Mountain ranges  evident on old coyote’s back
Legs that buckle and mange standing on end
Scrappy snarls and chattering clack
Band weary of its brother, how moons expend

Pushed from its den; old dog’s final indignity
Young competitors keep ahead the pack
What time will take; a brutal insistency
For a dying dog cards be stacked

Skinny whippy coyote your days complete
Senility your friend and nothing you lack
One last howls to death; a verse to meet
When no moon in sight and all goes black

1.
there once was a poem
who climbed into a paper boat
             and sailed on to the moon
             not a moment too soon
for they came to lock the sun away!

2.
best not mount this whippy one
rock-a-billy wild carriage
              ride me to the city's end
              don't drive me round the bend
we can always try a bold bovary-move!

3.
look into the fire and sing a song
about the lonely, tarrying sea
               oh sailor, make it sweet
               then I'll put it up on tweet
and nary mind; make your children's lullaby.

4.
I gives ya posies bright and gay
come sit by me...closer, dear
                she smells, then sneezes
                oh, he didn't know how to please her
her floral allergies packed him off for good.

5.
there was a lazy man from Shadder
who said 'twas too cold to empty his bladder
                  so, he sent it a-walkies
                  off alone to the loo
well, it just drove his wife madder!



S T, 30 June 2013

The ice cream van
Has today reached
The melancholic realisation
That the only kids who
Chase clocks for Mr Whippy
And lick the exhaust fumes
In nostalgia
Are the kids who are not kids
But who prematurely aged themselves
With lipstick kisses
And cigarettes
Lowered themselves into nooses
Of sweet-sixteenths
From the age of six

We are a generation of
Peter Pan inversions
We ran ashore
And beached ourselves
Beyond the lure
Of Neverland
We are a generation of
Failed cloud-catchers
Aspiring rainbow-clinchers
Secretly slipping our hands
Back into a dead air
Of former innocence
In the hope we’ll be able to
Retrieve the pieces we left there
We queue and scramble
Like gulls for
Inches we can claw back
Preserving our age in
Wafer cones
And bleeding snows
That glue between our fingers
Each 99 flake
Is a time machine
Which we spin like a music box
And wait for the rewind
Copper coins and sea stains
And we hope we’ll find
Some of the things we lost
But we cannot predict or realign
The atoms or twist ourselves
Back into them
So we sit and watch
The incorruptibility we once possessed
Perished
Sexualised
Corrupted
Pool in the March drizzle
Someone once said
That youth was a process
Of being torn in half
By the past that pulls you back
And the future that tempts you
Being too big and yet too small
Longing but fearing
But an ice cream van tells me
That youth is a process
Of trying not to drown yourself
In what you’ve never had
And when that ice cream van tells me to
MIND THAT CHILD
I can’t help projecting echoes
Of its wisdom
On to all who pass me by
Mind that childhood
Before there’s nothing left to mind

slick, sturdy, undeniably burgundy
whippy, supple, but no need for more than
a couple

a needle, sharper than the sharpness of the ice cream snow, shrouding my metallic skin like but an extension of my ice fingers, so perfect, so wonderfully clear and clean

*the bow is my mind and the strings my queen

Why am I chasing an ice cream van?
I asked, as after the van I ran....
Is this futility? I held out my hand-
Shall I ever be chased by this man?
Why does anyone chase an ice cream van?
No one is pursued by the ice cream man,
Running after a van in this heat is dippy,
Why sell our souls for Mr. Whippy?
With the crowds I did compete,
I bought soft serves, to survive the heat,
As that callous van drove down the street,
But, with ice cream, my soul is replete!

I remember creeping reverently past
The yawning maw
Snarling braches, overgrown foliage
Sad eye sockets
The defeated roof
Listing drunkenly to the left
The black spirals on the ground
Where the fire had scored earth bare
Crouched from the sanctity of the sidewalk
Damp palm snaking back to
Clasp tight
My best friend’s hand

Fear skittering up our spines
We skirted past poisonous green weeds
That swayed in the yard
Unkempt and our eyes
Darted, seeking, feral
For movement in that open doorway
Her shadow
The witch

Years pass

Looking out into suburbia
Manicured green boxes
And cookie-cutter plans
From my own cracked window
My newly acquired reno,
I spot a flash of moving colour
From beyond the overgrown hyacinths
A tousled flash of curls between the green
Puzzlement ripples as
Three lanky preadolescent forms
Snake from the protection of my shaggy firs
Thin chests taking a breath before
Their whippy arms point accusing
And I barely see a flash before
The clutched rock leaves the
Stupid-looking red headed one’s hand
Crashing through my upstairs master

And I hear it

Witch, witch, where’s the witch?

And I feel it.

My eyes beadily narrow
Peering over my bulbous nose
Shoulders hunching
Toes curl
And I reach for
The broom leaning next
The painter’s cloth
Grabbing on with knobbly fingers
Hurling myself
Out
Of
The door

Their eyes widened
Disbelieving
As they spot me  
And thumbs clutched between index fingers
They run
Leaving me cackling
Breathless

While my familiar
Looks up from
Sunning her black self
On the step.

Long time ago, I thought about staying in
An era lost,
Dead and gone,
Despite all the saving and baptisms.

They offered me the chance to lead them, to teach them,
to… to be king.
But my place was here.
So I drank some juice,
Said some words and here I am.

Didn’t seem like it was over though.
I was hitchhiking down a long and lonesome road.
Suddenly,
The skies filled with brimstone and irony,
The ground grew silent and still,
Clocks ticking wound satirically,
The sea drained into nothingness
like some gaping mouth was drinking it,
Dead gods awoke,
and there shined a shiny demon,
In the middle of the road.

He said to me,
“Welcome Moon-and-Star,
Come to me through fire and war.
Come, Legion,
Come and look upon the heart.
Lay down your weapons
And pick up your pen,
It is not too late for my mercy.

Now write the best poem in the world,
or I'll swallow your soul...”

Well, my many faces,
We looked at each other,
And we all said,

Okay.

And we wrote the first thing that came to our heads,
Just so happened to be
The best poem in the world,
It was the best poem in the world.

It went a little like this:

In the beginning, there was one source of light.
It would die and come back every night,
As a woman showing off her thighs
Just a little bit at a time.

In the beginning,
everyone bowed their heads towards the light.
They would dance and eat their friends alive.
We were not happy then,
these were simpler times.

Now we are played,
we’re the moth we’re the flame.
We were aware of the danger,
we could not look away;
my eyes are open.

I forget though
that people are not good to each other,
One on one.
Marx be ******,
The sin is not the totality of certain systems.
Theology be ******,
The sin is not the killing of a god.
People are just not good to each other.

We are afraid
and
We think that hatred means strength.

And so what we need is less brilliance,
what we need is less instruction,
what we need are less poets,
what we need is more beer,
a typist,
more finches.

And now I’m hoping for a poem
That will come to me when I’m asleep.
Because I can’t lie
And so I can’t write.

Our eyes pierce you, demon,
And it occurred to me that we have spent
our whole life
Starting over.

Caught pining for the things that we could’ve been:
We could have been gold diggers
we could have been gunslingers
we could have been a little bigger
we could have been our own ringers
we could have been good writers
we could have been good writers
we could have been good writers

But what we are,
is the silence.
Share with me all your pain.

I won't
Share your love.
I need all your love
Or it’s all for not.

Look what I have found, look what I have found!

Look what I have found, look what I have found!
An artificial light, we come and gather around.
This is why we have lovers and why we have fighters.

This is why the arms race and particle colliders.
Mine is a humble flame, just a little white lighter
And it belongs to me.

And yet
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it in the slow movements
Of the hands of a clock.
There are people so tired,
So strafed,
So mutilated by love or
No love,
That buying a bargain can of tuna
In a supermarket
Is their greatest victory.

So save me, I can't be saved,
I won't be saved.
I'm a citizen's son,
I don't need no soul.
All the soldiers say,
"It'll be alright,
We may make it through the war
If we make it through the night."
All the people, they say,
"What a lovely day, yeah, we won the war.
May have lost a million men, but we've got a million more."
All the people, they think
That no recall or intervention can work in this place,
That There is no escape.

Look into my eyes and it's easy to see
one and one makes two, two and one makes three,
it was destiny.
Once every hundred thousand years or so
when the sun doth shine
and the moon doth glow and the grass doth grow.

We dance in the thunder
Of collapsing walls and twisting cages.
The great black bellowing,
“I'm a god.
How can you **** a god?
What a grand and intoxicating innocence.
I'm a god.
How can you **** a god?
Shame on you, sweet Legion.”

We screech into the obsidian sheets
that blanket the way-out,
“When the giants of heaven forsake the earth
I shall destroy you for all that you’re worth.
With the bolt of Zeus and our golden throats
I will destroy you and send you afloat.
Whether you pillage the earth or sea
I will destroy you this I guarantee!”

Needless to say,
The beast was stunned.
Whip-crack went his whippy tail,
And the beast was done.
He asked us,
Be you angels?
And we said nay,

We are but men,

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal voice went snicker-snack!
we left Hymn dead, and with His read-head
we went hiking on ahead.

And the peculiar thing is this, my friends:
The poem we wrote on that fateful night,
It didn't actually read anything like this poem!

And the past followed me anyway.
so sure, I could’ve stayed there,
Could’ve been king.
But in my own way,
I am king.

I am a soft sandal
You are pebble beaches

I am a lace parasol
You are brutal high gales

I am a yellow sundress
You are sudden hail stones

I am scented sunscreen
You are cumulus clouds

I am Mr Whippy
You are a cloud of gulls

You are relentless
But I will adapt

In the bubble were hopes and dreams.
Hopscotch, handstands, Mr Whippy Ice Creams.
The freedom of playing outside on the street.
Summer holidays, bike rides and pick’n’mix sweets.

Years swept past and the bubble was still there.
Now 13 more interested in clothes and my hair.
Music and dancing; cigarettes and *****.
Never thinking ahead, just running wild and loose.

BURST went the bubble is his sly hands.
A past and present stolen; a future with changed plans.
Colour and glitter fell in horizontal lines.
Out went my sparkle, off went my shine.

Much time passed as I continued to grow.
Teens and twenties a blur but in my thirties I slowed.
I remembered the bubble; I remembered his hand.
The memory knocked me down like a wave on the sand.

With love I healed and began to blow, a fresh new bubble for my mended soul.
Filled with hope and forgiveness; love and light.
Books, food, nature; spiritually taking flight.

Yet I winced when I saw him once again.
Feeling sick to my stomach, almost feint.
He plagued my thoughts and dreams for a while after.
But truth broke me free as negativity shattered.

He took a part of me forever and that I can’t forgive.
But I have to move on in order to live.
My innocence was snatched but my future is mine.
I will live it to it’s fullest; forever I will shine.

Here come
pairs   of   legs
   riddled with cellulite
   accents
     stuff the air
Neuwcassul
   Burmingum
stores     reek
of cheap   tat
   bargain   last-few-quid   items
Irish music
no-one gives a     jig     about
    Mr. Whippy's
for sale every seven/six
   make that     five     cafés
women   packed
   like bubblewrap
     into denim shorts
     middle-aged men
plagued with     tattoos
   Irn Bru tans

back at the chalet
     kids thwack
   plastic     *****
with plastic racquets
   next-door neighbours
   puff on their nineteenth
*** before midday
come   night
karaoke floods towards us
   like a murky tsunami
don't stop believin'
     hold   on   to   that   feelin'

but the   girl
in the museum
   had a ponytail
   another one
dipped in gold
   like a fancy chess piece
and I walk   around
in a   Norwich   shirt
lick sea-breeze
     and know
   this isn't
home

Whippy willow-branch crowns
and crystal-cold pool water -
grass-tickled bare feet
and breathless trampoline bouncing -
comfortable, starlit darkness
and hours spent amongst the trees.

These are the memories that return with the summer sun,
and I cannot shake their carefree presence,
or how they pierce my heart.

Summer was always our joy.

Houses held up like puppets.
Pylon-wire branches spread out;
assuring the land wont drift far out to sea,
or melt into the earth with subsidence.

Cotton-wool-candy-floss caught up in cranes,
wind-whipped, white-wash, wispy, whippy clouds.

Do you remember when we waited in line for 99s?
The sky was busy with boats, the sea so blue. No, I mean...
And I had strawberry syrup dripping down my cone
and a multi-coloured sticky chin.
We watched the boats going out, coming in;
then we joined the rest to say goodbyes.

        All the hands were wagging; electric flapping.
        Water splashing up against the dock.
        The arms propelled the ship.
        Gemmed fingers dancing farewells;
        the jangle of bangled wrists;
        waving in the air, propelling the ship away
            to retirement paradises,
                          honeymoon bliss,
                                         champagne seascapes.

Always in the middle this place,
on the edge of a million-gazillion other worlds.

The rumble rattle of engines as I walk along
to look out at the reeds; on search for quiet idleness.
Leaves rustle, tickled by the breeze.
A train passes in-between;
                   on its way, on its way...
I sit on a bench nearby and hear a hum of life amongst the hedges.

Then,
walk back
with orange light bouncing in and out
of windows' winking eyes;
watching the chalk line,
aeroplane trails in the sky
cut through the blue.

two penneth of chips and trips t' bay
school's out for Summer
we're all on holiday
and
the budgie died last night,
but dad said,
it flew away.

The Beatles on the telly
some
yellow submarine,

being young back then in Lancaster was
just like living in a dream

and ice cream after dinner
from
the man called Mr Whippy,
he sells his cornets every night
just outside the chippie
where Rita and her husband
make fresh batter to coat the fish
and I wish that I were back there
in the passages of time.

Hey you, yes you the ***** in the red Jetta
Rather get a cab walk run it will be betta
What are you doing are you totally insane
Driving behind you is an endless pain

I cant over take you cause you cant decide
Can't go around you and no where to hide
Should you pull left or stay to the right
Holding my anger is becoming a fight

Just stay calm while my searing I bite
Like other ding bats he has the right
To buy a licence to drive a car
Like so many drivers he makes me naar

Now here comes a robot and look it is red
I watch in horror are you gonna stop dead
What are you doing look infront I yell
You nut case you idiot myself I do tell

Not throwing a fit is taking all my resistance
It takes my fast thinking to keep my distance
He breaks and he swerve and sways to the right
I say a quick pray as I gasp with fright

Head on into traffic thats coming his way
This way and that he swerves and sways
Oh wait a minute he dodge the Van
And the kids on the pavement left and right ran

Just missed the buss and a bush and a tree
Whippy I'm luck his back infront of me
Screeching and screaming and coming to a halt
He looks and he smiles like nothing's his fault

Others around him look on in dismay
As I think you idiot, you made it hooray
And away we go were on our way
I think should I drive or should I stay

Not even a second a metre a head
He comes to a halt and stops dead
Looking around like his lost or confused
Now I am irritated I'm not amused

What is he looking for what indeed
I scream to my self, with my self I plead
Oh it's a phone call its become so intense
We are all waiting move along no offence

If I should get out and my lid I should blow
I want you to listen I want you to know
I'll loose my insanity I'll rip of your door
I'll beat you black and blue and extensively sore

Oh thank crap the ****** bags on his way
This is starting out as a horrific day
He just keeps chatting and babbling along
Why can't he see what his doing is wrong

The guy in the Audi is ranting and raging
The guy in the Opel is totally fuming
The little old lady just looks on with confusion
This guy is living in a mental dilution

I look on intensely what could be next
I try to keep calm and put my nerves to rest
Wait a second what did he see
Ah come on man not again I plea

The chop just woke up and realised
He should of been on the other side
That was the street that he needed to take
Oh please help me for pity's sake

The little old lady on his left saw it to
She looks frightened and turns pail blue
I just look on and I think to myself
This cant be good for her mind and health

On goes the hazards and he darts to the left
The ******* around me are making me deaf
The guy in the Audi has lost his cool
He thew a spanner or some other tool

The guy in the Jetta drives happily along
Sing away to some lively song
He seems oblivious with out any care
That the little old lady is pulling out her hair

She looks like she had a seize of sort
Shaking and screaming like bull she snorts
The guy in the Audi is 5 shades of red
But the guy in the Jetta keeps moving a head

Out of the blue who knows from where
His moving along with no worry or care
Appears a stop sign in front of his car
He hits the breaks and skids on the tar

The little old lady pink buggy and all
Rolls up tightly into a little ball
How she missed him I'll never know
She quietly sits there with an evil glow

To my dismay she opens her door
And falls to her knees just there on the floor
The guy in the Jetta gives a big smile
As the little old lady falls down in a pile

She's kicking and screaming and going insane
She's up in an instant and out with her cane
She fly's at the guy sitting as stiff as can be
Eyes bulging widly this **** you should see

He lets out a scream like a ***** been attacked
And jumps on his pedal and doesn't look back
His over the stop street and round the next bend
I just pray I'll never see him agen

I look at the lady who looks back at me
Oh what a pittyfull site did I see
She was a mess and her hair was a tangled
Eyes where a flamed and her dress was mangled

She put on a smile and she straightened her hair
Brushed of her dresses and did it with flare
She turn on her heel as she head for her car
This was one of my worst days by far

Here in Oz, they're banning fairy tales,
Indeed, a giggle did not fail,
Children's lit must be correct politically,
Here's the new style ode for thee,
Listen up and you shall see.
Skippy has two mummies,
Their boyfriends spat the dummies,
Now Skippy's mums got preg,
Their boyfriends did renege,
So along came little Skippy,
Hopping off to eat Mr. Whippy,
Yes, totally correct politically,
New fairy tales for the kiddies,
Skippy has two mummies,
Our norms do change, it seems....

Woke up at sun up
as the night burned
in Bacup.

Lancashire bred
no use for t'bed
'cept for occasional slumber
and if she calls my number
the less occasional
fumble.

It looks a nice day
for *******
on a boat out
from t' bay
or just for laying and
for lazing on sand.

It would be grand
if thee'd come and join me
for a dip in t'pool,
then lunch from the chippie
and afterwards a walk down
the prom' with
a Mr Whippy along
for company.

I'm off now
wi' nets,
no answer from thee
I guess I'll be
******* today.

Jackdaws are experiencing
what many families have to
endure, from demanding
children during  summer
holiday's.

Nesting periods have
come to a conclusion, but
the young crows have yet
to learn that they need to
fend for themselves.

Caws of complaints from
the rooftops, while down
on the street, Mr Whippy
is playing Greensleeves, to
the dismay of many parents.

Du Jardin bought a van and it’s Zippy
Phoned me up, because I am a Chippy
Can you convert this Camper?
Charlotte said ‘’ Revamp Her ‘’
I’ll be Britain’s, first ever, Miss Whippy.