"hifi" poems
Miss Cleves
(she dropped
the Mrs. when
her husband left)
stood by the doorframe
of the lounge,
dressed
in a flowery kimono,
which revealed more
than it concealed.
***** wants some milk,
she said.
Benedict looked around
at her from the sofa.
Percy will oblige
after his drink is drunk,
he said. Chopin’s
concerto no 2 oozed
from the hifi. He drained
his drink and followed her
into her bedroom.
Once Percy had obliged
and ***** been fed,
they lay abed.
She criticizing
his Marxism,
he her Scottish
conservatism;
she talked
of her husband’s betrayal
and ***
with air hostess
trollops,
Benedict half-listened
taking in
the ending
of the Chopin.
She talked of the poor
and the slums saying:
you can take
the poor out
of the slums,
but you can’t always take
the slums out
of the poor.
He raved
about the rich,
she scorned
the poor;
he talked revolution,
he pointed out Stalin
and Mao and the altars
of blood they brought.
Another drink? she asked.
He said yes
and she went off
to pour. He lay naked
on her bed wondering
what the priest would think
of him lying there
**** naked. He heard
the Chopin begin again;
she had thought of that.
Time to prepare, he thought,
once more to feed the cat.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Fenola watched
as Eileen bathed.
She took in
the hand
moving
the lathered sponge
over the contours
of the body,
moving between ****
like some
venture ship of old,
moving down
the belly,
beneath the soapy water
to the pleasure dome,
then out again
around the neck
and under chin,
then whole body
over once again.
She knew that body well,
each inch of flesh,
each orifice,
each smell,
each loving touch.
Even the thought
pleased her
overmuch.
Eileen looked over
where Fenola sat,
on stool,
in bathrobe,
with feet
on mat.
Come on in,
she said,
room enough for two,
you rub my back,
I’ll rub yours
and other places too.
Fenola thought awhile,
took in her eyes
that gazed,
the smile
that spread,
the memory
of the afternoon
in bed,
the positions held
and played,
the *** ensuing.
Eileen pointed
to the soapy bath,
come in,
she said
with **** laugh.
Fenola stood up
from the stool,
disrobed,
set it aside,
stepped in the bath
and sat down,
the water engulfing.
Somewhere
from the other room,
Ravel played
from hifi speakers,
Bolero
or some such piece,
the sound touching
the bathroom walls
with steam and scent.
The girls rubbed
and scrubbed
and laughed
in soapy water,
each one
like a siren
of the sea
or Neptune’s daughter.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC
Shrove Tuesday. Meet me after school.
She had scented breath. Gordonstone
Said he’d ****** her. There was that
Look in her eyes. Her sister never had
The same way about her. The parents
Both taught at college. The father loved
Mahler and smoked a pipe. The mother
Had a taste for S&M; and listened to
Country and western. Meet me by the
Bandstand and come alone. Bud went
Along alone. The afternoon sun shone
Weakly down. She was standing by the
Pond watching the swans. The parents
Are out tonight she said how about you
And me? Bud said what about you and me?
The parents’ bed we could if you like
She muttered. Bud wondered where her
Parents were going and would they be late.
Ok he said. They walked through the park.
The sun was going down. Her sister was out
With some schmuck at the movies. She took
Bud into the house. He smelt wealth and
Comfort. Want a drink? she asked. Bud sipped
At the father’s scotch. She gulped down the
Mother’s gin. How about you and me going
Upstairs to the parents’ bed? Bud swilled the
Whisky around his mouth. The cheeks burnt.
The tongue almost died. She took his hand
And climbed the stairs. The carpet was soft
And deep. Bud thought of *** most days.
Bud dreamed of *** She undressed. Removed
Each item like some downtown stripper.
Bud once saw his mother’s naked ****
He was off food for a week. Come on in
She said. Bud removed his shirt and pants.
The curtains were flowered. He climbed into
The parent’s bed. Maybe Gordonstone had.
She lay there inviting him in. There was country
And western music coming from the huge hifi.
Bud hoped she didn’t have her mother’s taste
For S&M.; She hummed some country song.
Don’t be long she said. Enjoy she whispered.
There is no tomorrow. You’re a long while dead.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
Her seventh suicide,
attempts failed, saved,
the last by that medic
with the beard like Christ.
Thin sharp blade
against forearm,
the fingers shaking,
the eyes focused,
the voice of some French singer
in the background,
the red line,
the spurt of blood,
the walls, the bath,
splattered.
Seventh time lucky,
the water warm,
the water reddening,
the body becoming cold,
tired
she closes
her eyes,
is this how one dies?
Mother’s demise
with the cancerous crab
******** into her brain
and ******* up to pain.
She thinks on,
the French song
on the hifi
low, darkening.
That medic
brought her back
last time,
like some Lazarus,
back from the dark,
the unknown light,
the long night.
Seventh suicide,
attempts made,
unsuccessful,
buggered up,
teetering on the edge,
that time balanced
on the high office ledge
and that cop
with the Al Pacino look,
talked her in,
failed again.
Outside another day,
sound of pitter patter,
sound of rain.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
Chana, having made love
with young Baruch, went
to get more wine. Did she
need to get another? She
thought, she was old enough
to be his mother. The LP of
Bruckner he had brought
still played on the hifi; she
preferred Mahler’s fifth.
The kitchen light had a
mellow glow. She poured
more wine into the two
glasses and returned to
the bed. He was laid there
like some young prince,
proud and youthful, head
full of ideas, morals gone
to the wind, seemed happy
to have had her and sinned.
She put down the glasses
and climbed into bed. Him
and his Marxism, she thought
as he talked of Das Kapital.
She placed her hand on his
pecker, life enough yet,
stirred, moved. She could
smell the *** in him; the stir
of a young stallion. Her long
ago husband was never like
this even in his youth; she
was well rid of him, him and
those airhostesses, those
whom he said he had quite oft
and where. She smiled at young
Buruch lying there wine in hand
talking of a revolution that would
never come, his pecker stirring,
his words becoming slurred with
the taking of wine. That first time
he had her on the sofa; oh, that
took her back some. He drained
his glass, put on the side. He was
young enough to be her son, she
mused, watching him stir and
prepare, her young stallion with
hazel eyes and dark brown hair.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
Benedict met Mrs Cleves
in one of those
out of town bars
and they had a few drinks
and she told him
about her ex and
what a ******* he was
and how he used
to mess around
with those air hostesses
(he being a steward on a plane)
and he'd even boast
how many of them
he had had that week
and Benedict listened
and drank his drink
knowing that after this
they would go back
to her place
and drink more
put on some Delius
on her hifi
and have ***
on the sofa
or maybe make it
to her bedroom
if time and passion allowed
but she talked on
about her ex
and how she met him
after she came
out of the convent
(Benedict couldn’t picture
that scenario)
all innocent and pure
and thought love
had been found
Benedict sipped
the last of his drink
noticing how her hair
was like that French queen
he’d read about
who’d had lost her head
on the guillotine
and still she yakked on
about the ex
how he liked
fast cars and women
and drank too much
and disliked
her Scottishness
or her whiney voice
Benedict wondered
what she was like
back then
before the pounds
had landed on her
before age
had begun to settled
into features
and remembered
that time they had ***
on the sofa
and they’d fallen off
( too much *****
or what he couldn’t now say)
and the downstairs neighbour
had banged up
from the room below
and she said
shut the **** up
you old hag
and all said
in her Glaswegian tones
and they lay there
on the floor
she **** naked
and he semi clothed
with Mahler’s 5th bellowing
in the background
and as he came back
from his thoughts
she was still talking
of the ex
and he wished
she'd finish up
her drink
to get back
to her place
for more ***** and ***
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
I am a practitioner of art,
said Alice, oil and canvas
are my daily bread, charcoal
blackens my fingers, darkens
my soul, my dreams are of
*** and men lost, I bed sad
men in my thoughts. My art
keeps me from asylums, takes
me from the doctor’s couch
to the lonely studio, the air
full of fumes and stale food
and my unwashed body.
My mother was a slave to
the kitchen sink, her life spent
in domestic chores, in my father’s
bed, in the worrying times she
popped the pills, drank the
bottles dry. I am the spyer of
secret lovers, my sister’s men
in her double bed, the laughter
and tears in equal measure,
the flowers and bruises all fondly
kept, the split lips and black eyes,
she wore with pleasure. I am
the painter of other’s souls, images
oiled in with the darkest colours,
their features blended with the
darkness of their lives. My brother
sat with his demons, supped with
them in his lonely hours, injected
the nightmare makers with the
addict’s skill, he slept uneasy in
another’s bed, chased by his
demons and women until he died,
a bullet in his head. I listen to Parsifal
on the old Hifi the Wagnerian opera
is my secret drug, my opener of days,
my closer at nights, the background
to my daily arguments and fights.
My father was my only healer, his
loving touches healed my hurts,
stitched my cuts and wounds, he
watered down my temper’s scorns;
he alone shared my soul’s foul deeds,
knew my heartaches, my scars of ***
and doctored my soul’s lack. He was
cornered by the cancer’s hold, its
icy fingers in his bones and skin, its
deadly smell in his breath and flesh
and his parting words were lost in
the final rattle. I am the artist of life’s
dark wars and ancient wounding battle.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 5:48 AM UTC
Each finds
their own salvation
or not,
Nima said.
Birds fed
in her hair.
Her eyes ******
in black holes,
gave birth to dreams.
I sat beside her,
drank black coffee,
smoked menthol cigarettes,
heard Coltrane
on the HiFi.
How deep
does my soul go?
She asked,
what is *** after all?
I inhaled and looked
at the cavern
of her small
firm *******
Cold turkey,
she said,
rather have
a cool fix.
I sat exhaling
menthol smoke;
the Coltrane runs
on saxophone
caught in my ears.
I think I’ve spiders
in my ******
she said;
big black ones
with hairy legs.
I closed my eyes
supping on
the menthol smoke,
sensing Coltrane's sound
invade my soul.
Nima lay back down,
legs spread,
black beetles
and insects
inside
her drained out
head.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
Benedict's mother
stood by the twin tub
washing machine
lifting the steaming wash
from the washer
to the spinner
with wooden tongs,
her eyes focused,
her arm straining.
He watched her;
a book, Plato's Republic,
lay open
on the table
by his hand.
He studied
the red hands,
the worn fingers,
how she wiped the wet
from her forehead
with the back
of her hand.
Plato’s Philosopher Kings
seemed too hard
for his delicate mind
at that stage,
the Greek world
too far off
in the past
to give him comfort.
Maybe you ought
to read something lighter,
his mother said,
pushing down
the washing
with the end
of the tongs.
Find it hard to read
at all at present,
he said,
everything’s
an effort.
Making the effort
is part of the effort,
she said.
You don’t want to be
in the hospital again,
do you?
He closed up
the Plato book.
He wondered
how Julie was.
He’d not seen her
for months.
Good job too
his mother
would have said
if she had known
about her.
No, he said,
not there again.
His mother spun
the washing,
the noise ratted
the machine.
He rose from the table
and walked down
the passage way.
The machine rattled still.
He went in the back room
and put Miles Davis
on the hifi.
The muted horn,
the saxophone weaving,
the drummer
keeping pace,
jazz on a highway,
he closed his eyes,
head full of darkness,
breath full of sighs.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
It was all part of the scheme
of things Henry thought and
even when the women looked
at him with that odd curiosity
he never failed (at least not in
the beginning) to make a score
usually with one of the females
less prettier than the ones who
left before and after taking her
for the drink and meal routine
and maybe to the cinema he took
her back to his place and poured
her a drink and put on a cool jazz
record on the hifi and set her down
on the sofa and she talked and he
watched her lips move the lipstick
red the kind his mother used to wear
and her nose was kind of pointed and
lifted up at the end and her words
went over his head he wasn’t interested
in her philosophy of being or what
she had bought at the last sale he
studied her chin the way it rose and
fell as she spoke the words pouring
out and he said look Honey I know
you like to talk but how about you
and me going to bed? Oh she said I
haven’t told you about the time I
went to New York and so Henry lay
back on the sofa closed his eyes
and let her talk a jazz saxophone
filling in behind her voice the record
turning her mouth opening and closing
and he thought of time passing and
remembering his mother’s red lipstick
mouth scolding and after boredom had
set in deep he drifted off to sexless sleep.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
Hornbridge likes to see girls undress.
But slowly. Their thin fingers and thumbs
Holding the cloth and taking off. Especially
The black negligee held just so. He fully
Dressed waits until the final article of
Clothing is removed and she stands gazing
At him with her bright expectant eyes.
He likes to have music in the background
Playing. Jazz or classic. Gerry Mulligan for
Some types or Mozart for others depending
On their breeding or class. Occasionally a Rock
Chick makes it through his defences and he
Puts on the Stones or something of their ilk.
He likes it when the girls place their hands on
Their hips as they wait for him to undress.
Yet there is always some disappointment.
Some flaw in either ******* or waist or legs
Or *** Gloria spoilt him. Hard act to follow.
Those eyes. How he could swim there in that
Blue liquid of the two eyes. Those *******
How could he ever forget them? His dear friends.
The way they would be waiting. Her hands soft
And warm and gentle touching him. And how
She loved to disrobe to the tones of a turned
Down Vivaldi from the hifi. Sad she left. Final
Curtain. Big cancer. No fond slow goodbye.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
And so on Tuesday morning I'm going to once more close the door
Me and Mollie dog are going to say goodbye
For a few sweet days in the woods
Days to sit and think beside a flickering log fire
Days spent in silence but for the sound of the birds
the breeze rustling in the leaves
A time to gather my thoughts
A time to sit and write...In daylight
Come the sinking of the sun out there to the west
That then is the time I probably love the best
I will sit and read the stories in the flickering of the flames
Think about tomorrow and the words that I will pen
Yes, yes I will write of the things that I have seen, done
The reason for my being here
Why I left the world behind
Will I miss them? Internet, tv, microwave and shower
No, I wont miss them
Come early morning bleary eyed a cold dip in the stream
A few small logs on last nights fire then watch the kettle steam
And while the world is yet asleep I'll have eggs and bacon in the pan
How can I not sit in the splendour of this oh so pleasant land
In the background my hifi plays the music I love to hear
Hifi!!! No, its the singing of the birds
And so me and the Mollie dog do sit
In our tranquil retreat
you can live in your ratrace world
For me life is oh so sweet
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Elsa sits on the edge
of the roof of the building
smoking a cigarette
her thoughts on Bolright
her feelings on the downside
her get up
in the morning
and have a good look
out on the city
still intact
the stone on the rooftop
is warmed by the morning sun
and warms her ****
and thighs
and so what
she thinks
if he doesn’t
come back again
what the heck do I care
I had a good time
had a good night
the bed rocking some
the Miles Davis CD
oozing from the hifi
rising in the air
and he was a cool lover
had that way about him
that make the most of
this baby because
you won’t feel
the same again
kind of sensation
and she looks
at the passing traffic
the ant like people below
the smell of the city
the sensation
of the warm stone
beneath her
the warmth rising
through her skin
the touch pretty much
like his
but softer
more gentle
and she inhales deeply
on the cigarette
sensing the smoke
against the back
of her throat
sensing it take up
in her lungs
and thinking of him
trying to remind herself
of each moment with him
the touches
the kisses
the ***
oh yes the ***
and she exhales
the smoke
and laughs to herself
as if remembering
a private joke.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 5:04 AM UTC
It was a room
at the top of the building
music being played
from some hifi system
and Judy said
you dance quite well
thanks
you said
haven’t seen you
here before
she looked at you
with her dark eyes
I come for the drug aid
they help me here
to get of the junk
oh right
you replied
looking for signs
of needle marks
or signs in the eyes
you take junk?
No I’m a ***** clown
you said
she nodded
and danced to the music
for a moment or so
my parents are doctors
in the City and have put me
in the hospital but I get out
for a few hours
and they let me
come here for the help
you looked at her dressed
in her tight slacks
and over long jumper
her ******* small
compact
untouchable
her hips swaying
to the music’s beat
the way she moved
drawing you in
smelling her scent
her words lost
in a singer’s voice
a guitar whining
in and out
maybe I can come see you
you have to shout
over the music’s rising sound
sure
she said
moving her neat ***
as she moved around
and she whispered
the address and where
the hospital was
and how to get there
then she was whisked away
by some guy
with a drugged out
look in his eye
and you watched her sway
moving off
going slowly
but sexily away.
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 3:01 AM UTC
Hi come in I’ve just put on
the Mahler the 3rd Ok? she says
and before you can reply she
ushers you into the lounge where
you remove your coat and hear
the Mahlerian sounds from the hifi
and the smell of her scent and two
glasses of scotch on the small table
by the sofa take a seat she says taking
your coat off to the other room and
you look at the Picasso print on the
wall and think how long before she
tries to undress you and you sit and
she’s back and sits beside you and says
drink up and take in the Mahler and
guess who I saw today and she had
the cheek to ask how I was when she
knew she’d been gossiping about me
to the **** neighbours and you sip
the scotch and look at her plump face
and her deep blue eyes and the red
dress she has on and the overbearing
perfume and how her ******* try and
push their way out of the dress and you
try and get a word in something about
the 3rd symphony or how you like the
Picasso print but she talks on and over
you like a tank her words hard biting with
their Gaelic tones and then she puts her
hand on your thigh and rubs it up and down
all the time her words unfaltering stretching
through the air and I told the old crab to
go smell her husband’s crotch and that was
it how was your day? she asks looking into
your eyes her hand still rubbing and your
pecker rising and you say a real downer of
a day but whatever now let’s just get into
the 3rd and sip our scotch and she smiles
and makes a grab for your hidden crotch.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 3:49 AM UTC
It was the time when clock was ticking exactly 12.
The stars started fading and sky covered itself with clouds.
A little boy opened the door hearing the rain, the soil was wet and it had the fragrance of freshness in it.
The mesmerizing sound of droplets amazed him.
He smiled and wished facing the sky, the one wanted to be a pilot , so
that could do a hifi to the clouds, but the illness he was bound to would never let his wish to be fulfilled which he knew .
He stepped in the rain and it rained, just rained
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 9:48 AM UTC
The Puerto Rican
Senorita in
The room above as
A cute *** Henry
Thinks, as he watches
Her sway upstairs to
Her room, giving him
A smile and turn of
Her dark haired head. She
Has no marido
Yet, although he’s seen
The occasional
Man walk up to her
Room some nights. He hears
Her walk across the
Floor above, sometimes
She dances to the
Music from her cheap
Hifi, tangos or
Sambas that Latin
American stuff
He’s heard before, and
He imagines her
Dancing, her short skirt
Rising, her lovely
Legs showing, her cute
*** moving from side
To side, and he can
Only imagine
What else she does when
The men come and the
Dancing stops and the
Music falls silent.
Then he just lies there
On his bed smoking,
Watching the smoke rise
And a phantom of
The senorita
Dancing naked there
Before tired eyes.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
You suspected Saffy
Was shafted by her
Brother; the big ape
Eyed her frequently
From his armchair
In the corner when
You called on her
To go out. She had
That, Oh I can’t go
Out now look; can’t
We stay in, watch a
Movie or go to my
Room and listen to the
Hifi? Sure, you’d say,
And go to her to room
And sit in the chair by
The wide window as she
Sorted through records.
The side of her neck was
Shot with brown marks,
Her eyes haunted, her thin
Fingers flicking LPs, her
Tongue lying on her lower
Lip. She played her only
Beatles album, Help,
Played it loud, sitting
On the edge of her bed,
Nodding her head. The ape
Knocked her door, peered
Through the gap, not too loud
Saf, turn it down lover child,
Don’t want any neighbours
Banging on the wall, he said.
She waved you goodbye from
The door, the ape saw you
Off, his eyes following your
*** down the path with
His sick laugh. Saf didn’t
Say that he did, but hinted,
Implied; her words echoing
Through the mind years later.
The ape long since dead;
Bullet in the head, by her
They said, pulling the trigger
Of the father’s gun, ending
It in the room where all began;
Window open, wind blowing
Curtains, gun blast, midday sun.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC