I should've listened to you en route

It was bitter,
and two parcel tape plasters held open the department store doors
as we picked through the homeware section of plates and Denby bowls.
We rifled through the flannels appalled none matched our bathroom colour scheme,
no Serrano red steaks worthy of our face,
just dune dust beige priced at twenty five quid for three,
or the cream ones which never do, never suit.
We should’ve shopped online, I admit it.
I should've listened to you en route when I had the chance to,
but these bank holiday nectar card bonus points don’t come around all that often,
especially as we were meant to be skiing this christmas and could quite possibly miss their trug deal of the year

and then you left for the moon.
You appear voiceless on the other end of our catch up calls 'cos all has been said already;
you used to talk like you owned two libraries,
talked like Radio 4,
you’d seen the seven seas from space and joked there maybe more.
I wait by the phone for that ringtone we still disagree upon to ring, and when it doesn’t
I crawl out of rabbit holes 
through Shawshank walls
into aquarium pools  
and sink to the edge of the solar system  
where I wait with 4G and Snake 3D for you to lift my spirits with wisdom.

I’m not bitter just sad you never said goodbye with a card,
anyway, who needs a super moon when you've the nape of a little spoon Labrador to make you feel as tall as you did. 

Man Cave

Like everything dumb,
overuse ruins any fun worth running tickets for.
I stayed in the sun too long playing cricket with no one, once,
followed crumbs back to the club house
and sat with the drinks next to the drinkers,
climbed down from four under par wicket keepers and laid in their innards until Solo came and cut me out, 
pushed me into the car park
scored by shouts from the bleacher set girls to shut up,
we can’t hear each other fingering ourselves to cassette tapes of how it's really meant to be done,
you dumb set of eight digits, one thumb leftover from risking it on Everest,
do you not read the advice columns on how to advise your significant others to carry on regardless of this phone call?

I confess, officer,
I’ve been drinking,
so keep me calm until the coroner agrees that you did this, messed with the wrong guy,
lawfully inclined not to whisper a word cos you needed a raise:
targets to hit mean free Target gift cards and I’m one way for you to get that new pool table baize
and bar for your club room.

under the bridge from the sun

for those caught in the mess outside Mina.

I awoke to a hundred dead bodies on my bedroom floor
dined alone with six hundred more
and came home to a headline that whispered how many bedsheets had been used to hide the ground they now sleep upon. 

To comprehend scale would be to settle on a figure I’m accustomed to,
but homework never covered these topics,
answers never printed,
they couldn’t be copied.
So I learn from the second minute after my alarm through to troubled sleep at the end of the tunnel, and I will dream of that son above his father under the bridge from the sun and hope his goodbyes are heard by someone who can help.

Fun is a function I’m an F5 short of

I’m too loyal to laziness,
pyjamaed most of the time more or less,
lost in not thought but in something worse: ponderment.
And I’m still wondering why I never walked to the coast and said sorry,
cherry picked excuses from the surf
and knitted them there, right then, with a two by four into an apology,
hung it up to wet in the sea mist,
welcome home, this is it.

     You see ‘em all along this stretch,
     all half deaf and muttering to one another.
     They tie the knotted wrack around their wrists and wander in and never swim back.
     Maureen at number four says some-other ones try saving 'em by pulling them from the shore,
     but they get dragged in like leads after dogs
     on their knees,
     fumes through draughts upon a whipped up Chicago breeze
     on ice,
     slice of lemon, served sunny side sweet and just how they pictured it,
     a massacre on the beach.

One day your scales’ll break and you’ll see a naked wrist and wonder where your watch went. 

get Swimming and forget the trunks

A tide from a tongue,
yet we paddle
never swim
towards the end of sentences never said because the subject’s always so thin,
neither of us studious enough to keep up with each other’s own trains of thought,
Jesus Garcia shovelling coal onto both
saving us from ourselves.
Humane way to go there, Dude,
but thats not cool cos you didn’t ask first,
hand down,
pride for not wanting help.
And we learnt he died in a display of fireworks,
40 planned minutes down to a sketch of 30 seconds
and one obvious bang,
a lurk that rang among the chimneys for the following weeks to come,
a glum Guy Fawkes igniting mad into max,
a coked up Ravi Shankar playing sitar quicker than your mum can beat you at Singstar,
secret rehearsals when you were at school.
Stop learning and start reading,
the spool they're spinning is only part of the question,
tide from a tongue:
get swimming.