Archive for October 2015

I socially smoke, but

He had something to prove around that pool table;
there was a marriage at stake.

Outside under the heat lamp on the twelfth floor, he stated,
‘I socially smoke, but I’m trying to stamp it out’
and she looked at him as he were at her:
lying through every thread they had on.
A look glanced over and off the rim of his pint glass into a stare of,
before too long we’ll be draped upon the bed sheets like a Dali clock watching for morning to come.

She’d legs of chopsticks that picked their way through the crowds 
and he an arse that hung stiff in the seat of his pants, 
loud rectangular pockets paying eyes to try and keep up, 
and they walked back in like a first year film festival in a two horse town.

Above the table they potted the last eight balls down to the cue,
then left the bar to buy a wedding gown and a real New Yorker's suit. 

Thirteen Reasons;

make of it what you want, but I’m making this a scene.

We made conversation and spoke of card games we’d like to play.
We made all of time a countdown to leaving.
We paused what we had begun in order to get our breaths back and we made that our motto.
We made blinds reappear with a simple twist of, the sun’s in my eyes
                                                                             I can’t see your face.
We spoke to cupboards up in the gods from kitchen proscenium arches and took ice baths after each matinee performance.
We made eleven minute lunches last as if we had all day: four minutes more than our seven minute attentions.
We made a pact to collect what we had left at the Royal Mail delivery office if the other one was away.
We made love once and it was the only time I felt I’d been left in a Safeplace.
We made queuing tolerable, made our Prime membership a chapel to rest.
We made daytime-TV worth viewing.
We made meals-out look as if we knew what we were doing.
We made it fun to mock bathroom doors and their locks.
We never made it this far,
and for that I’m done and sorry for not answering your calls.

Your sorries have no substance,
                                                  the scientist sung without heart,
apart from that, you’re fine. 

They'd Met at Dismaland

They'd met at Dismaland and didn’t shut up about it.
They took photos, took friends,
then promptly forgot about it,
blamed their last two on not getting the Buick he wanted,
the shoe horn she got,
spine caved in
halfway through her Rob,
(conceived in the gift shop).

He’s at Lidl now with a forty-one grand job and
an Audi
not yet
in the
His Jennifer sold stocks overseas and knew the square root of 5-7-6 with ease;
twenty-four-more grand where there came from,
another bonus breeze, jazz-band goodbye to that second mortgage,
to this silver thumb
that’s now dabbing up
the leftover silver lining sum
of just snorted off the washing machine,
confusing coke with limescale scum.

Their kids don’t get on.
Their friends moved on by pushier parents than themselves.
Their grades slipped after their eleven plus:
now twelve, jobless and fans of Kate Bush.

You’re The One they sing in colour blind madness.
They’re the blame they pin when the consensus swings by again,
tick boxes for the family of boxers battling boxing day with slurred Amens,
stick pictures of stock family poses over eighties garb and cats
cos they’re digging this tree up,
throwing it in the trash.

Throw a glass cloche over it and call it visual art,
alert the authorities
before they fall apart.

The View Along The Viaduct

No one saw the sign of the goal you wanted to score
as you’d covered that with quiet,
damp proofed your sores with compliance,
lion tamed in your spare time behind anechoic doors
and we didn’t hear the scream of you learning that

Can’t you tell this was a shock and
way off script.
Can you not smell the stone of your dad’s eyes as he looks up from where you dropped,
gripped by a breeze he’ll never forget.

I wonder if anyone will remember you not for this,
let it slip and drip off like unwatered water.
Quick, tackle that tickle of a cough into something smaller,
a glove box, perhaps, of, ‘quiet now, I think he’s gonna speak’.

I left a library for you,
football boots too
and a drywall saw.
I earthed houses, chateaux according to French law,
wired in the doorbell, gave you visits from your front door

yet I never found the time to answer mine.

Last night I flew a light aircraft along Wakefield Road and landed at the gates behind the bridge
too late to ever catch you,
but within distance to be seen through this abyss you may’ve passed off as no one there at all. 

We’ll hijack the County Kerry ferry and sail to France

I'd like to kiss you where it hurts,
sleep with you in a comfort
not known to the ad execs of Ariel,
and snooze with you in grey L.A. compound sheets
that match the beige of these blinds
that do nothing for darkness.

I’d dial for you,
confine myself to your pep talks through stud walls
as I wander back from the bathroom.
The shy, hard of hearing ask you
to whisper the foundations of what you are thinking,
base it in a terrain,
somewhere walkable,
shake the sand ‘cos hard rain’ll always fall,
wash back upon the shore.

So we hide away,
down in Country Kerry
to where
the inlets
soft laps
of running tides around
our ankles,
sockless for the first time since
wherever we left it,
but Tutankhamun got found and this isn’t as great as that just yet.

Through knee wave waters
come cat tongues
of shiver and shake,
acupuncture orchestras and winds of melody,
of timpani,
of gusto like cracked tiles
drilled and threaded
tink! in bathroom echo
walking rings around your back,
and on the spray south of Dingle Head
shall come slate mine concertos of where we’ve been led,
to here
where they’ve deckchairs thinner than baguettes,
breadstick scaffolding propping up thoroughbreds:
we’ve outgrown this farm. 

Can I be honest,
I'd rather the cataract
of sea plain and saw
jolt car crashes into my stomach
than leave you ill,

but I know where there’s a gurney stretch of sand that spills out over some steps into the end of the world,
it's Cap de l’Homy
and I’d like to call it home.

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.