Archive for January 2016

Dopamine

team effort.
But it won’t last this dancing lark, we’ll have to give in at some point.
Maybe, when that runs out, we'll bolt like outcasts on a quick coffee run,
the sum of all the wrong parts looking for a grande fix in the signed latte cups of
keep us awake until the hootenanny is over,
’til we’ve finally grownup     not slept for weeks because we’re thinking back to the last good time we had,
that streak of good luck.

I pass the blame to staring into periphery,
into stratospheric geography, thin blue line of our own history,
the false expectations of ourself,
deduced      boiled down to the whimper of
an under-rehearsed soliloquy.
When you reach this height of nonchalance,
of stumbling onto summits without actually walking,
you’ll have torched every bridge your hands have touched,
given in to direction,
given it up for a sea-level slow dance with your ego
and you still don’t know the steps. 

Another vintage shop has sprung up

and with each one the bands get more familiar.

Next, I bet, they’ll be selling Delia Smith memorabilia to kids who can’t spell ti-ra-mi-su,
considering that they live on it.

Cheap tinsel would’ve been better but they plump for the faux chic look of a fake fur coat
and hope it doesn’t rain;
horoscopes are accurat-er than weather reports, anyway, and isobars are lame- what’s their function?
They’re sat checking 
snapchats at the traffic lights
in snapbacks and new nikes
not looking ahead to the junction.

Picking my nose thinking it couldn't get worse than this

Don't look at me like you don’t know what live music is;
don't look at me like you don't know how to dance.

It’s been said that the billion dollar rollover won’t be won by everyone.
If I do though, I’d choose you over thirty years in the Bahamas laughing.
We’d snuggle in a bird's nest warehouse and take our baths in cathedrals instead.
We’d hold our nose, we’d dive unclothed; we’d exist under the weight of the bathwater’s bubble sting.

I know it’s venom knowing that Steve Irwin’s gone but we haven’t learnt our lesson in forgetting we should forget where we started,
listening to each other like hearts would
intently.

Please, stop spending money so easily ‘cos the bank man will start charging soon. He’s in the building now and knows where my desk is.

The only time I genuinely smile
is when I see you through bulletproof glass.
If this were a comedy I doubt anyone would laugh.

Tragic, but it is.  

Bloody Mondays.

the love of not letting go

You can’t make promises anymore because search queries are only an enter away.
So I left and left the rest up to ricochets in the right direction,
paid in cheques and sat with discretion.
For four hours three radio plays in 4:3 ratio covered as narration.
The curtains were closed from action to station except for a slip of world to gauge duration;
the romance of running away
disappeared into transit,
into row yourself home again hands and, when I got there, I’d run out of land,
aground on the sea of all the change I had needed.

Clouds jumped from cliffs like kids from swimming pool kerbs
          and came to rest in mid-air for all of an afternoon.
I stood. Saw it all. Stared from the end of the brigg holding on because I could,
not that I should’ve: it was a new power I’d misunderstood as the love of not letting go.

Let’s commit suicide like Olympic divers would,
let’s give in to all we’ve worked towards     was a thought I did not think,
only in hindsight did this occur.

This is not pity (so put away your party hats) but a plausible clause for concern I thought I’d share,
a margined caveat note that says:
     turn it in by Monday and we’ll tell you how you’ve done
     as soon as we’ve worked out why you might've jumped.

My sister said if I ever killed myself she'd break my neck again;
ten for ten, never a foot wrong and still clearing up after I’ve gone.
Though that’s some satisfaction, ill misfortune she’d be short of ‘cos
I like signing her christmas cards and been my parents only son,
long enough still, anyway, to have done something proud of the name I state when jotting surnames first on every form,
single punctuated blots punched into separate boxes.


I pull myself back into most rooms
with that full stop, wonder why I’d waste
the privilege of lineage in
the first place, so easily it was dumb,
because we're not those sorts of sons
to waste questions with easy answers.

*

Once, on platform nine and three more days please,
I saw a woman in kite attendant
slacks, in plain clothes expertise, hoping
someone as sane as her had felt the

same as me, had some sort of history,
but she caught me looking, mimed back perfectly:
why can ceramicists get married
and not me? I’m jealous you’re not

struggling, pulling strings like most
people. I’ve seen the likes of you on
Deal or No Deal, in potter’s shirts, short
of hemlines and a clean. How do you

do it, believed to be seen?      Well,
I could ask you the same thing, lady.
Like, I know monthly payments are the
definition of affording routine,

but save a little time for yourself,
view                     this                     shit                     in                     wide                    -               screen
and surrender to your promises,
treat them with good health,

or you’ll never get anything done.


The Finish of a Jack-Knife Dive


This year

let’s build our own mythology-
pretend it happened too.

Let’s build pictures of ourselves out of scrapbook
views of men on the beach
or in the gym:
This is the a to z of, see how it’s done
I can pick up this receptionist with a show of these guns.
She’s a lesbian though
and we’re too involved in post production to notice she winks
at the bus driver only.

Let’s take note when tiredness taps us on the spine
and says, go to bed for this eight hours instead of your
two.

Let’s re-write these men’s health DVDs
over an afternoon of crosschecking
WebMD.

Let’s refill boxes of tissues with fresh flannels
and be grown up about masturbating.

Let’s act like the mammals we ought to be
and fuck unconditionally as next door take down their Christmas lights.

Let’s boycott the force and watch french films in France.

Let’s sous-vide our luck and go out all rare.

Let’s get excited for packages at the door,
see cliff faces lit from below by birthday cakes of candles
as you haul out your new protein shake:
your new you;

let’s build our own mythology-
pretend it's happening too.

Let’s try and find Vera Farmiga with this debit card
within one week,
ration our meagre money into a to-do list win streak.

Let’s take feral walks along familiar canals and jump weirs with wet feet.

Let’s spoon up mountains out of the shake,
let’s lose weight,
let’s run off lunch by forgetting four items upstairs on five different occasions,
let’s not worry about waste.

This year let’s build a routine around space in time
and let it be known
that perfect is only an excuse.