Barefoot, blistered and bleeding
She wanders in from the street
People stare, flabbergasted
Very odd, unheard of in fact

She doesn’t know her size
So like Cinderella, she tries them on
Randomly selecting pretty colours

Silvery, glittery heels
She twirls for the mirror
Sales assistant sighs
Wellingtons for the garden
If she had one!

Satin ice skates
She would glide on the icy pond
Pretty sandals
To feel the sand between her toes

Boring, black brogues
Perfect!
With no pennies in her pocket
She wanders back to the street
Barefoot, blistered and bleeding

I MIND him well, he was a quare ould chap,
Come like meself from swate ould Erin's sod;
He hired me wanst to help his harvest in-
The crops was fine that summer, praised be God!

He found us, Rosie, Mickie, an' meself,
Just landed in the emigration shed;
Meself was tyin' on their bits of clothes;
Their mother-rest her tender sowl!-was dead.

It's not meself can say of what she died:
But 'twas the year the praties felt the rain,
An' rotted in the soil; an' just to dhraw
The breath of life was one long hungry pain.

If we wor haythens in a furrin land,
Not in a country grand in Christian pride,
Faith, then a man might have the face to say
'Twas of stharvation me poor Sheila died.

But whin the parish docthor come at last,
Whin death was like a sun-burst in her eyes-
They looked straight into Heaven-an' her ears
Wor deaf to the poor children's hungry cries,

He touched the bones stretched on the mouldy sthraw:
'She's gone!' he says, and drew a solemn frown;
'I fear, my man, she's dead.' 'Of what?' says I.
He coughed, and says, 'She's let her system down!'

'An' that's God's truth!' says I, an' felt about
To touch her dawney hand, for all looked dark;
An' in me hunger-bleached, shmall-beatin' heart,
I felt the kindlin' of a burnin'spark.

'O by me sowl, that is the holy truth!
There's Rosie's cheek has kept a dimple still,
An' Mickie's eyes are bright-the craythur there
Died that the weeny ones might eat their fill.'

An' whin they spread the daisies thick an' white
Above her head that wanst lay on me breast,
I had no tears, but took the childher's hands,
An' says, 'We'll lave the mother to her rest.'

An' och! the sod was green that summer's day,
An' rainbows crossed the low hills, blue an' fair;
But black an' foul the blighted furrows stretched,
An' sent their cruel poison through the air.

An' all was quiet-on the sunny sides
Of hedge an' ditch the stharvin' craythurs lay,
An' thim as lacked the rint from empty walls
Of little cabins wapin' turned away.

God's curse lay heavy on the poor ould sod,
An' whin upon her increase His right hand
Fell with'ringly, there samed no bit of blue
For Hope to shine through on the sthricken land.

No facthory chimblys shmoked agin the sky.
No mines yawned on the hills so full an' rich;
A man whose praties failed had nought to do
But fold his hands an' die down in a ditch.

A flame rose up widin me feeble heart,
Whin, passin' through me cabin's hingeless dure,
I saw the mark of Sheila's coffin in
The grey dust on the empty earthen flure.

I lifted Rosie's face betwixt me hands;
Says I, 'Me girleen, you an' **** an' me
Must lave the green ould sod an' look for food
In thim strange countries far beyant the sea.'

An' so it chanced, whin landed on the sthreet,
Ould Dolan, rowlin' a quare ould shay
Came there to hire a man to save his wheat,
An' hired meself and Mickie by the day.

'An' bring the girleen, Pat,' he says, an' looked
At Rosie, lanin' up agin me knee;
'The wife will be right plaised to see the child,
The weeney shamrock from beyant the sea.

'We've got a tidy place, the saints be praised!
As nice a farm as ever brogan trod.
A hundered acres-us as never owned
Land big enough to make a lark a sod.'

'Bedad,' says I, 'I heerd them over there
Tell how the goold was lyin' in the sthreet,
An' guineas in the very mud that sthuck
To the ould brogans on a poor man's feet.'

'Begorra, Pat,' says Dolan, 'may ould Nick
Fly off wid thim rapscallions, schaming rogues,
An' sind thim thrampin' purgatory's flure
Wid red hot guineas in their polished brogues!'

'Och, thin,' says I, 'meself agrees to that!'
Ould Dolan smiled wid eyes so bright an' grey;
Says he, 'Kape up yer heart; I never kew
Since I come out a single hungry day.

'But thin I left the crowded city sthreets-
Th'are men galore to toil in thim an' die;
Meself wint wid me axe to cut a home
In the green woods beneath the clear, swate sky.

'I did that same; an' God be praised this day!
Plenty sits smilin' by me own dear dure;
An' in them years I never wanst have seen
A famished child creep tremblin' on me flure.'

I listened to ould Dolan's honest words:
That's twenty years ago this very spring,
An' **** is married, an' me Rosie wears
A swateheart's little shinin' goulden ring.

'Twould make yer heart lape just to take a look
At the green fields upon me own big farm;
An' God be praised! all men may have the same
That owns an axe an' has a strong right arm!

horns squawk
   rainforest avenues
  
  exoskeleton
of cars
   arteries clogged
with unlovely   taxi cabs

fat  green  fruit
for sale
     five languages
merge into a knot
hisses    kiss    vowels
   kiwis apples pears

   black guys   basketball
debt rises like      blood pressure
stocks tumble
    but we walk
brogues clop on concrete

count  brick after  brick
sun cascades
   over roof slates
mind cracks in slabs

   (you say
Monroe      stood here)

   heat quivers
men are dominoes
suits    for the office
   a funeral

designer sneakers
   daddy paid for
pigtails   cheap thrills
  violet octagons
  on a stranger’s neck
(behind the closed doors)

today
I drink purple water
     aubergine lips
remind me
of a Tuscany Superb

   list the names
Houston   Charlton
Leroy   Sullivan
Perry   Cornelia
Dominick and Jane

(ladders lead
                away from me
                close to
you)

and back again

You don't wear black face.
You'd never do such.
You don't wear white face;
Do you Kabuki?
Mime, non? Mime, oui?
But every March,
Millions of others,
Attired in green,
Some painted like Celtic warriors,
Affect terrible brogues,
And get sotted, some must disgracefully.
That's what the Irish do, think they?
I won't wear a yarmulke on Yom Kippur,
Not a burka on Eid al-Adha,
Or lead the parade
Up Fifth Avenue.
Slainte

When he opens the door it is almost exactly how I have imagined it: the room and the person.

Without a word he takes me to the window directly, and there it is. He smiles and says ‘Am I not the most fortunate of Fellows?’ And, of course, he is. Who else could have taken rooms that look out on the great Oriental Plane of Emmanuel College:

A lado de las agues esta, como leyenda
En sui jardin murando e silencio
El arbo bello dos veches centenario
Las pondrosas ramas estendidas
Cerco de tanta hierba, extrellazando hojas
Dosel donde una sombre endenice subsiste.

(By the side of the waters stands like a legend
In its walled and silent garden, the beautiful tree
Surrounded by grass, interweaving its leaves,
A canopy where Eden still exists!)

He doesn’t provide the English translation of Luis Cenarda’s poem, but he probably knows it and can recite all eleven stanzas. If you had that view you’d learn it too.

‘I gather you’re a Cambridge man.’  he says. ’76 to 88 – I know Robin of course. He has new rooms since you were about, but says do look in.’

Yes, I’m a Cambridge man, but this was never my territory, never such gracious rooms, the floor to ceiling walls of books, the maps, the pictures, so many photographs, a traveller’s room. Indeed, on my journey here I found myself imagining this location and the man himself. I am not disappointed. He is my height, just under six foot, cropped hair, a slight beard, large eyes that rarely seem to blink; they take all of you in and hold your gaze. His clothes are unassuming – a blue sweater, proper trousers, Church’s brogues highly polished.

Thus, I am being examined like those landscapes he describes so well. He studies my personal topography. No pleasantries. ‘Lunch in the Common Room at 1.30. Let’s talk now.’ A glass of sherry appears. He perches on the edge of a desk, one of four in the room. A small table by the window is quite empty except for a small note book and framed photograph of his friend Roger. His muse perhaps? I know he swims too, and imagine him on a morning in early Spring heading for the Cam at dawn like Richard Hanney taking a plunge in his Oxfordshire lake.

‘Music isn’t really my thing,’ he says tentatively, ‘I love the chapel stuff, but I don’t do the background thing. I’m not like Attenborough who can’t take a step without being plugged into Bach. When I travel I like to hear the sounds around me. I think they are as important as the smell of a place.’

‘There’s this tradition of English composers painting landscapes in music. Egdon Heath, the Fen Country and so on. I looked at your recent essay on your Heartstone, how you’ve taken the fractal nature of the chalk landscape down towards Audley End as your canvas. It is beautiful there, seductive. I occasionally take the train to Saffron Walden and cycle the lanes.’

We talk about whether words in a musical performance need to be heard by the listener. ‘I can never hear them.  Do composers think people should hear them, or are they just a lattice on which to hang musical sounds? I wonder. Do you want those kind of words? Starting points for your imagination? No. Oh . . .’

I tell him I have to have clarity. I see music as a kind of additional commentary underpinning a text. As a composer I give it rhythmic space, a further and extra dimension. I place it in a field of time.  

He goes to a bookshelf and picks out The Peregrine by J.A. Baker. ‘You know this of course.’ I know this I nod. ‘A book which sets the imagination aloft, and keeps it there for months and years afterwards.’ I proudly quote (his introduction to the new edition). ‘Gosh,’ he says, ‘Nobody has ever quoted me before’. And smiles very broadly. ‘I think you’ve deserved your lunch’.

And so we go, past the Oriental Plane, across the Fellows’ Garden to the Fellows’ Common Room. In the December gloom we have rich Scots Broth, herrings with a course mustard dressing and salad, a glass of claret and cheese. We talk of China: his year in Beijing with expeditions to the northern Tai Mountains, the territory of my work in progress. ‘They are just like the Pyrenees only more so. Exquisite limestone forms, and in Autumn they are simply poems of mist and water. You are going to go there I hope before the tourists take over completely? The scenic mountain road is a travesty.’

It is time to leave: he to an afternoon of end of term tutorials – I to look in on Robin, who sees us at lunch and makes appropriate signs across the Common Room. ‘I enjoyed your letter’, He says ruefully, ‘You have very gracious handwriting, so unusual these days and a delight to leave lying on the desk. You know I insist that my students write their essays in their own hand. You should see the scrawls I get. But they learn. I gave one young woman one of those copy-books that Charlotte Bronte writes about giving her pupils. I got my act together when I first corresponded with Roger. His letters were astonishingly beautiful and one of these days they’ll be published in facsimile. Lui Xie says a well-written letter is the ‘presentation of the sound of the heart.’ What a pity you no longer write your scores by hand.’

I tell him I’ll write his score by hand if he’ll compose the words I seek.

‘We’ll see’, he says, and with a brisk handshake, he rises from the table, smiles and leaves.

I woke ahead of the morning,
for reasons I hardly know.
I clad myself in fancy clothes
but for reasons I hardly know.

I put on a tie - attempted a knot
but failed as I waste more time.
I look at my clock, I look at my watch,
Wonder why it did not chime.

I gulp a steaming cup of espresso,
a shot of adrenaline pumped briskly,
I took my phone, dashed out quickly,
I then forgot my keys.

Found them seep in between the couch,
I had to sweat it out.
Crumpled shirt and an unbalanced tie
I foresee a morning shout.

I ignore a typical Monday dusk,
as I put on my cotton socks,
Slipped my toes into my brogues,
I took one last look at the clock.

I still had time, it is still early,
Perhaps a cigarette before I drive,
I lit one up, minty inhale,
the sun has started to rise.

I rushed in the car, started the engine,
and put my gear to reverse.
I zoom right out my greasy gate,
My tires, all four of them, bursts.

I took one look in the mirror,
I knew it's down the drain,
I might as well call in sick,
and tell my boss it's the rain.

Who would believe that all four tires,
would deflate so quickly at once?
It sounds like a bad joke by a bad comedian,
not believable - like a very bad pun.

I took one last look at my watch,
It's way past 'possible' o-clock.
I left the car to fend for itself,
I went into the house without my socks.

I jumped right back into my silky bed,
happy to see my five pillows.
I am not excited it's the start of the week,
but Tuesday can never be this mellow.

I shut the window, pulled the blinds,
Sleep deprived made me berserk.
"Mundane Monday", "Monday blues",
Whatever...you're the one at work.

Hear the languished drip of water
See the velvet grass in glade,
Beech trees stilled in chill of morning
Textured blend of contrasts made.
Still, I crouch, in rough tweed jacket
Brown brogues scuffed and fern in hair
Whiskers twitch as rabbit pauses
Rifle aimed at bright eyed stare.
Moment freezes animation
Breathless in the misty pall,
Shocking bang as bullet flies
Blue smoke masks the writhing fall.
Silence caps a deathly moment,
Crunching steps retrieve the game,
Swinging for the breakfast kitchen
Roasted rabbit in the frame.

M.
Foxglove farm
Taranaki

I do not think much my place upon this earth,
I am second, and you are first,
and when your voice is louder than mine
it is a familiar for me to sink and recline
into my chair, wilful to listen
to your unappealing, witted opinion
and programmed flair -
from which your talent glistens,
and has always been there.
Oh to be part of your vision.

I walk comfortable in high heeled shoes
that inscribe me a waggling soft tongue,
and when your pace is faster than mine
in brogues, and trousers that are looser,
I am simply undone,
at your ease to summon as the prime task-caster
of more tasks to come.
Your achievements are set with a slapped wet plaster.
Oh that you share a crumb.

And when you laugh, it is a big bellied echo
that chimes in my throat to strike and produce,
a small bit of fruit, just for you.
As I mimic your billow in an octave but lower,
that feels like part of the very same tune,
but my chuckle is actually a choke,
and what I could say would only provoke.
Oh you laugh much harder than me.

My almond eyes are softer than yours
and in the day you lock them only for an answer,
to some chore which requires a limited goal -
don’t get me wrong – I am no prancer,
my shoes are far too tight, and I’ve been taking the toll
of your papers, your personal sciv, your faxer.
A sniffing, weezling mole.
Oh I could dig deeper…

You **** much harder than me.
And when you ***, you look in the mirror
at yourself in white unbuttoned shirt, heavy brow, so chipper
that when your sun sets it does in a vulvonic decree,
but you do not know that when I go home, I secretly scissor
in a way that would make your morning clippers shake violently.
Oh I love much harder than you,
I am better than you,
but somehow you are better than me.

The story of you is a picture to my ears
of you being a bit of a pup,
wearing headphones to mass,
driving the same priest mad
who later showed you how to play a bodhran in an empty church.

Imagine the happening of it
of you, standing in an empty field
looking at a well, wondering hard
how the water got to be there
or your eyes circling wider
in memory of seeing
and touching girls yonis for the first time
                              
you'd say “Ah Mam,
I don't want to go to Greaney's for shoes”
was Mr Greaney's dark and cold
with shelves packed thick with damp boxes,
white labels marking styles and sizes,
N for navy, B for brown, brogues, sensible,
that would have all the boys in school laughin at ya,
your ma pressin ******* the toes
to make sure you've a bit of room to grow into?

you talked to me late at night,
of young ones and of passing the seed.

I want to dance in Ireland
in crowded pubs with rose-faced men
drinking my sanity with whisky, wine or gin.

I’d listen to angelic brogues spin
cherished tales, which they’ll profess yet again
oh, how I want to dance in Ireland,

amidst such folks I call my kin
whose natural pride is celebrated then
I will drink back my sanity with whisky, wine or gin.

my euphoric state of ecstasy will win
my senses from my limbs like a nervous linemen
yet, I want to dance in Ireland.

like the rest of my swaggering friends
I hope to be three sheets to the wind.
for I will drink my sanity with whiskey, wine or gin.

and in good company my lips will curl to grin
certain of such happiness when
life has brought me Irishmen
thankful to finally dance in my sweet Ireland.

He’s got natural rhythm, a girl in a red dress, a suit of clothes, a hat and a silk vest,
A set of brogues, a packet of cigarettes, a 20 dollar bill with no regrets.
He’s got a fast mouth, a slick deck of cards, chequered blues and a V8 ford;
He’s got jazz, gospel, and ragtime too: a carpet bag and a jug for *****.
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik!
He’s got it, he’s got Jake,
His feet will roam from town to town.  
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik, Sheik!
He’s the devil with a ******* snake,
Your feet may never leave this town; not alive anyway!
For he’s on the board walk,
She’s on the board walk,
We’re on the board walk now!

He’s got mojo, see him switch and walk, a winning smile, a stick of chalk,
He’s a hot shot, man about town, his skin is sweet and his eyes are brown,
He’ll strut that rooster, beat them gums, take cash or cheque before she comes.
He’s got jazz, gospel, ragtime too, a carpet bag and a jug for *****.
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik!
He’s got it, he’s got Jake,
His feet will roam from town to town,  
Sheba, Sheba, Sheik, Sheik!
He’s the devil and no mistake
Your feet may never leave this town; not alive anyway!
For he’s on the board walk,
She’s on the board walk,
We’re on the board walk now!


Song Link: https://youtu.be/l5papPgYaBc

Faced with Vernarth's temporary absence, Sardinia continued in flames of lilting water, re-integrating itself into albuminoids in whom it saw it depart, it continued in the liturgy with monophonic ideologies, appropriate to the elemental, transfigurative, and regressive parapsychological trance. They had been divided into several identitarian personalities, they could be almost instructed to leave for Piacenza to join Raeder and Petrobus, so that later they could undock to the Dodecanese to expand the conurban folio brogues with San Juan Evangelista. They meet with Etréstles and the participating confreres who arrived at the Tholos in the morning. They were all asleep, except Etréstles who was starching a few sheets of bread dough and tzatziki sauce from breakfast. Meanwhile, they had sacred fire heating with sacred water for everyone. Vernarth approaches, and says Khaire, he answers, a joy to see you!

Vernarth says: “Beloved brother Etréstles, I have already taken the notations to begin the decalogue. Today in the afternoon we will board the sailboat and we will leave for Piacenza, we are in the conclusive oblation. In the Izanna tower, I cried out to the Rings of Zefian and to the domains of the Universe, to be exhibited and empowered to make the signs of the Decalogue and its blessed essences that Live in all the Ages of time and in their vicissitudes. Everyone begins to spur his panoramic vision, they look at him and wave, they sit in the circle analogous to the Tholos to eat breakfast. Meanwhile, outside the refuge they felt Apollonian horns moving in the symmetry of the three minutes piloting through the Thracian skies from the Kairós period, in such a way that in the last sound of the Doric scale the storm will segregate, providing beginnings in each one to board the Carrenio or Carro de Oro that will take you to the Cala Cogone pier. They all say goodbye and hug, Vernarth tells his brother Khaire!

Canto Sibila Cimera: (bis) customized the symbols of the arranged ceremonial, forging classic gestures of prodigality, it was nothing less than a cornucopia given to the zephyr of the Ultramundis, which was revolutionized in the boss around that trembled in the stony epidermis that they dressed in the stalls of the final tubule of the 103 meters, intervening with Kairós. The pharyngeal muzzle of her steed suckled the aforementioned inclinations of Likantus that harassed him like a beast, consuming the final discretion of Theseus, to finish the page of his father Aegean, breaching the sentence of his son and evading him from his stepmother Medea . From this show business, Theseus took root with his mother Etra, being the right moment for Kairós from the vibrating Panatenaicus: “enlightened people are those who handle well the circumstances they face every day, who have the judgment that is necessary on special occasions or in meetings that may arise, and they rarely miss the opportune course of action for their decalogue ”.

Kairos conferred aired in the logic of Aion, transcending the explicit time of eternity, administering tubular of time that began to be lost in space, usurping chromatic nuances of Cinnabar. The woodcut of the Olive Tree Berna brought in its oratory meanings that built undivided earrings when witnessed and persuaded them in decalogues that they had to administer with the value of Polis, and with the Prepon at once for his stylistic oratory that makes conviction in his attempt transcribing the Decalogue literal. In the migratory cove of Kairós, time was self-manipulated, absorbed in the spaces of the tunnel near the sinkholes, which were regulated by burning with ocher in the turbulent outbuildings of the Cinnabar, which began to scald fumaroles after Vernarth's rhetorical Prepon. Kairos phenomena were sought, sacralizing times to make them majestic from a field of appropriate eloquence, and of spiky synchrony towards his roles in all the void of the cavern.

The seasons began to disintegrate towards a white of Kairós Elafrós Rodóchrous, in pink inflections that represent the terrors of the climatic hot red, thriving in the subdued attractions of Cronos. The order of Áullos Kósmos made Elafrós Rodóchrous, the pinkish character for the metaphors of the musqueta, which yearns to be calico lilies fading in the proof custodians of Tique; Goddess of fortune, bringing him the winged breakers of the Mediterranean, lost in the usurping ships of the kingdoms and seas that bowed in billions of tonnages per cubic meter, with thick aqueous elements from the massifs of Kavkazski and Khrebet. Thus the avid heirs of time in Profitis Ilias would be frugal Armas  Christi, bustling around with their winged feet and soaked in thick black water, making themselves immaculate by glorifying themselves on Virolifera level 197, amid dense and rebellious masses of black mud, accelerating in the media opportune transcending of the time of Kairos, converting a minute of light into an infinite time in the oratorios of the high-sounding decalogue as it merges with the Deitie Primordial of the cosmogony that arose from its geodynamics, and in the invariable sigh of the Virolifero de Zefian, sealing the beginning of the world as a conditioning ring of the Whole.

It’s 1:30am and we were at a cute little dance club in Dublin called “The Sugar Club.” It’s a converted movie theater with tables in stadium seating rows. That night was Salsa themed, and the regulars were stylin’ - the men dressed in white Havana or Colima, Italian Linen and women in bright salsa dresses.

The DJ was mixing a gr8 groove - with music from Bassia, Brazilian Girls, Kate the Cat, with some ElectroSwing thrown in from Tape Five, Pink Martini and Doja Cat (Yes, I asked the DJ for his playlist). The tiny, darkly-disco-sparkling dance floor was crowded and refrigerator cold.

We had a good time. Irish guys are funny and unpredictable, they’ll say practically anything, “Shall I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?” and those brogues make everything they say spankin’ hot.

We all danced a few times, but Sunny’s a gwyn who never seemed to tire. Guys kept asking her to dance and she seemed happy to oblige - I would have collapsed already.

There was a dead-fit guy, Rían, throwing a strong Chris Evans vibe, who seemed completely smitten with Sunny. He seemed a real dean but he didn’t 404 that Sunny’s femme-facing and that he might as well be offering lettuce to a shark.

We’d discussed the possibility that things might come up and decided to avoid delicate public acts of disclosure (Sunny’s gay, Leong’s a communist, etc..) - we’re trespassing different cultures on this trip, after all.

We explained to Rían that we were students, just in town for the Duran Duran concert, and consoled him with a couple of “Black & Golds” (Kahlua, whiskey and orange bitters) - he was a LOT of fun to talk to.

The bartender asked me if I was one of the colleens with “Margot Robbie” - he was referring to Lisa - which Anna found amusing - but I think Lisa’s way phater than Margot.

Size 12,
I've put on a bit of weight
Certainly haven't grown,
But really, I've never been a size 12!
Shiny and new, worn once
Probably never to be worn again,
They will always be the shoes
I bought
To go to my mum's funeral in.

You and I are revolutionaries
Right up to the ruckus we cause daily
Switchblade tongues
And coal black lungs
And bittersweet intentions.


We are the voice of a generation
We the Degenerates
We the Proletariats
We the Lost and Found among the wreckage of the millennial metropolis.


Living in our forever 21 society
Governed by no laws and lack of sobriety
We the reckless
We the ruthless
We the key board warriors

Pixels and manic pixie dream girl *******
**** boys, man buns, Jordan's not brogues
We the soulless love makers
We the relentless heartbreakers
We the snapchat sexters, molesters
We the grotesque.

You and I know no boundaries
Lines crossed and used as skipping ropes
As ***** jokes, cut throat and savage
We the endless trouble makers

We who know the end is nigh  
Hiccuping our ways through orchestrated lies
Screaming and bellowing our silent pleas to this world of terror alight
Setting fire to ourselves daily
We the terrified
We the unjustifiable
We the hopeful sad


We the gods of everything and nothing
We the repercussion of double standards
140 characters in every psalm
We the unforgiving
We the unholy
We the non believers
We the incomprehensible in the face of sin


You and I are not recognised by x or Y
We identify in binary with the wind and the stars
Honest realisation that our little lives are insignificant to the monologue of the universe
Lighthearted libertines light years ahead and behind

We the star struck
We the scientists and academics
We the prophets
The artisans
The beauty queens
The mystics and cynics

And I am the voice of a generation you rendered speechless

At the rumble of a badger's yawn
At the crack of a sparrow's ****
At the pang of his weakened bladder
That's when he makes his start

With the scrape of greying stubble
With the shine of derby brogues
With a perfect Windsor knot
That's how my husband rolls

At the slam of the paneled door
At the echo of a muttered curse
At the march of polished steps
It's then that I emerge

I am more than my shoes,
Even the brown brogues I wear
Day in day out to work and which
Are rubbed smooth on the soles.

I am more than the cheap-end shirts
That hide my ******* and that you
Frown at, openly, at the shop, the park,
On the bus after a long day.

I am more than the number zero
That you can see, and the underwear
That you can’t, although that
Doesn’t stop you asking.

I am tough or tender, depending
On who we are and what you mean to say.
I am hard in places you have no need of,
And soft in those you don’t think I know.

I am butch, and I have blended every
Ill word, and unkind glance into the step
Of my swagger and the spread of my legs,
And the pride I put into loving my woman.

I am butch; I wear it on my sleeves,
And my calloused hands. The word is sewn
Into the hem every pair of jeans I own,
As it is on the inside of my thick skin.

Occasionally, fashion shows start late because the designer is still working on the collection. There are some persnickety types out there who would happily keep tinkering until it’s markdown time.

Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli decided they would throw in the towel whenever they felt each item in their spring collection was finished just enough to reveal the beauty of the craftsmanship at the heart of a couture house like Valentino. They explained that they had borrowed the concept from the “Unfinished: Thoughts Left Visible” exhibition at the Met Breuer in New York, which showcased some 500 years of paintings still in progress.

The highfalutin’ explanation had one searching for examples beyond the brogues with exposed staples and undyed edges they plucked off a table backstage. But apart from a bit of sagging lining here and a few dangling threads there, here was a collection with that familiar Valentino polish.

The camouflage coats and military-influenced ensembles had a sense of deja vu, too, albeit with more irregular splotches and ruff-hewn embroideries. What felt newer were the monochromatic ensembles, layers of featherweight coats and zippered shirt jackets tucked into tapered trousers. They came in Army green, a deep blue or black — the latter peppered with silver grommets — and were chic from start to finish.Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra

My old man
was always
neat and tidy.  

Brylcreemed hair
(what was left),
smart suit,
shiny shoes,
brown brogues,
well trimmed moustache,
staring eyes.

Get your best shirt
and trousers on,
we're going to see
this new Jeff Chandler film,
Western, and put on
that bow-tie I bought you
and make sure
your shoes are shiny,
he said.

I went and got changed
and put on the bow-tie
he bought(how I hated
that thing) and shoes
buffed to a shine of sorts,
short trousers,
the next to best,
and I was ready,
kissing mother
on the way out.

We went in the cinema
a 1/3 of the way through
the first feature,
sat in the seats,
his eyes fixed
on the screen,
I looking around
to see who was in
and who was who.  

I looked at him
beside me;
the neat moustache,
well trimmed,
the eyes watching
the screen,
a cigarette between lips,
smoke rising.

I recalled the time
at another cinema,
another film,
another Western,
and we were ¾
the way through,
when he ups
and leaves
in a sudden rush.

I watched the screen
and chewed the popcorn,
thinking the old man
had gone to the bog,
an adult thing
or so I thought.

Then 5 minutes after
a young usherette
came and found me
and said:
your father's with the medics
in the foyer,
he had a choking fit.

Poor guy,
I thought,
him sat there
blue and white,
not having had a ****.

Hey,
I offer very few words often preferring that my riddles get ushered out in scribbles, it’s the chosen if not more cowardice stance but I plead sincerity. It’s my forum, sanctuary and how I speak to the world. It is how I speak to myself often where I am brave enough to part with that which I would rather, normally, and sometimes with reason, keep close chested. Bare with me if you bid, I’m still breaking into rhythm. I free write, so may encounter a misplaced line. It happens when I let my mind roam free, I don’t do properly constructed very well. I digress.
Yours smile. That laugh. Your thighs. Your nose. The way you get upset at absolutely everything. I dig that about you and was foolish enough to take it for granted. Not define really, so used to rolling with the punches I half left it neglected. Shame, a consequence I seek to amend. Alter. Be it a tad in vein. I’d rather that I have tried. But oh your smile, that laugh. I long for the Sundays that never were. What they could have been only the fates will know, you were the habit I quickly adopted and like any good habit, I didn’t see it through. The injustice of being a ***** is the role play of hindsight, retrospection, you can do very little by such except replay it, the ***** of torture I gather. A travesty if you ask me. You thought I was bemoaning the luxury of you being a convenience; I missed you for the sake of missing you. I can’t fault that train of thought, it crossed my mind and consider how it was I was able to portray neglect, valid in every sense. I’m thinking now. It pretty well could have been. It probably is but there is also the lingering frustration of what could have been. The possibility, it had barely sparked and then, load shedding. Brogues of frustration. I do enjoy you though, thoroughly that had to count for something. I can only hope
Those words still burn, how I was so comfortable with my life and my ways. I am, and reluctantly there was likely an aspect from myself adverse to the change, I gather though it has more to do with the systematic flaws I carry around at not being able to fulfil that of a consummate boyfriend. Perhaps I am selfish and unfamiliar with how one steers clear of trouble. How not to get scolded is but a foreign concept I gather, being aloof second nature. The very things I would imagine an initial trigger being the most irritable, it would then have to come from me wouldn’t it. So stuck in my ways and always expecting the conforming into my ways leaving little room for anything other than that. I gather it has to do with mine tentativeness at the matters that come attached with relation meaning that soon enough my flawed character is left bare et al for the scathing universe to see and picking it all up again, not so fun. Perhaps it’s my little defending.
To try for an explanation I am a very selfless ******* and I hate that. It leaves room for train tracks to tattoo my flesh and I think I’m sick of the second fiddler role. Friends to family and those I generally consider I may care for. It’s a part of the Gosiame matrix and I often realise or stupidly so that you get very little back. You the great guy, that is about all really. I have opened up to the prospect of relation and the thing is when I do, I really leave the door more than ajar, I don’t hold grudges but it burns. I think. I don’t wish it on any I am not fond of, and there is only so much of numb we can all endure, even I have my limit of spilt drink and the love that was. I may have opened the door to the wrong parties but then again I have never claimed to be the best judge of such. In any essence I am a toddler to these things so a little coaching and patience does really go a long way. I am a terrible human being, more so when I hate that you get jealous at what I have considered second nature before you came along and then realise that I too hold the ability at this thing called jealously, some character probably has me acting a fool in the fist cuffling cuffing fights I have imagined us engaged in. That is as far as it goes nor will I admit at being human. I like my super coo unattached unbothered aloof stance.
You came at me like a gust of wind and I got taken in by the fun of it all. I will admit to that. I wrongly imagined what will be will be as is the prerequisite if you are me and well that the roles will identify themselves. I think I am being repetitive. I am habitual. I claim to hate routine and my small comforts, in truth I probably enjoy complaining against them far more than I do being drawn away from them. In any case, you would need to be very clear if there is any fool hardedly romantic stuffings to be done because my lazy self will opt to steer clear of any pants and make out with the remote control while yelling at the tele. That day I imagined you would make your way over. In truth I thought it one of your unreasonable rants all over again, thought you’d calm down, make your way and well that never happened did it. The lack of boyfriend in me had at no junction sought to reason that she may need to get met halfway, I apologise. In my mind I had not canned our plans, just altered. I think I know better. Look I need stick it notes for the thoughts I had five seconds ago.
This is getting ridiculously long winded and moving in a roundabout way. I like that I could possibly refer to you and your forehead as my girlfriend. I like you in all you’re B Cup glory, that they could just be perfect for you. I won’t make any false promises not to anger or infuriate, as the way history runs down for us, but I will do so only in a manner that makes us unique, fun, bearable in a sense. I had a hand written letter and then you scolded and thus I knuckled down to type this, consume ridiculous amounts of this ridiculous coffee and ask forgiveness and show you that I am learning. Did I mention that I miss your ******* and the way you tend to cup them? I made fried rice and it was so lovely, can’t get over such. I’d like to give it or us a solid go, if not only for your laugh, oh and I keep getting these things that require a plus one all the time so that could be handy but more so because I want you in unimaginable ways, manners that I can’t even describe to myself. And I’d hate to walk away from what could just be the best thing to happen to me, no that smells like a line, the sexiest. That rather!
I miss thee
PS. Will you go out with me? For like real this time? In real life?

I wore the last present you bought me for the last day of 2014 -
A pair of brown leather brogues.

and it’s funny, because they blistered my toes and made walking agony.

Prehaps it was payback for walking all over you
Like you were a *******, an ironic message.
You did always hate feet -

Maybe it’s not just feet anymore
Maybe its me

*A.R

Lovers entwined, like venomous snakes poised to strike.  

The fascination draws them in, the magnetism enthralls.  Her blue eyes, his laughter... together they are separate in their dreams of becoming one.

A lost gem he seeks,
she watches as the
flowers bloom.

The brown brogues shine once again, his suit expertly pressed, aftershave's applied... Steven is no longer just a Friday man; his time has arrived.

Old memories are tossed aside as the color of life reappears.

Passion strikes like Cupids arrow.... tomorrow is forgotten, yet their future is crystal clear.

I chanced on her
In line at Giant Tiger,
A familiar haunt.
Her pose reminded me
Of a girl with
The bearing of old money,
And steady Oxford brogues
That walked home from the Village
Speaking ****** thoughts
With little thnking.
She removed her wallet to pay
With hands that once
Tied ribbons and wrote love letters,
Cooked and loved her family,
Enjoyed stability.
The line moved
And she dropped her card.
Such strange, familiar manners
When she stooped.
The waterfall hair line
Showed sun-worship thinning.

The transaction completed,
She turned to exit,
Without glancing back,
This all too
Familiar stranger.

The sun drags itself
onto the horizon,
as it does each day.

The smell of last night's rain,
still lingering mindlessly.

We are in your little black car.

I ride shotgun
      while you drive.

It's littered with papers
and opened letters
I always feel awkward
when there's no speaking
as the car's radio is broken.

Just the low rumble
of the weak engine
to fill the void of silence.

So I play out a song
in my mind and
wonder if you
simultaneously do the same.

We stop at a filling station,
where I buy breakfast and
you purchase petrol.

As you pump,
I tell the lady
behind the deli counter
what I'd like and
what you'd like.

She shoots me a
Cold glance,
It must be what
I'm wearing -
black brogues,
black drainpipes,
tweed jacket,
polka dot shirt -
Or possibly my hair -
It's too long for a boy,
yet too short for a woman - she'd think.

Country folk
like to stare,
they don't get much
to look at,

so when they do,
they want to remember it.

I say thanks
and pay
and leave.
We get back to the car,
you try to get in quick, and
end up clocking your nose with
the driver's side door.

As you sit down and
check out yourself in the mirror,
I'm surprised it's
not pouring out blood,
like a pathetic fountain.
You run a tissue across it.

-Jamie

Ingrid's words
were muffled
when she spoke to me
by Dunn's hat shop

where we said
we'd meet
the day before
her thick lip

(where he father
had backhanded her)
moved slowly
does you dad

wear hats?
she asked
looking in
the shop window

no
I said
never seen him
ever wear a hat

not even to cover
his balding head
she looked
at the passing traffic

what happened to you?
I asked
pointing to her lip
my dad didn't like

the way I brushed
my hair
he said it was
too tartish

whatever that means
she said
tapping her
recently brushed hair

I tried to get out
of his way
but he caught me
with a backhand

I’m going
to the cinema
this afternoon
I said

there's a cowboy film on
and I want to see
how the good guy
draws out his gun

he does it
by crossing over
his hands
could I come?

she asked
Mum might give me
9d for a ticket
as long as Dad

doesn't know
she added
sure
I said

come to my flat
after lunch
we walked down
the subway

to get
to St George's Road
to walk along
to Bedlam Park

to try out
the swings there
and buy an ice cream
outside the swimming pool

(money I'd been given
by my old man
for polishing
his brown brogues)

I studied her
as we walked along
she talking
of her old man's temper

and how he punched
her mother
for letting
his dinner get cold

I noticed her
faded grey dress
the flowers red
against watery green stems

grey-white
ankle socks
black scuffed shoes
her thin hands

gesturing as she talked
and the slight smell
of dampness
as I neared her

the bruise
under her left eye
fading
like the morning sun

where her old man
had thumped her
for something
she hadn't done.

There's nothing left of me here,
only the ghosts appear,
they've barricaded themselves
in the abandoned buildings,
I see them peeking out.

The cities voices, familiar, shout,
even as they whisper.
There's nothing left of me here
or my ears would blister,
like they used to.

It used to be: find today's food for all,
then dinner from the bins
and tonight squatting the old school.
Being homeless is a full time job,
ruled by desperation and The Law of Sod.

From the street, the city stands naked,
free of it's dazzling attire.
Underneath all the buildings,
the foundations of history,
is the same boggy mire

                                         (from which it sprang)

I wrote poems on these pavements,
some, simply, political statements, in colour,
but there's nothing left of me here,
the slabs have all faded, once again grey,
and this is all I have to say:

The city didn't notice that I've been missing,
it was lost in it's lovers arms, kissing,
a Time Immemorial embrace;
oranges & lemons
and the finest of lace,

a commercial covenant
with The Man With No Face.
The entire space was built
on the idea of exploitation.
There's nothing left of me here,

I left along the road of alienation.
A bankers brogues tread on beggars hands;
actually, this here is private land,
property of The City of London.
Well, I'm ******* gone, son.

There's nothing left of me here,
I'm done.

GOING BACK INTO THE LIGHT

Every year your memory
fading

'til you are nothing
more than

a figment of my imagination
than the man

you were
to me.

Photographs of you
in an old shoe box.

I can't bear to look
at them

size 9
brogues...tan...if I remember rightly

the photographs I mean
the shoes long gone

one at a seaside
sailing out to sea.

Each year I take a photo
out

( Polaroid of course
a craze of yours ).

Set it in the sun
let the summer eat into you

giving you back
to the light

that made you
when the shutter clicked.

Here you are
now

nothing but white

nothing but white.

you can put on a smart sharp suit
nice clean crisp white shirt
a red tie extra shiny brown brogues
put messages out everywhere you go
wearing your best feathers
ruffle feathers and turn some heads
but if its not real love
the real you will be a let down in the end.

The polite crowd clap and whoop
Their brogues and plimsoles tap the floor.
Yeah, they worship and adore
This little mess of a group.

Their tunes were never mainstream
Which is just how the cool kids like it
Their identities pursue the dream:
Reject the norm and fight it.

GOING BACK INTO THE LIGHT

Every year your memory
fading

'til you are nothing
more than

a figment of my imagination
than the man

you were
to me.

Photographs of you
in an old shoe box.

I can't bear to look
at them

size 9
brogues...tan...if I remember rightly

the photographs I mean
the shoes long gone

one at a seaside
sailing out to sea.

Each year I take a photo
out

( Polaroid of course
a craze of yours ).

Set it in the sun
let the summer eat into you

giving you back
to the light

that made you
when the shutter clicked.

Here you are
now

nothing but white


nothing but white.

Brands

With their duck tail hair cuts all slicked back
And their Stradivarious long sleeved shirts;
With their half-soled, horse-shoe-cleated Brogues
With the arduously turned up toes,
The heart throb elite of high school’s boys
Walked the 1950’s hallways to their class.
Small town West Coast America on view.

With their reversible, pleated Pendleton skirts
And Jantzen turtleneck long-sleeved sweaters,
The girls eschewed the circle skirts
With crinolines beneath,
Held tight by elasticized waist-cinchers.
They walked in snow-white baby-doll shoes
With never any stockings.

Those who had the wherewithal
To own the latest fashions
And dress themselves in well known brands
Were somehow deemed superior
In all the gracious arts of living
And looked upon with envy-eyes
By those who dressed in J C Penney.

It wasn’t wrong - it wasn’t right
It fed some egos, damaged others
But it was just the way it was
And somehow we survived it.
Today you couldn’t pay enough
To make me wear a brand name
And I still love J C Penney.
ljm