Archive for September 2012

Retired Gymnasts And Dancers


I knew,
No.
I know a dancer whose arms
can lift an audience into               
the highest part of any village hall
or any stadium’s call.
Tonight, she dances alone.

I know,
No.
I knew a girl who fell off beams
but carried on despite being ripped,
broken, bloodied and sore.
Tonight she hits the floor,
tonight, she dances alone.

Cambridge Is A Sea. A Letter To You


Lost you in the tide the other day
the city’s not near no more.
Church bells woke me this morning
same with the sirens’ call.

High tide rose to leave nothing but wave white
on gray white walls.
Splash back into the sea for the timeless change
of rise and fall.

Low tide left debris on the beach,
washed up jackets strung along the ridge
in a chase-me-now line of fabric and fur:
we lie amongst the sand warm, bare.

Found you in the city the other day
‘cos we’re nearer than we thought,
turn right and you’re there down the hall
under blanket, behind locked door.



p.s
leaves don’t fall into pockets,
unless picked up and placed there
as a potential long term possession.  

What Happened After The Paralympics Had Ended


With concentration that akin
to plucking eye brows from pale skin
whilst watching a subtitled film begin,
she saw her husband leave.

Out, kicking up soil and sand,
over the garden he went never to come back to demand
a marriage to a blue eyed, five foot ten woman
that saw her husband leave.

A wheel squeak squawk from the cats of the street
that hustled and fought against husband’s feet
didn’t deter his stride or state or walking beat,
as his ex saw her husband leave.

Her legs were puppets that sat upon string
dangling down in a perpetual swing
that belonged to her wheelchair’s own spring,
she sat and saw her husband leave;


because she couldn’t get up and get him back
nor speak his name to shout and attract.
She was wheelchair bound
                                          and that’s the reason he left and packed.



Paris In Winter Is How I See Paris In My Head


Walk by numbers in
the Parisian palette ,
spreading the paint around
in a long line of lip red scarlet.
Pipette sized width following you
as you tread on stone, you’re new.

Sit with the trains and listen
to walls and notice small change,
loose change on the floors.
Passenger’s stare moves you from
carriage to carriage, regardless of UK, American baggage.
Surface again, the longest breath you’ve ever held
has escaped again into winter’s cold.

Steps climb and feet follow,
Anubis with a rifle watching over-
graffiti crowd control for the younger;
sad face, a smile face, Sacre Coeur white face.
Sink down along the track,
railway men hanging large and fat.
Tea for two with warm milk,
tea for two without the milk,
no tea- up and leave, tip with guilt.

Shit kicker Paris scruffs her shoes
amongst the paint, the blues, the museum’s closed.
Again, we have to wait for the universe to align before we get to see her smile.
Wait, keep waiting, Mars is coming, revolving towards us.
Doors unlock and we enter a tide of tourist
and artist and the modernist futurist- lost in this department.
She sits there still, not smiling

Paris, without you no coffee would ever be deemed good.
Without you, I’d be lost and artless and heartless and broke.
Even when you take the covers from under me-
I’m still warm.
 



Drunk Poems And Forever Wishing You're Better Than You Are


Before you know it,
the time tells a lie
and its twenty to midnight
this isn’t it.

That feeling you wanted,
isn’t here nor hidden under bed
it’s not visible or clear to eyes and head
step back, you couldn’t count it.

No figure or unit, number or letter
can define us in any quantity
a river can flow freely
but we’d not be better.

This is a drunk poem,
one that doesn’t make sense
nor one that can string a sentence
but it can relieve the moment.

In such harmony it can relieve the moment
co-existing in a world of letter
and no matter what it will get better
honestly it will, let it freeze- let it be frozen.


Everything That Happens Behind Every Locked Door, Everywhere


Hazy mother fucker,
a fog in the head of the young.
Misty revelations that lead to
boners about hookers you saw online that time-
when drunk. And with drunk eyes
you looked upon them wanting to ask,
‘Why this, why this task?’
But alcohol forms no words or sense,
it laughs at the mouth trying to grasp a response.

Still in mid mist, pretty girls
pluck hair in calculated risks
only to leave themselves with a brow of blood
and a basin full of beauty. Cloudy
mirror looms above, only there to show how fat you once were,
lost kisses trod into tiny room carpet, fallen from the gaping mouths
of 2 people very much in love.

 

A Study: Passo Dello Stelvio From SD Cards


River road track

and Swiss glacial water clear water trap.
Bridge across the loggers path
and loggers be gone breathless, in gasps-
all whilst silver bullet sits and hums,
purrs to the sound of mountain drums.
Evergreen trees in a forever dream land
of spiked mountain topped
safety capped by cloud, a white shroud
river running loud. We stand.
Stop and stare too, at this
kinetic vision of something new,
never seen before and never seen again.








Shoplifter Wearing Hollister: The Sum of Things To Come


Look through the letterbox door
only to be disappointed again.
Think back home
only to be disappointed again.
Green fields and cream teas, Yorkshire’s gold
but flip that around and upside down
to that walk home that time when the moon was dying.

They talked of sport but did want to kill,
although their eyes in the behind car headlights
sought after a different thrill.
Drug mule children walk on paths,
rocked roads, weighed down by holey lobes-
an attempt to be cool again. Hollister
doesn’t cut it when smoking shit, you premature shoplifter.
Go home, get to bed,
gaze upon the pin up women
you have inside your head.


Study of Nighthawks. An Edward Hopper Tribute


I left for a plane that didn't depart,
nor move off the runway
or engine’s start.


You left for that plane the same day
moving quick for the carriage train,
that took you and your Scarlet away again.


He left his house last week,
wandering the street for something to eat
and came across this cafe in defeat.


We’re the workers that stand and smile
the cafe advocates, conductor of the race,
that starts on Sun’s rise and end’s with washed plates.

 


New York Kneels On The Notice Board


Just marry the girl
with the top floor window
and remember you’ll never be her hero.

Stitch together what knowledge you have,
keep warm and silent, make a plan-
try and remember when it all began.

New York sits under wall lamp
New York kneels on the notice board
New York stands up for the lonely lovers
New York wipes the tears from the weeping mother,
lost now her child’s gone.

Forget about the girl
because windows hide heroes in plain view.
Burn the knowledge but save the stitches
sew up the knee and start again next winter.





Think Again, Think Twice More


Clothes trail across the floor
hung over, hung up- phone on call
phone unhooked, not receiving any more.

Wake up and forget we broke up,
forget the past hour, remember the confession-
daily in quick, double quick, timely succession.
Ripped knee and torn jeans
broken heart, pin up dreams on cork board
juice and breakfast stored
in mugs meant and made for hot abuse and bitter’s reward.

Wrap the cord tight, homemade noose for the homemade guys
whom sit and ponder and wonder what it might be like to be high
again after 18 months of seeing clean glass and shiny floors.
Beard men stagger around, chasing the drunks of Parker's Piece
and dodge the knives hidden under Charity Shop fleece,
bought for pence and worn oddly on the fence,
straddling fashion and a confused moral sense.
Pass them, only to find you’re back where you started,
clothes trail across the floor
hung over, hung up- phone on call
phone unhooked, not receiving anymore.

Thoughts of Home From A House On The Hill


Crows chase croaks across the field
in a game of sound and vibes
clean air and farmyard tides
that wash over pasture and paddock.

Hay rolled tight like tobacco
light headed visions of white canvas
poured paint over white canvas
walk on to stop at the houses of the farmers.

Combine machinery and man to
form root ripping vehicles
that plough and turn up soil and hideaway
for next year’s supermarket dash

And dollar.
Money and heads and coinage will spill
over great laminated floors and blood stained kill
defrosted and slung upon tile surface-
cooked by under floor heat and watched over by under floor lover.

Revolution Dreams With Ernesto


Right direction traffic hit
the road running with a gallop and trip.
Other way traffic paused at the lights,
she’s still there now waiting, poised tires, engine ignites.

Brake off to start a roll
down high street and low street and back alley brawl,
where gentlemen fight for the hearts of gold-
sat at bar crying dry gin tears that
run down a dry gin face
that has seen dry gin men
fight for fool’s gold time and again

A Free Lap Dance, Only If Your Friendship Is Down The Shit Hole


Moonlight, moonlight,
the moonlighting child of 291:
who couldn’t complete a puzzle
after pieces were placed backwards
and back to front
in a bukkake of cardboard and a only-child-childhood. 

She slips through the silage waste
by the mileage gauge
of the bus back to work-
her 4th time this week
due to a timetable tweak, that saw her
usual 7/10 being replaced to a bleak 12/3,
of cheap men and expensive dances
subsidised by the notes they have yet to win
on 22 to 1 chances.

And 25 percent of what I earn
could buy me 10 minutes with a friend
whom I can see for free on mayday weekends.
But playgrounds are no place for topless
indulges, smoking and no touching
(because that costs more)
as swings are made for children,
not for the desperate and lonely and scared and frightened and the slightly embarrassed.

Still, I cannot fathom out why?
She dances on the laps of those lonely enough to sit next
to another lonely one where a lone soul dances a lonely dance on their lap too.
Still, I cannot fathom out why?
She strays away into a 3 minute wonder
hallucinating on greed- whipping her hair around as if
a mare in new soft sand sitting still on a slip-wet surface.

Still, I accept this notion and move on. 

Fairytale Girlfriend and Ghost Story Relationships

She’s alright with hindsight,
because she’s no need to look back
as there,
too many promises were made-
cast in stone just as you leave for Away.

And there you lay between grit

and grind of everything daily,
your lunch- you dine.


A rainy still shower stays the same for an hour,
whilst foul faced ferocious drivers
pin themselves between one: a car, immovable, 
and two: a van carrying horses, a movable stable.


She’s alright with hindsight
because she has no need to look back,
as there too many boyfriends lay dead behind, on rubble dirt track,
along the way. In front- her home of near near Away.




**For only 102pence you can still buy the Amazon hit sensation, sweeping the nation (not) 'Prostitutes and New York: The Chasm Between Experience and Cold Feet', here at this very link: tinyurl.com/prostitutesandnewyork
Prostitutes and New York: The Chasm Between Experience and Cold Feet

The Old Man Who Couldn't Open A Door Convincingly


Between wall and glass
in the company of those growing fast
I stopped and placed myself neatly between
time and a second and a paused moment.

Through the slit, akin
to a forest trail, overgrown
and evergreen lit,
a man broke his back
and bowed to his car.

His key worked in,
deeper than it should’ve gone
and both got stuck in a perpetual pose,
cast in the stone of everything that keeps us going,
the tick of a watch-hand against the time numbers’
thread at the circumference side. 

Whether he heard the basil grow and creek
or the tomato plants dying in the heat
something in him waited to go on and continue. 


Burnt Photographs Under The T-Shirts of Allen Ginsberg


We lost those pictures
in the back of our pockets,
so were the poses we paused in
affronting piles of post that
belonged to post masters and their offices;
their bitches doing their post-death work,
shifting those postcard and postage labels
around on pink, red, pink again palettes
around parks of paper and the roads
down to Lord Street and it’s high power
of bus stroke engine and pretty pink leggings
perfectly pouting and winking in the sun,
perfecting picking out a canyon beside the smooth foot hills,
perfect, perfect, prefect again.
The perfect portrayal of perfection.
She’s a cheap phoney that parades around,
the ‘bad at English’ phantom over and behind
a curtain tall, a curtain broad and curtain painted
by the brush of stage hand and production manager.

We found those pictures we lost
in our already filled pockets,
we dug them out from under printed receipts,
printed coupons and printed pieces of paper
that decided to hide away in a perpetual sleep,
rolled over in between thigh and prince-jean-pocket-lining.
They petered out from the beginning
and now they rest like burnt photos.




You can still grab a copy of my eBook 'Prostitutes and New York: The Chasm Between Experience and Cold Feet' here on Amazon. Also, this morning I wrote an article for the Huffington Post UK website maybe up quite soon! Enjoy y'all!