Two young boys in corduroys
             were playing with a ball.
Two young boys heard one strange noise,
             coming from the hall.

The boys stood still, well, still until
              the door swung open wide.
And a ghostly chill and a real ghost, Bill,
              were heaved the heck inside.

The brave boy stood, as the brave boy would,
             and said, "Hey, listen Bill!
We're here to hear you, not to fear you.
              Tell us what you will."

The other boy wheezed and sneezed then seized
              and vomited on the floor.
He shook his brain. He felt insane.
               Nothing was real anymore.

"Ghosts are real?! They're ******* real?!?!?!"
               he cried and shook and feared.
For nature's laws were gone because
               a ghost had just appeared.

And on that night of fear and fright,
               the brave boy had his thrills.
And the other one was ******* done
               and swallowed fifty pills.

Who's she, that one in your arms?

She's the one I carried my bones to
and built a house that was just a cot
and built a life that was over an hour
and built a castle where no one lives
and built, in the end, a song
to go with the ceremony.

Why have you brought her here?
Why do you knock on my door
with your little stores and songs?

I had joined her the way a man joins
a woman and yet there was no place
for festivities or formalities
and these things matter to a woman
and, you see, we live in a cold climate
and are not permitted to kiss on the street
so I made up a song that wasn't true.
I made up a song called Marriage.

You come to me out of wedlock
and kick your foot on my stoop
and ask me to measure such things?

Never. Never. Not my real wife.
She's my real witch, my fork, my mare,
my mother of tears, my skirtful of hell,
the stamp of my sorrows, the stamp of my bruises
and also the children she might bear
and also a private place, a body of bones
that I would honestly buy, if I could buy,
that I would marry, if I could marry.

And should I torment you for that?
Each man has a small fate allotted to him
and yours is a passionate one.

But I am in torment. We have no place.
The cot we share is almost a prison
where I can't say buttercup, bobolink,
sugarduck, pumpkin, love ribbon, locket,
valentine, summergirl, funnygirl and all
those nonsense things one says in bed.
To say I have bedded with her is not enough.
I have not only bedded her down.
I have tied her down with a knot.

Then why do you stick your fists
into your pockets? Why do you shuffle
your feet like a schoolboy?

For years I have tied this knot in my dreams.
I have walked through a door in my dreams
and she was standing there in my mother's apron.
Once she crawled through a window that was shaped
like a keyhole and she was wearing my daughter's
pink corduroys and each time I tied these women
in a knot. Once a queen came. I tied her too.
But this is something I have actually tied
and now I have made her fast.
I sang her out. I caught her down.
I stamped her out with a song.
There was no other apartment for it.
There was no other chamber for it.
Only the knot. The bedded-down knot.
Thus I have laid my hands upon her
and have called her eyes and her mouth
as mine, as also her tongue.

Why do you ask me to make choices?
I am not a judge or a psychologist.
You own your bedded-down knot.

And yet I have real daytimes and nighttimes
with children and balconies and a good wife.
Thus I have tied these other knots,
yet I would rather not think of them
when I speak to you of her. Not now.
If she were a room to rent I would pay.
If she were a life to save I would save.
Maybe I am a man of many hearts.

A man of many hearts?
Why then do you tremble at my doorway?
A man of many hearts does not need me.

I'm caught deep in the dye of her.
I have allowed you to catch me red-handed,
catch me with my wild oats in a wild clock
for my mare, my dove and my own clean body.
People might say I have snakes in my boots
but I tell you that just once am I in the stirrups,
just once, this once, in the cup.
The love of the woman is in the song.
I called her the woman in red.
I called her the woman in pink
but she was ten colors
and ten women
I could hardly name her.

I know who she is.
You have named her enough.

Maybe I shouldn't have put it in words.
Frankly, I think I'm worse for this kissing,
drunk as a piper, kicking the traces
and determined to tie her up forever.
You see the song is the life,
the life I can't live.
God, even as he passes,
hand down monogamy like slang.
I wanted to write her into the law.
But, you know, there is no law for this.

Man of many hearts, you are a fool!
The clover has grown thorns this year
and robbed the cattle of their fruit
and the stones of the river
have ****** men's eyes dry,
season after season,
and every bed has been condemned,
not by morality or law,
but by time.

and by the way
there are flies in the basement,
no doubt, the
result of passionless blood-letting and
christ-sharp animalistic screams (that scatter across places)
where ingrown genital hairs take presidence over ionized howls of ecstasy-
where flies buzz around and die, worshiping the patchwork
row of halogen lamps
that get so hot as to scorch the hairy legs that spread apart wide just to touch the
sacred flesh of incandescence
-these that ****** reckless photons into the tepid air like rotting meat
and wants them to **** the last drops of electromagnetic ******* from their poems of illumination.  
meanwhile
i can be found numbing myself into comfort and complacency-
the phosphenes of faustian inadequacy taxing my eyes
with the vaporous waking that seeps through the vacant-
but i knew it was real when you pulled down your tattered jeans, exposing your backside to my interpretations of perfection and
allowing me the liberty of *******.
i have seen you scream.
and breathed your sigh of servitude.
these wet ******* and the tangy juices of anticipation dripping down your thighs becomes reality
and reality consumes.
and the world becomes conscious awareness.
and there is nothing to be known except this.
alleviant zero of the cyclic
and the 60-cycle hum of stagnation-
frustration.
we know that tomorrow
the angel-headed hipsters
will be basking in the instagram-induced solar radiation,
supine on the neatly cut grass,
donning their leather jackets and skin-tight corduroys. thick-rimmed-plastic sunglasses
obscure their frail vision and allow them to distance themselves just enough from the sunsoaked oasis to call themselves "cool"
and i would hardly know to recognize you amongst the candorous chatter about humanity and the existence of love
and i would hardly know to call you god
nor to look you in the face and tell you to dream a thought unthreatened by sanity
or to bring you to tears by means of dexterity.
i like my body for what its worth
but i did not try to stop them when they bound and ***** the waitress.
i stood and watched as those gentle agnostics tore apart her lacy blouse
and pushed thumbtacks through her ******* just to watch her scream
and she liked it.
when they held onto her skeleton ribs and hipless hips
and she liked it,
they tasted the *** with cinnamon tongues,
received the grace of an angel as pierced ******* and clitoral stimulation
listless yelps filled the tender air like howling phantoms-
little ms. misanthropy
with her
disposable epiphany
self-proclaimed teenage sage
with mistakes to make her wise
i try not to understand
and then i dreamt of forgiveness.
my days of holding grudges and killing mice are over
and when we don’t kiss
i can smile.
and did you want me to define you through destruction?
-martyrdom and madness?
her bracelet and studded pieces to decorate
only obliteration of expectation
gives my finger the feel of tendinitis
i have come to love things less
how i long to just let bay, my leaning lip
my wrist bent back, asks, how much more can be done here?
i guess it's a little too late to walk away.
endless mind-numbing repetition,
was it for the retribution?
or perhaps reassurance or the infliction of pain.
misdirected meaning-
bluebirds.
and blue-black bruises on your arms.
wrinkles.
from falling feathers and
do you hear the echoes of chains rattling in the cellar,
or was it just a love song gone wrong
alivient zero.
why do we have to be beautiful rebels
we leaned to love with our shoes on.
listening to the stereo silence-  
runaway gems, poetic outcasts
leaderless young lovers
she was a young poet
but her tv ran out of new channels
idols were made here, dreams shattered, and promises left unbroken
but her *******, not left untouched

unblessed
i can taste it in your tears
i can hear it in your voice

bless these tiny fingertips and her lips are soft.
her skin is a whisper.
i will leave no inch of flesh-

unsacrificed.


her wounds bled with the words,

*you begin
to
understand-
all of me

Come up north to see the great outdoors
Rolling hills
Scenes leaving you wanting more
Never mind the weather
Whether its rain or shine
Grab a pint
Sit down
And enjoy our way of life

Born and bred northern boy
But no flat cap or corduroys
Yorkshire til the day I die
I'll represent that West Yorks sign
Faithful to my northern life
Faithful to my northern rhyme
Brought up well with northern vibes
Through hard times, miners strike
Times when maggie thatcher tried
to stir up **** with lies designed
Got miners and police to fight
But don't believe that southern hype...
Those brutal battles gave us life
It redefined our future times
Redefined our future lines
Redefined the northern kind
Redefined our northern humour
Redefined our northern style
Tourists come from far and wide
to find out what the North is like
Expecting lack of cultured life
Surprised we're not uncultured swines
Rewarded with our northern minds
Our northern ways
Our northern lives

Come up north to see the great outdoors
Rolling hills
Scenes leaving you wanting more
Never mind the weather
Whether its rain or shine
Grab a pint
Sit down
Enjoy our way of life

i always end up like this
no matter what type of event i'm at
sitting, alone, in the back
but this time, there
on the church basketball court
converted into a dancefloor
just as roughly as i also was converted
into a church dance attendee
in dark grey corduroys
and a crimson dress shirt
(missing a collar button)
not to mention a shave
(far too thorough, as i always am)
and a haircut by my uncles hand-
it was there,
that i was choking back tears,
tears caused by glancing up momentarily,
javing five or more beautiful girls
meet my eyes, and smile invitingly
(telling me to stand)
but still being unable to drag myself out of that chair
and walk over to them.
an inability caused by her,
the one i still love(d)
wherever she happens to be.
but, this inability to move
is not her fault.
we're over
and i'm a free man,
so i make my mind up,
wipe my eyes,
and stand;
rising to look at the faces
of the two who are telling me
to walk, to tap, to ask, to dance
and
without a word
i walk into that crowd
leaving them behind.
but
she's still here.
and, keeping that in mind
i enjoy myself
but every face
every conversation
dissolves,

as my footsteps do-

as the music does-

at the end of each song





©Brandon Webb
2012

I can tell I'm depressed
When I don't take the laundry
Out of the washer,
Where it has been cleansed of its sins
Of passion, or rage, of greasy fast food.
My filthy hands would ruin them.


So I wait for my roommate
To baptize his own spotless hands
With MY damp boxers.
The habitual thuds of my soggy clothes
Against the back of the dryer
Are a nice distraction.

My favorite flannel dances
With her tiny lost sock.
But 45 minutes isn't enough.
I don't want to end their fun,
So I leave them there
And hope that they'll fuse forever.

He tosses the clothes onto my floor,
Scattering them, wrinkling them, freeing them.
Corduroys atop henleys under crew socks and tees.
Folding them would be a waste
Of a catastrophic masterpiece.

I believe in myths.

Every naturel blonde was first someone else.  By that I mean, she was known as Norma Jean, maybe Katy, in high school (see reincarnation below).

My teenage glory days, when I was the king of cool,
will revisit when I am 75 years old, the man-in-demand (wink), wearing his lucky wide cord corduroys and letting my man-bun,
all the way down, at the prom in the senior citizen home, getting lucky, say once a month...

God, yup, after all, he/she cometh to me regular-like,
when he needs a poet~father to take his confession,
and pays me most excellently for refusing him forgiveness,
with the most excellent poem suggestions or lesser valuable things.

Love at first sight, of course, happens to me all the time,
twenty, thirty times when I am walking home.  I tell ya, it's exhausting, the stress of living in the big city

Not only will I win the lottery someday,
will take down both,  Powerball and MegaMillions,
in the very same week the odds for which
there ain't enough zeroes in HP's servers. (See God, above).

Reincarnation. One time they Hale(d) and then hanged me (my "namesake") and I said: " I only regret, that I have but one life to lose for my country."  Well, the selfies all show oh-boy-o-boy, was I ever grinning and winking.

Only boys are bullies, girls get off easy, by getting called
just mean.

One day my city's teams will win the World Series, the Stanley Cup, the NBA Finals and the Superbowl all in the same year but only after I die and me, well, only after they will have buried me in Wyoming or France, just for spite, and nobody will hear me screaming.

My children will speak fondly of me even after they find out I died broke, well maybe not fondly, but they will most definitely call out my name, regularly.

After my demise, all the typoes in my poems will magically disappear.

All these good things will come to fruition, because I am a believer, and walked the humble path. The autopsy will also show that my tongue was permanently stuck to my cheek.

an ice cold stare, old denim jeans
suede and cotton tops - they all
feel like los angeles, another
guitar naps where she sleeps,
santana seems to pluck the strings
in her dreams; speaking of dreams,
a sweet man and pup named clyde
are the cast members in her
opening scenes, acts in her play
she would burn the whole script
for just to see

-t.m

It's killin' me,

the way you always
heed my silent becks
to the cat's cradle
for the dim-dusked
shimmyings we do,

for the middle of the courts
hopscotchin' we improv
in the
catacorner criss-crosses
we continue to let
splash
in the middle of our
bashing pool.

stakes are
brimstoned
high
this time-

higher than the dizzy chicks
with flower magic
stick-on things
not really covering their ******* -

their faith's got them
grinning down
proudly
to the matrix hubbub below,
from the drooping shoulders
of their guy bits
in matching flowers

('cause we're all one here
yeah? - yeah!).

tonka tricks
litterin' my walkway -
slinkin' around,
tryna play on with
the big cats -

instead,

just trippin' up my
flutter game -

chill out.

i mean,

i'm not complainin'
'bout the mess your
charcoal lashes keep
leavin'
after payin their
naughty boy dues
to them round things
just one step down -
makin' love to
the apples bobbin'
in cheeky
conversation.

i've kinda got this
cheshire thing goin' on -
the way my smile swells
too slowly for you -
showin' off whiffs of
those secret things

the ones i only hold onto to
to keep rattlin' your cage
with the big toys
i keep tellin' you
you can't have.

but
you keep
swimmin' in that pool
of excessive *****
traps
thinkin' there's a way
to ****** the magic
carpet from beneath my
bottom,

believing some dumbly
that your charcoal
is the only fire starter i'll ever want
markin' up my agenda.

you're screamin' a bit too loud
now, Cubby -
readin' to me the words
i can't see written across
my face.

I can't see 'em
without a mirror,
though i can feel the letters
being etched into my skin
with every flipped card
i wasn't
necessarily
tryin' to flip.

but, honey
i got cosmic dust
stored in my fingertips

a special
spunky mix
i like to throw down on
in the kitchen with
the sandman's concoctions -

plan A and plan B
it's a fight just to see in -
need to be prepared
for whatever is comin'.

though you ain't snatched
the rug yet,
i'm lollygaggin' on the
tip of the edge

my carpet's doin this
rufflin' thing -
and i'm slippin'.

you got me
colonizin' your corduroys
draggin' my stirred and ragged heart
behind me -
too sturdy and ambitious
in its wild-hearted
persistence.

gonna bust open
this fruit bloom, here
if it takes me all day
and all night.

I am
an ant,
looking for salvation
in big places.

The moralist  is playing again,
bleaching your hair
is an unspoken uniform,
with so little soul
acetates don't get played.
New words gets bandied "plebs",
but without the de-rigueur  Corduroys
or  navy blazers,
we are all be tarred
with the same brush.
Meanwhile the coach exhaust  fumes
abnegated our pilgrimage to Stamford
and we all now agree we  
lived beyond our means
in exiguous Britain

smiles revealed during September,
leads to words throughout November,
and greater things come in December

now its May
and some days
it feels like I'm falling apart,
because my love can do nothing to mend your broken heart

things have a way of coming back to us
what was the name of that song by Yes?

well it's only the second sighting of you this week
wish we could sneak
back to your place,
but everyone can tell
by the look on my face,

its a Thursday

I love the buttons on your coat
and the way you can't hold your smoke
corduroys and shades of blue

driving down the road
there is a sound
but we both know, it's just the snow

just abdicate your objections
they incapacitate my affections

I don't need to ameliorate my attendance rate

I'm losing every ambition that I thought I ever had
no one even notices
no surprises, no surprises there

deja vu for you
I'm certain this future isn't true
I just can’t say adieu

I sense life’s precarious balance    hushed
Stilled    moving to the negative
Our aging rusty colored companion
Lying camouflaged on his brown tattered rug snug
In front of the warmth of the fireplace
Appears uncommonly restless
The living room Kmart clock    a
Plastic cheapness hanging between two white candles
Gives a strike    a moment today or tomorrow

It is bloodless white mid-morning the dog with a start
Throws head back making tags ring letting loose a feeble howl
Our bodies give a quick convulsive ****.
Innate fear acknowledges.
Coming distant its portentous screams shatters    sneaks
Into being     matter of factly taking sway of our simple lives
We sit in coated silence awaiting the
Arrival.

Defeated we stand
Early frost beneath the skeletal body of the silver maple
Grey shapes emanate from the silent visitor
Take form holding her brown corduroys and red sweater

Mom is pushed by unseen hand to her kness
Head bowed no sound
Her only movement hysteria of shoulders.
The tree bark softens allowing dad’s right hand
His face bathed in earthly blood
Gazes upward      my eyes follow up through the maple
Autumn bared     the stars shine beyond the naked limbs.

“Mr. Lawson, we found this underwear along with the clothes in the trunk of a parked car out on Bell Road close to the pond. We’re going to get some more men out there to drag it.”

The underwear was stained with blood.

The family huddles around the fire in the sanctuary of home
As the nets sieve the frigid waters of the silent pond.

Darby jumps up onto dad’s lap
His hand unknowing strokes the
Reddish fur    his eyes as the dogs
Shut to offerings given
Mom sits in the kitchen on the
Edge of a wicker back chair
Taken from grandma’s house
She is holding sister’s white tennis
Shoes against her chest
Rocking back forth back forth
I stand with my left arm crooked
Around the back of her neck
Remembering we once went fishing
At the pond on Bell Road
The hand strokes her heavy black hair

Out the window first light
Shows the tree line of the ridge
The net is empty

Mom is done
She get’s up to brew more coffee
While dad and I go outside to sit on the grey flaking
Front porch and confront the passive morning
Absently I read the comics
Dad lights up a Lucky Strike
The smoke issuing from the mouth
And nose coalesces with that rising from the water
Laden grass     he looks at me
I put down the paper   helpless in the
Company of his pain
Flipping the **** onto the newly graveled driveway
He stands   releasing me
It is still
We listen silently to the lone ringing
From the bell tower of Corinth Church
Up on the hill beckoning the people to
Worship the Methodist brand of God.

Somehow I knew
Dad walks   then runs   toward an old woman
Coming from around the corner from
Behind the woods   she is stumbling
Along the roadside as if drunk or lost
The old woman begins to turn away but – doesn’t
Dad picks her up cradling her as an infant
He slowly walks toward the house
The silence of the bell a muted scream

She is covered in an old grey granny dress
Imprinted with small purple and yellow flowers
Her bare feet are bleeding

After the others had their fun
One of the six
A middle aged man
Had taken her to a dilapidated barn
With **** skins spread eagle on the walls
While moving the sharp edge of a fish cleaning
Knife up down up down between her labial lips
He offered “Cry and holler all you want! You have no home to go back to.
We burned it! Burned it straight to the ground with your precious
Family inside.”

After his play the man took her to
His grandmother’s house up on Ridgeview Road
Just a couple of miles from ours
The old woman looked upon her nakedness and
With the dress   blessed her.
From the vacuous room a whispered
“Jesus Forgive Us “was heard.

October 1

Autumn’s arrived so suddenly  
her colorful blush upon leaves
soon to fall amid ripened gourds
lying in our small garden
where strong trunks of
brussels have begin small sprouts
beneath giant leaves.

At my feeder, birds no longer nibble
daintily, but gorge, filling for southbound flights
rain beats against my roof
in the now chilling air.

Where summer with its warmth?
Tomatoes too late to ripen, remain green,
bumble bees sit heavily on the few remaining flowers
hoping  for warmth’s returning beam,
while honey bees finding my Cimicifuga racemosa’s
white scented floral spray
busily gather its last remaining nectar
for their winter nests
somewhere in my woods.

And I now out of my Bermuda shorts
and colorful short sleeved shirts
don  long legged corduroys, an old sweater
smelling  slightly of moth ***** to
begin the chore of gathering the garden
furniture’s pillows, turning off the sprinkler
putting away the hose.

It’s time to remove the two ultraviolet lamps
from my ponds water pumps lest freezing break the bulbs.
Koe fish, less interested now in my daily feeding
rise  to the surface in the cooling water
more slowly as if preparing for sleep.
I marvel at their ability to simply
lie under the soon to be frozen water
to await spring.

We humans don’t have such patience.
We gather logs for our winter fires
remove screens and windowed air conditioners
check the furnace’s pilot light  and search among the eves for
boots and scarves and gloves.
Autumn soon to be Winter

"BE DE HOLY DUBLIN!"

uncle's old hat
inhabited now
by a black feral cat

I remember the laugh
always fixed
beneath that hat

forever tilted back
ready with the quick quip
tongue in cheek

his green corduroy trousers
nothing but rags
to shine shoes

first colour photo
we'd ever seen
those green corduroys

were really green
as if the photo was
necessary to prove it

attacking with a pin
the dirt caught
in the green ridges

"See that tree?" he'd tell me
that used to be me but
I grew out of it!"

words loved him
and would do anything
he said

I the small boy
wearing the fabled hat
in the act of being him

wearing the much too big
green corduroys
rolled up...held up by braces

"Be de hokey!"
I'd exclaim
quoting him

"Be de Holy Dublin!"
his catch phrases on my lips
creasing him up

"Hey ya little *****!"
( pretending to be mad )
"Yer better than that Charlie Chaplin!"

me bathing his feet
in a basin after
he put the cows to bed

a black cat
inhabits the now
curled up in Mikey's old hat

She would never dream of arriving at a session
Looking like a first take--not like the bass player
With his shirt collar rising and rolling
Like some unplanted meadow on an Upstate hillside,
Or the trumpeter whose ancient corduroys
Have not seen a pressing in months if ever,
Or the sad young man at the mixing board
With the hair sticking out like wire brushes
Splayed for the softest swish possible.
She would never dream of appearing in any manner
Not fully together, the muted gold blouses
(Accentuated with a bright red scarf)
The tailored skirts of crimson or brown,
Hair freshly salon-coiffed, lipstick and makeup just so.
As she is not a performer as much as the stuff of legend,
And those hunched over traps and cymbals
Or bunched cheek-to-jowl with the acoustic tile
Are utterly bewitched by the sounds,
So familiar yet with all the life of twenty years earlier,
Yet the tape playback seems to file a dissenting opinion:
There is a certain frailty to the timbre,
The odd hitch and hesitation in the phrasing
(She does not betray much while listening,
One headphone pressed to a single ear,
Save for the odd fleeting furrow to the forehead)
But it is something that is paid little mind,
The quartet and singer plowing ahead
Until such time she gathers coat and purse
In a gesture which clearly states That is all for today
And she leaves the studio to walk the few blocks home,
Passing by some down-on-their-luck brownstones,
Their facades recently whitewashed in the vain hope
Of masking the irrevocable cracking in the walls,
The buckling of the edifice's foundation

"BE DE HOLY DUBLIN!"

uncle's old hat
inhabited now
by a black feral cat

I remember the laugh
always fixed
beneath that hat

forever tilted back
ready with the quick quip
tongue in cheek

his green corduroy trousers
nothing but rags
to shine shoes

first colour photo
we'd ever seen
those green corduroys

were really green
as if the photo was
necessary to prove it

attacking with a pin
the dirt caught
in the green ridges

"See that tree?" he'd tell me
that used to be me but
I grew out of it!"

words loved him
and would do anything
he said

I the small boy
wearing the fabled hat
in the act of being him

wearing the much too big
green corduroys
rolled up...held up by braces

"Be de hokey!"
I'd exclaim
quoting him

"Be de Holy Dublin!"
his catch phrases on my lips
creasing him up

"Hey ya little *****!"
( pretending to be mad )
"Yer better than that Charlie Chaplin!"

me bathing his feet
in a basin after
he put the cows to bed

a black cat
inhabits the now
curled up in Mikey's old hat

corduroys
doc martens laced
flannels tied around
our waist

smells like teen spirit
strains
as Kurt Cobain sings
there's something in the way

the chronicle
of the higher plain
as simple
as that you accomplish
tears for fears
falling like red rain

The other day
a painting
caught my eye
reminding me of 1994

how carefree we were
senior year
of high quality
symbols scribbled
on converse tennis shoes
Chuck's were preferred

grunge,the revolutionary
psychology  of Seattle
stomped on the airwaves
but everything is zen

I DON'T THINK SO!!!

I dropped a nickel
but did a dime in the playpen
juvenile isn't it

"BE DE HOKEY!"

uncle's old hat
inhabited now
by a black feral cat

I remember the laugh
always fixed
beneath that hat

forever tilted back
ready with the quick quip
tongue in cheek

his green corduroy trousers
nothing but rags
to shine shoes

first colour photo
we'd ever seen
those green corduroys

were really green
as if the photo was
necessary to prove it

attacking with a pin
the dirt caught
in the green ridges

"See that tree?" he'd tell me
that used to be me but
I grew out of it!"

words loved him
and would do anything
he said

I the small boy
wearing the fabled hat
in the act of being him

wearing the much too big
green corduroys
rolled up...held up by braces

"Be de hokey!"
I'd exclaim
quoting him

"Be de Holy Dublin!"
his catch phrases on my lips
creasing him up

"Hey ya little *****!"
( pretending to be mad )
"Yer better than that Charlie Chaplin!"

me bathing his feet
in a basin after
he put the cows to bed

a black cat
inhabits the now
curled up in Mikey's old hat

wet and alone
wrinkled and soft
tossed from man to man
in their hands she squealed
chubby as a beach whale

She started out
drooling and sputtering
cooing and babbling "bababa"
in a mouth with no teeth
and a double chin underneath

She started out
on all fours
crawling on the floor
wobbling and falling
she never stopped falling

She started out
begging to fit in
looking like a boy
with chopped hair
in brown corduroys

She started out
with a maidenhead
and every month
it'd bled bright red

She started out
out with papers and books
jeers and scoffing looks
bitten down nails
in messy pigtails

She started out
in lace
a veil to hide her face
two kids
a cat
a car
and then an empty jar

She started out
with beer on pizza night
then turned to wine
red or white
now she turns on her soap operas
downing three or four vodkas

She started out flirting
and on paper blurting
about her escapades
and a writer's sunken wage

She ends up as she starts
wet and alone
wrinkled and soft

COLOURING THE WORLD.

Auntie Peggy
gave us
the world

we held it
tentatively
between finger and thumb

hardly able
to believe
what we could see

there we were( & she )
trapped in the first ever
colour photo we

had ever seen
and so we saw
that grass was green

as were
Uncle Michael's
corduroys

we looked
and looked
again to confirm

that the photo
had got it
exactly right

somehow that world
was lost by us
and we could only see it

through
the eyes of
Auntie Peggy's photos

where everything remains just so
and redder and bluer and greener
than anyone could ever know