Archive for January 2015

Daddy Issues & Tattoos

She had explosions on her arms,
little ruptures of energy simmering on her skin under freckles and first kiss cheeks.
She had tattoos and Daddy issues but she knew it was all a joke and nothing really mattered,
but it was her tattoos I was interested in
because ink on skin are really metal keys:
twist the needle in doorway pores and see what pours out.

She had an ice skater upon her forearm,
a cherry flip, combination lift,
death drop discipline,
a fan spiral jump running up her arm  poised in the nowhere air of her heart burn body
and I asked her about them;
don’t look at tattoos like they’re sculptures in fields in art gallery grounds with expensive brochures detailing content and form, process and mood,
look at them like keys,
a bunch of them,
the weight of all your doors just on someone else’s skin instead,
ask them where that one is from,
how long did this one take,
who did that one on your thigh,
did it hurt
did you cry
were you on holiday,
where were you when you thought, I need this?

Boy & White Light

he grew into a man and the man wrote a story
and the story began with a boy who walked into the white light of all the wild days he had had once back somewhere over there
and he pushed his lips together and pushed his lips away from his mouth and with all the strength he could muster he said

and the white light of all the wild days he had had once back somewhere over there spoke back with a voice of breath and said
you're the light that started this whole seeing in the dark thing,
the sting of not going home alone anymore,
I've been tempted by phosphorus dipped others before
but they weren't the spark I wanted to be burnt by
and what's that in your pocket?

the boy pulled out his phone and placed it horizon flat on his palm with the screen pointing up
and the white light of all the wild days he had had once back somewhere over there said press play
and both of them sang,

she's a Dire Straits solo
slung 'round the neck of some
lost, nowhere-bound romeo
who doesn't know how act 5 scene 3 ends.

24 Hours in Police Custody: WE'RE FILMING IT

she was so in denial that she was answering her own questions with more questions,
24 hours in police custody
and a child at home with no known mum,
another fledging with no box to jump from,
she strikes me as the kind of person
who has maglev feet
she probably walks in a constant
drift of energy and places to go,
but ends up nowhere new,
running for green men but never quite making them,
her red man this police station on a Friday night
and another wait at this zebra-crossing-lights-are-red stop
and she's shouting at the Custody Officer 
like she's speaking down rural Alberta telephones
thinking shes got the advantage
but she'll never win, never succeed,
because she's got a caution over her head and a tag attached to her foot
put on by the manager of mismanaged mums too young to mum
and Channel 4 are filming it all because small town celebrities germinate in police stations on Friday nights

Royal Mail Sunday

a premature, newborn baby, the weight of a wet tea towel
draped dripping in the palm of a hand, still a little warm from that hotpot pan over there resting on a back burner hospital bed,
both of 'em careful not to slip into two like a wet paper tissue,
wrapped up and around in fragile Royal Mail bed sheets and sellotape;
first class, signed for, next day delivery on this:
two packages for the price of one.
FedEx would most certainly lose them,
DPD would never deliver them,
Translink would misplace them,
so it's down to Royal Mail to get them where they need to be,
back at home, afternoon nap by 3.


I stopped shopping at Topman
because I'm not a top man anymore,
and the models in there are selling me two things:
a product and confidence;
those industrial A1 pieces of advertising are there to say,
here, have this new vest and handful of confidence.
Now, I don't have the physique for a vest just yet, instead I have a full set of tent poles that, once assembled, kind of make up the outline of a man who knows what he's doing,
but I will have your confidence.
Topman, you have inspired me to walk outdoors in brisk and dangerous winter weather warnings in just a pair of stretch skinny jeans and a matching t-shirt, part of the 2-for-£12 offer.
Topman, you have showed me that a tucked in black vest and pair of corduroy trousers with matching pork pie hat is fashion.
Topman, the next time I'll see you is when I have a son, when we walk in together and I say,
don't worry, it's just a phase.

Roller Derby Drives in The Rain

I want to rollerblade around an empty aquarium
and date a nerdy, shy girl who would stay in on sunny days
and adventure out on the rainiest of them,
explore ruins and burnt-to-foundation church naves,
wrestle into comfortable spooning positions in separate sleeping bags in the middle of fucking nowhere: center of everything and anything,
population us two;
we'd make plans for only rainy days, march around empty cities
and towns and back alley villages seeing what was what and who was there,
collecting tables and chairs and cutlery and decanters and rugs and fruit bowls and beds for the kids, another washing machine because this one's packed in;
we'd save futures and possibilities for rainy day drives,
allude to conclusions before they were premises all before an elevens' somewhere in Scotland, the dog outside wet and wanting cake:
I want to rollerblade around empty aquariums with you holding hands, drifting apart and being pulled back together again
right next to the manta-rays back-lit in blue,
the floor eternal black, no lighting but fish scale bulbs through the thick safety glass:
is that too much to ask?

Weetabix Mondays

and in the morning light of the fridge
I unload 4 rounds of weetabix from a single magazine of another family ammo box,
68 left to get me through a week of work;
the battle for the weekend starts first thing on a Monday,
semi-skimmed training and reverse slope sugared teeth defences. 

For Every Older Sibling

You took me from test pilot to astronaut
quicker than it took Armstrong to realize that he was the only man for the job,
you taught me how to walk on the moon and dance with Sting,
and I swear those 5 million YoutTube hits on that song were down to us,
and if not
than those 57 thousand on Hard To Be A Saint In The City is definitely us,
because you told me that
I could walk like Brando out into the sun
and dance like a Casanova,
you are every member of the E-Street Band rolled into one,
every member of the Stones,
you are my Morrison, Manzarek, Densmore and Krieger,
and I’d like to think that that message about acquiring S Club 7 tickets was a joke,
but I don’t think it was,
anyway we’re too poor to spend 40 quid on a 2 hour S Club Party,
no matter how much we want to Bring It All Back;
you’ve set the bar so high
and I’ve always been better at jumping over hurdles than doing the limbo,
but I haven’t got the spring in my step for this leap up to your level just yet,
so I think I’m going to stay where I am,
because I have no idea what to do or where next to go,
I’m looking up with Batman’s grapple gun in my hand
ready to fly up to your Gotham City heights
and I’ll ask Commissioner Gordon to turn on the Bat-Signal so it lights
up the sky in hope you’ll come and save me again,
like when you taught me not to get lost down cul-de-sac relationships
especially when the other person exclusively walks along New York Streets,
takes subway trains and stops off at every boy she meets,
you were right about her,
but older siblings usually are,
like I’m over here thinking
I’m just another set of mistakes,
a piece of medium rare, under cooked error
trying to find his way back onto a Michelin star plate,
a tangled mess more than mum can repair,
a broken line of command,
another slow process;
control-alt-delete won’t reboot you
because life’s in the defibrillator
not in the task manager,
and if you ever heard me say that you’d say back
Tim, climb out your arse, we’re gonna die anyway so make the most of it, we’re all par for the course,
and I’d retort
well that’s a cliché, that’s what we’re trying to avoid
but you’d say back
I know, but it’s true.

I have no idea what to do
or where next to go,
so show me.