’s the matter? I asked. I am so happy to be here with you, yet I know that tomorrow Father says you must return home. I was shocked.Why? I asked. He said it is best, Greta muttered. How best? I said. He told Mother that he has no choice. If his friends found out you are staying here, it could be awkward for him, Greta said. I felt tears on her cheeks as she held me close to her. How shall I get home? I said. Father will arrange transport for you, Greta said. I felt frightened; I sensed danger. I don’t want you to go, Greta said, I want you always to be here with me. I kissed her. Father said that I am to go to a different school next term, Greta muttered. After tomorrow, I may not see you again. I felt as if someone had stabbed me, someone had opened up my brain and exposed it to a bright light that blocked out all thoughts and feelings other than that Greta and I were to be parted. We were silent. We lay in each other’s arms, feelings each other’s arms, bodies and sensing the moments passing by, the clock on the small bedside table was ticking away the minutes we had left together. Talking seemed senseless, we spoke with our bodies, our hands, and our lips, we explored each other in such depth that I remember each part of her body even all these years later. That was my first night of love, our night of love. Two fourteen-year-old girls; one German, one Jew. A year later, my parents fled Germany with my sister and me; went to America, and stayed with relatives of my father until he found employment and a place for us to live.
Herr Ackerman and his wife prospered for a while, but they were killed in an air raid in Dresden. Greta committed suicide the week before she was to begin her new school. I shall always remember Greta; remember the love we shared and the love we lost.

The small slit.
The thin knife

does its job;
the wrist is crimson

like an opening rose.

We placed a rose
on the plot today,
where in a week or so,
your boxed ashes will lay.

Strange looking at the grass,
the ground damp from rain,
that fell the previous day;
unreal that this

is where your final
remains will lie,
in the casket,
underground

far from the eye.
It gutted me,
looking there,
the lump in the throat,

the eyes full,
slight wind
in the hedges near by,
wanting to pour out,

get the hurt out there,
pushed off somewhere.  
A lonesome rose,
lay on the plot;

all about other stones
and crosses and statues,
names and dates,
words of loss and pain,

other have felt
sometime along the years,
days, hours, ticking quietly
from grave to grave,

flowers placed,
plants in a ***,
and soon you will
lie there in your own

marked plot,
words chiselled
against the black,
but whatever

we have worded there,
can never
bring you back,
dear son,

can never
bring you back.

She was a rough dame
Johnny thought
watching her pass by
kind of girl

to take no nonsense
no lip
or give a ear a clip
bust a jaw

and give what for
but there was
an element
of beauty there

the flowing hair
the fine figure
as she walked
the burning eyes

with her backward glance
aff tae Scootlund
she said need
tae gettae wae

nae mair tae say
she said
then was off
with a turn

of her head
and Johnny watched
her go
her firm ***

big *****
***** like
bundled babes
and then out

of sight
like a bold ship
rough riding
in a dark night.

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

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

she spoke
of romantic things
her parents
her job

her hopes
you listened
looked at her there
her eyes capturing

moonlight
her hair
her lips moving words
her hands

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

from the base camp
more cheering
clapping
music coming

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

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

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

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

to undress)
you moving in
smell of sea
and scent

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

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

and you sensing
her warmth
her nearness
skin on skin

tough grass
by beach sands
voice calling
laughter

Mamie wordless
just sounds
and breath
and you feeling

her flesh
the fingers moving
sea waves
coming in

shush of the sea
passions high
distant sounds
guitar and laughter

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

I am the rubber of the rosary,
said Sister Paul, my finger and
thumb move over the beads like
a humble worm, I utter prayers

like a hissing snake, my breath
rising in the air like a frightened
bird. The silence enfolds me like
my lover’s arms, its peacefulness

kisses my ears like my lover’s lips,
the touch of the thick silence my
lover’s fingertips. His breath breathes
upon my neck, His requests utter

In my ears, His love echoes through
my being. The darkness embraces
me like a black cloth, my eyes see
shadows in nightly prayers, my sight

fails me with its tired eyes, the late
nights, the on knees prayers, the
going up and down the stairs to
and from the chilling chapel. I am

a denier of self, my self denial is
my weapon against the selfish I,
my way of keeping the ego in its
place, the surging wanter of wants

kept check, each fight for self denial
takes its toll, the selfish I wants its
revenge, seeks its way through my
daily walks, my day to day talks,

the moment of eating, drinking,
sleeping, the dreaming nights.
My lover comes at my least request,
His eyes see me in the darkness’s

hold, His fingers find me and release
my bonds, His words echo through
the blackest night, His love warmer
than the sun’s kiss, His nearness

closer than air to lungs, than stars
to sky. My Lover comes, my prayers
are heard, my soul is lifted up, my
finger and thumb push round the black

beads, He is there, noting each whispered
prayer, he lays me upon my bed, rests
me down, His holy lips healing my soul,
granting peace to my all too human head.

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.

I tread on eggshells, says Ruby,
my life is the fearing of the heavy
steps, the trudging where others

fear not to tread; I see dangers
where some see none, where
the shadows become real, where

shades become demons, I am
the fearer of the bogeyman. I hear
laughter in the nightly dreams;

hear the sounds of baby’s cry,
the empty cot, the vacant spot
where baby lay, the moonlight

on the chilling room. I see my baby
as it used to be, its mouth around
my dug, its lips on the **** *******,

the sound of that is my aching wound,
the lance in my side, the hammering
nails. Nine months I carried the

precious gem, my womb the dwelling
place of my dearest love, the moment
of the birth my deepest joy, the echoes

of my happiness ring in my mind when
I'm ****** and drawn by the depressing
nights, the lowest ebb of the sea of loss.

The smallest coffin carried they said,
the men in black, the coffin white,
crowned with roses, the smell of death

covered by blooms, the kisses of my
lips on the coffin’s lid, the sleeping
baby held within, the tiniest shroud

to hold her warm, to keep her safe
on her journey’s way. They sang hymns
to my deepest loss, their voices like

pinpricks to my ears, the sounds seeping
in my skin, eating at my grief. In my dreams
my baby’s safe and sound, in my dreaming

arms not underground, I hear the baby’s
words, the chuckling laugh, the open eyes,
the ******* mouth, the first steps across

the floor, the first day at school. I carry my
loss like a heavy cross, my baby forever in
my thoughts, the vacant spaces where baby

was seems to hold her ghostly scent, her
shadowed presence is my mind’s pretence,
my need for holds and kisses. Bring back

my baby; let me hold it once again, here
comes the night and the ever present pain.

Ole-
I want to run
my finger

along the outline
of your jaw.
I was there

when they broke it
years before.
I was there as it mended-

jaw framed, wired,
Stoic, you did not complain,
wrapped up and put away

deep within, the pain.
Now-
Ole, I grieve,

am grieving;
then, as the jaw mended,
I crept down the stairs

to your bed to see
if you were well
and still breathing.

There’s a sadness to our being,
Lola thinks, now swaying to the
Movement of the train, studying
People nearby, their faces in the
Morning light, their gestures,
Their inner thoughts unknowable,
Carrying their grief, their broken
Dreams, their unfulfilled appetites.

She senses the muscles in her bottom
Tense and untense as the train sways,
Her thighs stiffening to give balance,
Her hands folded on her handbag,
Ladylike, as Mother taught, some
Time ago, among other more important
Things, how to behave, how not to behave,
What to say in public and what not.

The train stops at a station, people
Get off and some get on, different
Faces to study, others lost, possibly
To sight for life, passing ships in a dull
Night, gone now never to be known
By her, never to be dreamed of or missed
Or grieved over some future death.

The train moves on, she sways again,
Her body moving to the motion as others
Do, and watching them, the way they sway,
The dying embers in their eyes, their words
Not said, the thoughts coming and going
Inside each head, sadness or some private
Joy, not shared, least not yet, not with her.

Sit still and be quiet, Mother would say,
Children ought (she always said ought) to
Be observed not heard, and as she sways
Now, thinking of her mother and her mother’s
Words and ways, she feels she wants to shout
And jump about, to flout her mother’s rules and
Words and sayings and laws, but she just sits and
Stares, silently, thinks rebellion, but never dares.

Cogan said
he was going bust

your nose
but he never did

because when
he took off his glasses

to fight
he couldn't see

**** all of you
to hit

except the blurry bit
by which time

you'd caught him
on the jaw

and put him quickly
on the floor

but he always
came back

for more
as if he had

a memory loss
or he couldn't

give a toss
and it was usually

in the playground
or outside school

by the front steps
after the mums had left

and each time he lost
or you never bothered

to turn up
or wait for him

to come out
of class

then one day
you read

he'd been taken off
by some bloke

gone missing
even his mother was upset

and beside herself
in the papers

but he showed up
in Brighton
safe and sound

unharmed by the geezer
who took him off

and you were glad
he was safe and sound

even if you didn't like
the ****** being around

but at least
he was all right

ready for the next threat
of a punched nose

and losing the next
after school fight.

She would go
Wherever
She could get

Away from
The torment
Of it all;

The pounding
Of heartbeats;
The thumping

Hands; the words
Descending
Like harsh hawks

Upon her
Ears and heart;
Just a hush;

A held breath;
A touchy
Feel of her

Frail fingers;
Waiting for
The sight and

Sour sound
To open
The hiding

Place and all
Sanctuary
Then dissolved.

Mrs Parker
at Christmas time
behind

her husband's back
while sitting
on the sofa

felt your thigh
gave you the eye
smiled

her fingers tightening
arousing
her daughter

catching sight
said nothing
gazed at you

you looked away
and sensed
Mrs Parker's fingers

release their grip
then tried to unzip
the finger and thumb

tight holding
you looked down
she intent

her husband
putting on
some Christmas carols LP

tried to lower the noise
by waving his hands
as if

he were about to fly
her other children
gathered here

and there
about the tree
or by the fireside

or on the sofa
beside their mother
whose finger and thumb

discreetly unzipped
and felt inside
rousing your pecker

from deep sleep
the carol singers
from the LP

filled the room
the others adding voice
or chatter or loud laughter

but the one daughter
seeing all
her mother's fingers

engaged at play
blushing looked away
drink young man?  

Mrs Parker's husband asked
gesturing with a hand
held out

yes beer please
you replied
sensing your pecker

stirring in its cage
Mrs Parker's fingers
digging deeper

her face averted
eyes on her husband's
wanderings

smiling all the while
singing carol verses
she knew by heart or rote

but you sat
aroused below
and sang not a note.

Miriam said,
come sit beside me,
I don't want those
hippy types next to me.

I sat next to her
in the base camp
canteen in Sans Sabastion.

They beg people
for food or money,
she said,
I've come on holiday
with money I've saved.

Maybe they've run out
of money before the end,
I said.

Drugs more like,
she said,
they're that type,
you can smell it
on them,
especially her,
she stinks of drugs.

I made no comment,
I didn't know the couple,
nothing to me
what they did or didn't.

The hippies walked by
our table;
she was long haired,
blonde, thin,
had some long coat
and it was hot out,
but she wore this
long coat and saggy jeans.

He was similar,
but taller and had a beard
like a young Marx,
and tired eyes.

See what I mean?
How could she sleep
with him?
Like sleeping
with a dog.

They walked past
a few tables
then sat up front
and ate from a bag.

What are they eating?
Miriam asked.

No idea,
I said.

Looks like bread,
just bread,
she said.

I walked up to the table
where they were sitting
and said,
what are you guys eating?

Bread, man,
the guy said, bread.

What's wrong
with chips and burger?
I asked.

No money, man,
no money, he said.

Here have a meal on me
and handed him
some money
enough to buy a meal
for them both.

Hey,man,
what's the catch?
You want to sleep
with my lady?
The  girl looked at me.

No, just a gift,
no catch,
I said and walked off
back to my table.

What did you give
them money for?
Miriam asked.

I had money
and they didn't,
I said.

That's their fault,
she said,
not yours.

I don't see fault,
just need,
I said.

You're too soft,
she said.

Maybe,
I said,
but if I'm ever in need
I hope there's someone
out there will buy me
a meal sometime.

She said nothing,
but ate her burger
and chips,
looking at the hippies,
thinking God's knows what.

After a while
the hippies rose
and bought two meals.

The hippy girl
looked back at me
and smiled.

I didn't fancy her,
but I was glad
she was about to eat,
maybe put on
some weight.

I looked away
from her
and sat and ate.

You walked with Janice
to Baldwin’s the Herbalist

at the corner of Elephant
and Walworth Road

she wore her blue patterned dress
and red beret

and white socks
and red sandals

and in her small purse
she had money

her gran gave her
to buy sarsaparilla

in a half pint glass
and you

in your cowboy shirt
and jeans and plimsolls

with your holster
and six shooter

in the belt
around your waist

and clutching money
your mother’d given you

for doing a few chores
Gran would never let me

go on my own
Janice said

but when I said
you were going

Gran said all right
but no sweets

they rot your teeth
I like the liquorice sticks

you can buy there
you said

they make your teeth white
or so my mum said

Janice looked at your gun
in the holster

and said
you can protect me

from outlaws with your gun
sure

you replied
she smelt of lavender

and toothpaste from tins
and she moved nearer to you

and her arm touched yours
as you walked along

here we are
she said

and opened the door of Baldwin’s
and you both went in

and went to the counter
and asked the man

for two half pints
of sarsaparilla

and when he poured them
and you each paid him

you stood by the window
with your glasses

and sipped
and looked

at the passing traffic
and people

you feeling like Wyatt Earp
in the saloon

and Janice looking out
as if she feared

outlaws would be coming
pretty soon.

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

yes Saturday
no school
no need to rush
to get up

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

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

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

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

while I wait
the kitchen table
is down
over the bath

I remember my uncle
sitting there
a few months back
crying

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

some place
he looked
quite broken
for a while

sitting there
on the table
my mother
holding him

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

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

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

the top half
and taking soap
from the shelve
I do

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

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

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

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

the sitting room
to the bedroom
and dress
ready for breakfast

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

just Helen
with her two plaits
and glasses
and me.

Jane climbed off
the Saturday bus to town

her black hair ruffled
by the wind

her eyes
looking over at you

her mother close by
you standing by the wall

having climbed from the bus
a few moments before

your mother stood
and spoke to others

you watched as Jane buttoned up
her coat against the winter cold

her fingers turning blue
then she moved over to you

and said
I saw you by the water tower last night

as we drove by
my father visiting

a parishioner in the village
I was watching the sun

moving beyond the Downs
you said

like some giant moving
away to sleep

she smiled
and surreptitiously

she touched your hand
her mother’s head

looking the other way
talking to your mother

of her husband’s work
of church or of weather

or whatever
you gazed at Jane’s eyes

the turn of head
the smile on lips

the way her hands touched
oh to be with her

away from others
to talk and walk

and capture each moment
with her closeness

but then her mother
moved away to shop

and Jane followed
just behind

and as she walked away
you painted her figure

and beauty
in your mind.

You both rode your bicycles
to the small church
along the lane
and parked your bikes

against a tree
in the churchyard
out of sight from the lane
will there be anyone in there?

Milka asked
as you tried
the old wooden door
don't think so

people only come here
one Sunday in the month
you said
you opened the door

and walked in
it smelt of damp
and oldness
and no one was there

you walked up the aisle
and looked at the old pews
and stained glass windows
people still come here?

she said
guess so
you said
kind of old isn't it

you stood looking
back at her
her dark hair
brought into a ponytail

her jeans and green top
do you like the place?
you said
for what?

she said
to visit
you said
been to better places

she said moodily
thought you
were going to take me
somewhere

we could be alone
and kiss and such
she added
looking around the church

we are alone
you said
yes but hardly
the place to kiss

and do things
she said
we can kiss here
you said

then what?
she said
she walked down the aisle
looking about the place

you watched her
we could have ridden
to the pond place
and did more

she said
let's just sit
and get the feel
of the place

you said
she reluctantly walked
back to you
and you sat in

one of the pews together
I wonder how many couples
have walked down
this aisle as man and wife?

you said
a few unfortunate couples
I guess
she said

you smiled
some make a go of it
you said
don't get any ideas

she said
I'm not ready
for that stuff yet
do your brothers

still needle you
about going out
with me?
you asked

not any more
they got bored with it
in the end
besides you're

their friend
and I’m just their sister  
they said
you ought to see a quack

after going out with
she said unsmiling  
and my mother
trusts me with you

which is annoying
why annoying?
I wanted her to be worried
that I was doing things

and have her look at me
like I was a no good *****
you laughed
what for?

to see her reaction
she trusts me
you said
well she shouldn't

Milka said
not after
what we have been up to
it's not always

what you do
it's what people think you
do that makes them
judged you

you said
I don't like this place
she said
let's go elsewhere

ok
you said
and so you got out
of the pews

and walked out
of the church
and got on your bikes
and rode off

into the Saturday morning air
giving her moving hips
as she rode
a happy stare.

I ride on my bike to the farmhouse
with Milka's brothers
after Saturday morning work

we dismount
and I wait with my bike
while they go in

there is a dull sun
and a wind coming across
the fields

won't you come in?
Milka's mother asks
gesturing to me
from the doorway

sure I will
I say
and walk to the house
and go into the warm kitchen

cup of tea and toast?
she asks me
the boys have gone upstairs
to change

yes that'd be nice
I say

I look about the kitchen
at the pots and pans
and shelves and cups
and the large oven range
and the table and chairs
in the corner  

sit down Benny
she says

I sit down
and she is busy
with cups and toast

I listen out to hear
if Milka is about
I watch her mother
fuss about with things
to one side

Milka about?
I ask

if she knows you're here
she'll be up
and dressed in seconds
the mother says
not turning around

I hear voices upstairs
laughter
shouts
and then Milka
come down
and into the kitchen

they said you were here
and I didn't believe them
as they are always
teasing me about you
she says

where have you been?
her mother asks

tidying my room
like you have asked me too
Milka says

about time too
never seen such a mess hole
when I was a young girl
we had to keep
our rooms tidy
the mother says

Milka pulls a face
behind her mother's back
it's done now
she moves towards me
and kisses me quickly
on the cheek

I hold her hand
and squeeze

I suppose you
want breakfast now?

yes please
Milka replies

her mother says
what do you want?

I'll get it
Milka says

she goes off to the larder
and I watch her move
her blue skirt
and white top
the buttons open
at the neck too low
(her mother would say)
the legs
the way she sways
her hips
as she walks

here you are Benny
the mother says
and hands me
a plate of buttered toast
and a cup of tea

thank you
I say

and she moves off
to the other room
and I hear her move about

Milka says
didn't know
you were coming here today?

thought you might
like to see the new Elvis film
I say

she smiles
sure if Mum'll let me
she says

she goes off
to see her mother
in the other room

I eat the toast
and sip the tea
and listen

there are hushed voices
and few sighs
then more voices

it'll be my treat
I say
I’ll treat her

Milka and her mother
come into the kitchen

it's not that
the mother says
it's just that
she's been grounded
the weekend
for misbehaviour

I look at Milka
who pouts her lips
and looks at me

I see
I say

and look at the mother
she gazes at me
and her eyes
are soft and brown

and she says
but I don't see why
you should be deprived
of her company
because of her naughtiness
she will not be allowed out
next Saturday though
she says

Milka beams
and her face lights up

and I say
thank you
I’ll have her back
in good time

the mother stares
at her daughter
and I mean about next week
she says

I know
Milka says

her mother goes off
to the other room
we kiss
and she goes off
upstairs to get ready

I finish my toast
and tea
thinking to myself
lucky me.

Do you want to see
my collection of knives?
Jim asked
sure

I said
so he went
into his
ground floor flat

and I sat
on the grass
outside
his bedroom window

cleaning my
6 shooter gun
with my handkerchief
here

Jim said
have look
at this beauty
and he handed me

a narrow bladed knife
with an eagle
on the handle
and German script

on the blade
Meine Ehre Heisst Treue
what does that mean?
I asked

Dad said it means
my honour is loyalty
Jim said
I ran a finger

along the blade
it was still sharp
it's an SS knife
he said

I handed him
back the knife
and off he went
to get another

this one
had a curved blade
be careful
of the blade

Jim said
it's very sharp
I bet that's taken off
many a head

he said
sliding his thumb
under his throat
what kind

of knife is it?
I asked
it's a Gurkha
combat knife

he said
he took
that knife away
and brought back

a knife with
a knuckleduster handle
what the hell is this?
I said

taking the knife
into my hands
and turning it over
it's an Aussie

fighting knife
Jim said
could have
slit open a ***

he said
I tried not
to think of that
but looked

at the knuckleduster handle
and imagined
a man's hand
and fingers there

at one time
I handed Jim
back the knife
and he went

back inside
there were voices
coming
from Jim's room

and Jim's old man
came to the window
and said
don't tell no one

what you've seen Benny
Jim should
have known better
and backed off

into the room
I looked
at my 6 shooter
in my lap

Jim came
along the grass
back from the flat
sorry about that

he said
Dad has this thing
about knives
and such

he helped
open up
Belsen camp
and saw too much.

If my old man
said to me
on Sundays

do you want
to go to church
with your uncle

or go up
the West End
with me?

I'd usually say
up West
there I liked it best

the bright lights
the arcades
the pin-ball machines

the chance of popping
into the a feature film
or see cartoons

or have a Cola
and ice cream
and see all those

odd people
on the streets
some singing

some sitting there
giving it
the big stare

but sometimes I’d go
to the tabernacle
with my uncle

and sit there
and sing hymns
or sit and hear

the prayers said
and people smiling
at each other

or being kind
and opening doors
or just being

what others called
being Christian
but most times

I went up West
and had a go
on the pin-*****

or drank Cola
or watched
my old man

eye up the girls
outside the cinemas
or theatres

(******
I later thought
and later knew)

but what's
a 8 year old kid
to say or do?

At the back
of the coal wharf
you and Fay
picked up coal pieces

that fell through
the iron railings
and put them
in an ******* from home

Fay looked
at her blackened fingers
and said
if my daddy sees

these fingers
and finds out
what I’ve been doing
he’ll spank me

for sure
you gazed at her
beside you
and said

you can wash your hands
at my place
she looked around
at the bombsite behind you

the evening sun
slowly going down
behind the railway bridge
and nearby buildings

what if someone sees you
she asked
picking up these pieces?
no one worries about this

all the kids do it
you replied
my daddy says
it is evil to steal

she said
you put a black piece
of coal in the bag
and lifted it

to feel the weight
that’s enough
you said
too much

and I won’t be able
to carry it
Fay stood up
and looked around

at the darkening sky
you held the bag
in one hand
and scanned

the area around you
let’s go
you said
and so you both

walked away
from the coal wharf
into Meadow Row
by the public house

where piano music played
and down towards
the flats
where you lived

and after climbing
the concrete stairs
to your landing
you opened the door

and put the bag
by the indoor
coal bunker
and showed Fay

where to wash her hands
turning on
the cold water tap
you both washed

your hands
with the red
Life Buoy soap
her hands near yours

her wet flesh
touching yours
the black water
running away

and another adventure
and another day.

She comes in
Yochana
with her friend

Angela
a squat girl
with blonde hair

and sit down
in two seats
at the front

of the class
I watch her
from the back

with Reynard
my best friend
the teacher

old Miss G
is writing
on the board

with white chalk
before she
sits down she

looks at me
(Yochana
not Miss G)

there's a hint
of a smile
then she turns

and I see
just the back
of her head

(straight black hair
reaching down
past shoulders)

sometimes when
when she turns
left or right

I catch her
pale profile
and secretly

take a kiss
from my lips
put it down

on my palm
and blow it
towards her

pallid cheek
no one sees
the palm blown

small kisses
then Miss G
plays piano

some Schubert
piano work
and I watch

Yochana's
thin fingers
move along

the desk top
her response
to Schubert

not to me
I sit there
wishing hard

those fingers
were playing
upon me.

As she plays
the Schubert
piano piece
Yochana thinks

on Benedict
even as her mother  
stands behind her
listening to her

every note
Benedict's image
fills her mind
the kiss still

feels damp
upon her lips
and cheek
and as she fingers

the Schubert
she senses her fingers
wanting to finger him
her mother says

you missed a note
you are not focusing
Yochana pauses
her fingers

over the keyboard
of black and white
senses her mother's breath
upon her neck

her mother's fingers
tapping her shoulder
and even as
she begins

to play again
it's Benedict whom
she thinks on
and his eyes she sees

in the reflection
of the piano wood
it must flow
her mother says

let Schubert speak
but Benedict's fingers
on her back
as he held her close

are all she feels
as she moves
to the music's pulse
on the piano stool

and as her mother's breath
floats upon her neck
it's his breath
she imagines

is there
and she and he
not there at the piano
but closer elsewhere.

John watched Elaine
get off
the school bus
with her sister

he looked to see
if she looked up
at him before
the bus went off

his insides were tight
wondering if
she would
not wanting her

to look away
or ignore him
and the fact
that not long before

she had looked over
from her side
of the bus
and they'd stared

at each other
and she had blushed
for some reason
and he had stared

wondering if
she would turn
and look again
but she didn't

and he kept
looking over
but she didn't
look back

the bus began
to drive away
and at the last moment
she looked up

and she stared at him
and he was sure
she began to smile
but he couldn't be sure

and then
she was gone
and hedgerows came
and fields and houses

and then
just fields
and hedges
and trees

and he looked
at his hands
in his lap
and tried not

to listened
to what Trevor
was saying
about football

and how he nearly
scored at lunch time
John tried to hold on
to her face

at that moment
and the maybe smile
he was sure
he'd seen

and the fields
passed by
all was flowing by
like a sea of green.

Fay's crying
by the pub

I see her
on my way
to Baldy's
for shopping
for Mother

she's pretty
standing there
in the blue
cotton dress

so what's up?
I ask her

she looks down
towards home
the tall flats

my dad's mad
and angry
and punished
me just now

why was that?

because I
got the names
of our Lord's
apostles
incorrect

O big deal
I don't know
the guys' names
I tell her

she sniffles
wipes her eyes
looks at me

but I should
she tells me
I’m Catholic
and the nuns
teach us things

nuns and buns
I tell her
forget that
Saturday
is for fun

Dad told me
to learn them
she mutters
she sniffles
her eyes red
I’m done for
if I don't

we'll learn them
together
I tell her

so we go
to my place

my mother
gets us drinks
and biscuits
and brings us
a Bible
an old one
black covered
red edges

Fay sits there
next to me
on the brown
wide sofa
cold leather
with cushions

her fingers
turn pages
here's the page
she utters

I watch her
her finger
very slim
run through names

I nibble
a Rich Tea

she recites
a few names
in order
we repeat
and repeat
till they stick
in our brains

she nibbles
Custard Creams

I drink tea
then more names
repeated
repeated
like a game
name on name
Peter john
James Andrew
and others
and others

I nibble
Ginger Nuts

she nibbles
a Rich Tea

got them now?
I ask her

I think so
I hope so
she utters

she shows me
her red thigh
her old man's
hand mark there

I know them
she tells me

we both do
I tell her

we sip tea
in silence

nearly time
for the kid's
cinema
I tell her
can you come?

don't think so
Daddy says
it's sinful
to watch films
of violence
and kissing
and killing

she looks sad
nibbling
a Rich Tea
her red eyes
searching me.

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

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

his flesh as
of fish; -
who else
could swim

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

of her love,
the way
they dived
into waves

of oncoming
passions;
you-
you,

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

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

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

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

Benedict
sitting next
to Ingrid
on the grass

outside
Banks House
remembered one
of his female

junior school teachers
who always wore
short sleeved
flowered dresses

in summer  
and imagined
the dark hair
under her armpits

were small pets
she had secreted
into school
but when she

leaned over him
to check out
his school work
he thought  

that maybe
one of the secreted pets
had either
dirtied itself

or had died there
and he had to
hold his nose
the best way

he could
without appearing
disrespectful
or rude

blushing slightly
as if he had gone
to school
in the ****.

Della holds
tightly in
her stubby

nail bitten
8 fingers
a buttered

slice of toast
taking bites
now and then

then dips it
in the boiled
egg yoke deep

her mother
watches her
Downs daughter

with those kind
Mongoloid
bright blue eyes

how'd you sleep?
My eyes closed
Della says

sleep all night?
Yes all night
did you dream?

Had nightmare
what about?
Froggy's touch

what about
Froggy's touch?
I pretend

I'm asleep
why pretend?
If he thinks

I'm asleep
he won't touch
over much

he touches?
Touches me
tickles you?

Not always
but sometimes?
Della nods

eats her toast
her mother
looks at her

the wide mouth
the broad tongue
touches me

secret place
secret place?
Where abouts?

Della dips
the soldier
of sliced toast

in the yoke
of yellow
prods it down

and then out
and licks it
where abouts

does he touch?
Mother asks
secret place

Froggy says
mustn't tell
where abouts

Loadingdoes he touch?
Froggy said
cousin's can

where abouts
did he touch?
Mother asks

once again
Della stares
at her plate

of boiled egg
and sliced toast
thinking of

Froggy's touch
and promise
she had made

not to blab
(Froggy's word)
about it

the secret
touching place
it's nowhere

Della says
dreamed of it
in my sleep

are you sure?
Mother asks
Della nods

and dips toast
in the yoke
of the egg

thinking on
Froggy's touch
up her leg.

Miss T said
you appeared to her
a number of times
smiling, and says
the impression is
that you're ok.

I am pleased by that,
thinking you're all right now,
safe and sound
in that other sphere;
I am relieved
you are ok,
but sad
that you're not here.

But the journey's done,
and you are there
happy and at peace,
and I am here
moved, but
still allow
the secret tear.

Milka's mother
makes me
a cup of tea
as I wait for Milka
downstairs.

She'll not be long,
her mother says,
although don't
hold your breath,
Benny,
she adds,
smiling.

I like her smile;
it's like warm milk
of a motherly kind.

I sip the tea,
looking as her mother
walks from the sink
to the cupboard;
her plump body
cosy as a cat's
snuggled up close,
her backside swaying
like waves of water.

She doesn't deserve you,
her mother says,
giving me
a brief glance,
you are so patient
with her,
waiting for her,
doing things for her.

I recall Milka
dressing madly,
after the last
*** episode,
and her mother
downstairs,
having returned
from shopping early,
Milka flushed,
and I,
well, I was
in a trance,
dressing as fast
as I could,
thinking of reasons
to be in Milka's room.  

Would you like something
with the tea?
The mother asks,
looking at me,
her eyes searching me.

I try not to say
what's on my mind
and say,
a biscuit would be nice.

She smiles and goes
and fetches the biscuit tin
and opens it for me.

Help yourself,
she says.

She has very nice *******,
I note,
not staring,
but noticing as
she nears me.

I nibble and sip.

Milka is upstairs
getting ready
to go out,
taking her time,
while her mother
seduces me,
unwittingly.

I smile.

Is that,
I muse,
a crime?

See her? She has it all.
He sleeps at night
and dreams of her.

Even the Moon
grows jealous
of his dreams.

He see her every day
on the train;
they do not speak;
she sits in one place,
he in another.

She looks
good enough to eat
he thinks.

He can't wait
until they speak,
until they meet,
make love,
sit and smoke;
have a joke.

See her? She has it,
he doesn't, he sits
looking at her
he has the hots;
inside he wastes,
inside he rots.

It was late
one Sunday afternoon
when you must have been
about 11 or 12

just before tea
and Sunday bath
and your old man said
dress up in your best

long trousers and blazer
and shirt and tie
I’m taking you
to the cinema

to see an X film
an X film?
you said
yes Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

he said
but you have to be 16
to get into see that
you said

I know but if we get you
all smartened up you may pass
he said
and so you put on

your best blazer
and long trousers
and white shirt
and your old man

did up your tie
in the Windsor Knot
he was good at
and off you went

to the cinema
on the New Kent Road
and he went to the kiosk
and bought two tickets

and the old dame
behind the glass panel
looked at you
but said nothing

and gave him
the two tickets
and you followed him
to the twin doors

that led into the cinema
and the usherette
looked at you
and said to your old man

follow me
and you followed her
as she showed the way
to your seats

with her torch shining
and you went down the aisle
and along the row of seat
to where her torch settled

and pulled down the seats
and sat down
there was a cartoon on
loud and colourful

and people around you
were laughing
and you looked up
at the screen

then at your old man
and he was gazing
at the screen
like some worshipper

taking in the colour
and noise
and you settled back
in your seat trying to look

taller and adult
and laughed
when the others laughed
and then came

the intermission
before the big feature film  
and he said
do you want an ice cream?

yes please
you said and off he went  
to the ice cream girl at the front
with her tray of ice-cream

and sweets etc
and you looked about you
sitting up straight
to make yourself look older

and gazed at your old man
at the front
then at your shoes
then at the people

in front of you
then he came back
and gave you
the ice cream tub

and wooden spoon
then he sat down with his
then the lights
went out again

and the film began
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
and you sat there
thinking of what O’Brien

would say at school next day
when you told him
you’d got into see an X film
o yeah he’d say

I bet you did
pull then other leg
it’s got bells on
but it didn’t matter

what O’Brien thought
or said
you were there
in the dark

watching the X film
at 12 years old
o what a laugh
you were there

watching it
not at home
getting ready for bed
after the Sunday bath.

You see a blue tractor pushing through deep snow in a far away field and trees laced with the whiteness of the recent fall and ignoring the babble of voices behind you you peer up at the dull grey sky and the chill makes its way through your body’s flesh and bones as you stand in your nightdress and bare feet because they don’t trust you here in the asylum with laces or belts or anything you could hang yourself with what with the last thing you did in the female john with the dressing gown cord around your neck tied one end to the high up flush system and the other around your pretty neck and if it hadn’t been for some nosy patient giving the game away and screaming at the top of her voice like some demented cow bringing the white uniformed nurses racing to your unwelcome rescue you’d be swinging your way to some paradise by this time or not so but now you stand by the window peering out with a cigarette in your mouth and your hands behind your back and your head leaning to one side as if some string had broken in the neck of a puppet and you trying to forget the memory of Bates and his leading you on and down into the dark depths and all that pumping of ***** and needles and that moon that you recall shining down on you as you lay on the grass your head about to explode into a thousand shapes and colours and sounds and the heat there uniformed and not so over you looking down their words lost in haze of Hendrix and guitars and all you wanted then was to slit your wrists and lay in a bath of warm water and go meet Jesus if He allowed but the heat boys had other ideas and the stars were all over the place and you talked of each note of music being still out there somewhere racing through space each tone and half tone each blues note easing itself through the space of time and you and your mind and the heat boys just looked on and smiled and thought no doubt she’s on a trip to nowhere let’s get her to the A& E of salvation and they did you recall and their words and touches were of kindness and not of lust or *** or that fecking ***** that some deliver to you remember out in the real world if real it is and who the heck knows anymore and as you stand by the window looking out at the snow and field and tractor and trees Sassy comes upon you with her arms around your waist and her lips on your neck where the scars of a failed hanging show mild red and none of the nurses are looking in your direction too busy in their work to see you and the dame with her lips ******* your neck and her hand feeling your ******* and even if your ******* is on hold what with the stress and such you don’t feel much for the loving touch she wants to give remembering Bates and his strong fingers and his tongue like some viper licking and you turn away from the window seeing her eyes and smile and her hands held out to her side like some Crucified waiting for the nails and hammering and the goodbye words and far off you hear the morning birds and feel the emptiness open wide to swallow all and each and whatever it is you want hidden or lost or seek just yourself within the walls of your mother’s womb and there to hide.

Ingrid seldom laughed;
it made her
protruding teeth
seem more so
than they were.

She spread her lips
tightly to smile
so that only
small gaps
at the sides
became visible.

A Knock-Knock joke,
I said.

She nodded,
waited.

Knock-Knock.

She looked at me
expectantly.

You have to say:
who's there?
I said.

O, I didn't know,
she said.

Knock-Knock.

Who's there?

Me.

She looked
at her scuffed shoes.

You need to say:
Who's me?

She looked up at me
and said,
O, right.

Knock-knock.

Who's there?

Me.

Who's me?

I don’t know
who you are,
but I'm Benny,
I said.

I watched as her lips
tried to stay stiff
and unmoving,
but her lips
disobeyed her,
and spread open
into a wide O,
and her slightly
protruding teeth
came into view.

I smiled mildly:
what else could
a nine year old boy
do?

O'Brien said
the whole girl thing
was a falsity
why waste your time

on them?
he'd told Baruch
yes why?
Sutcliffe said

in an echo
as they walked home
from school
along

the New Kent Road
holding a cigarette
to one side
a thin line

of smoke
coming
from his mouth
as she spoke

Baruch said nothing
about Fay
he just listened
thinking of her

as they walked along
his hands
in his pockets
his scuffed shoes

treading the pavement
his eyes looking
at Sutcliffe
at his blonde hair

and bright blue eyes
and O'Brien
with his shock
of brown hair

and his crafty eyes
I've yet to meet a girl
worth losing sleep over
he said

not a wink of sleep
Sutcliffe added
Baruch had seen Fay
the day before

on the way home
by the church
on the corner
of Meadow Row

she in her catholic
school uniform
clutching her satchel
her bright eyes on him

her fair hair
brightened
by the afternoon sun
how they had walked together

up the Row
she talking of the nuns
at the school
about the whole Latin thing

about the long list
of saints she had
to remember
he took in

her anxiety
her paleness of skin
he told her
of the pottery teacher

who ridiculed his pots
and how he did it
in front of the class
holding up the ***

and running it down
not that I care a toss
Benedict said
least not

about the ***
and they crossed
Rockingham Street
and up the *****

and there they waited
gazing at each other
the silence
like thin silk

he wanted to kiss her
but not doing so
she wondered
if she could get

nearer to him
maybe much closer
but feared her father
might hear of it

and he didn't like Baruch
didn't like the Jew boy
keep yourself free
of them

O'Brien said
girls cling to you
like leeches
and ****

the being
out of you
with their petty wants
yes wants and wants

Sutcliffe echoed
Baruch paused
by the hairdresser shop
by the crossing

opposite Meadow Row
best get home
Baruch said
yes me too

said Sutcliffe
hope my cousin's gone home
she's been with us
for weeks now

and always
in the bathroom
and wandering the house
in her almost

see through night dress
sure sure
O'Brien said
bet you hate that

and he laughed
and Sutcliffe walked off
home the cigarette
behind his back

held
in his inky fingers
see you around
O'Brien said

and wandered on
up the road
and Baruch
saw him off

and crossed the road
and walked down
Meadow Row
thinking of Fay

and that moment
he almost kiss her
how they stood
gazing at each other

he gazing
at her fine beauty
her figure  
and she fearing

her father
would know
and the nuns
at the school

always writing to him
about her
and what she does
and does not

and she seeing
Baruch there
feeling her heart beat
and sensed feeling hot.

See Yiska
the snow
is falling

a tractor
pushes its way
through the snow
on the field

gulls and rooks
follow in its wake

the sky a dull grey
the sun wiped out
or nearly so

hear Yiska
the wind
through the trees
the birds calling

hear the snowflakes
silently falling
hear our breath
expressing
as we speak
or remain silent

feel Yiska
the snowflakes
on our faces
on our noses

hold out
your slim hand
let the palms
hold the snow

feel my closeness
sense me
drawing near

the nurses are talking
they talk
of their love lives
of the ***
they've had

hear their words
how they tease us
their words
of *******
and freedom
and normality

feel the emptiness
bite us

our nerves taut
as wire
as we walk

see Yiska
how they walk
the nurses behind us
and before us

see how
their heavy coats
hold them
their black boots
marching like troopers

hear the nattering
of their lips
and tongues

sense my mental fatigue
and yours and ours

wait Yiska
they will take us
back to the hospital soon
and lock us up
once more
in the white ward
with the dull
water coloured prints
and photographs
of yesteryears

be near Yiska
let our fingers touch
let us feel
too little
or sense too much.

Sonya in the moments free
of serving the customers
leaning on the serving bench
dark brown eyes

on you
her dark hair
pinned back
said she liked

Mahler’s 4th best
O so exciting
so full of the life
you preferred

the 5th or 2nd
but she said
no no too deep
too long

life is for living
not dozing
to long symphonies
she preferred Kierkegaard

to your Nietzsche
liked his leap of faith
his books on God
and such

you liked her mouth
small
like rose petals
stuck together

her ears visible
and so lickable
(if ever permitted
to do so)

that Nietzsche
she said
went mad
think it

was the pox
stuck his *****
in some *****'s hole
she stopped to serve

a customer
all smiles
and politeness
that butter

wouldn't melt
in her mouth
kind of thing
you carried paint

up from the basement
and shelved it
in colour order
thinking of her

laying in some bed
Mahler's 4th
blaring out
she putting chocolates

one by one
into her small mouth
and licking
her fingers

afterwards
so sexily
one leg
slightly lifted

the other flat
and you imagined her
yakking off
about the Kiergegaard guy

her other hand
not stuffing chocolates
in her mouth
resting over

her ***** hairs
you read Dante?
she asked
having served

the customer
with a smile
and politeness
yes the Purgatory

you said
that is where men belong
she said
unless they take

the leap of faith
she leaned
on the serving bench
eyeing you deeply

what you thinking about?
she asked  
how well you serve
the customers

you lied
thinking of her lips
pressing against yours
her tongue meeting yours

in her mouth
of her body
her hair
her eyes

that is why
I am here
to serve
she said

but she was serving you
differently
inside
your young man's head.

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

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

Hardwick is due at seven.

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

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

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

She sits up, stubs out the cigarette.

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

All you think about is ***
said Chana

she lay there
on her white sofa
wine glass half full
in her plump hand

not so
I said
I think about
other things as well

such as?

Philosophical subjects
the way society works
how deep is the ocean
and ***
I said

in that order?
she asked

not always
in that order

but I bet ***
is near the top end
isn't it?
she sipped her wine
and gazed at me

more the bottom end
I said

the Mahler was playing
in the background
on her Hi-Fi

do you write poems
about ***?

sometimes
I said
I sipped whiskey

she turned onto her back
and sipped more wine
what's the best ***
you've ever had? she said

the Mahler symphony ended
and silence came

the record's done
I said

what do you want now?
she said

how about the Delius
I brought you?

she sighed
and went to the Hi-Fi
and took off the Mahler
and put on the Delius LP
and then went back
to the sofa
and lay down again

is that all right?

her white
plump thighs spread

I liked how
the Delius began
soft and open
the flutes taking
the melody

sure
I said

there was a dimple
on her chin
and her blue eyes
were wide as oceans

all you think about is ***
she said

I gazed out
of the window
at the darkening night

I guess so
I said
I guess you're right.