8:30 am, Heart Attack Road

Death stopped his

Clock at 49 years, 38

Days and 54 seconds.

Enough? No sense in

Asking nonsense

Questions, his measure

Weighed no more

Nor less than 49

Years, 38 days and

54 seconds. No

Use holding

A bicycle, a

Cigarette, a

Curt phone-call,

Suspect , no murder

Here, only Life

Then Death.

Rerouted

So abruptly,

Where does he stamp-stomp now -

Swear or

Hack a laugh

And scratch

His ear to

Chase a thought?

What’s that sound

We hear on the

Stairs? Silence and the

 Flaccid patter of

Other people’s feet,

Not his firm

Tread.

Who’s that voice

That Northern

Lurch? – No, not

Him, too mincing,

Not his whirr from

A tar-blacked pipe.

His last weekend,

His last of

Life, what

Passed, passed

Clear and

Flat, as if

To expose,

Not far ahead,

A fork in the road.

Off he veered,

Yet visible in

The morning glare, but

Shrinking,

Slowly, steps

Grow softer

As his edges

Fizz their last,

And crackle warmly

Into Horizon.

 

In memory of a man, a salesman from Nottingham, fond of sailing and his 3 children.

Kindling

Yes, I will

Rekindle

Slowly, with smoke

And sticks.  Life’s

Bark will stratch,

Then rub then spark

Then flare

Then flame

Up and

Scorch bright –

A taper, scarlet

Through the

Night of sceptic haze,

Burning tinder

To black carbon,

Putrid rot

To clean dust.

 

(23^rd November)

 

 

Commuters, Northern Line, London 6:32 to 6:37 p.m

 

He,

Breaking in two,

The other bit

Crude, dry

Scab, ready to

Drop off.

Reach rail,

Look on, Forget

The week gone

Wrong, soak

It up with

Paper sponge, the

Metro swab –

Clean dirt with

Dirt, hold it

Tight –

 

Jolt – shifts

The train –

Hand flesh is felt, ridges

From another

Land, fingers and

Thumb.

“What can you see?”

It says, this finger-

Feeling attached to

A voice, somewhere

Below.

“What do you mean?

I’m reading.”

“Exactly, you said it,

Not me.”

“?”  says his face,

“!” says her nose -

Her mouth opens

Once more – “You are

Reading not seeing –

If you saw what you read I

Know you’d stop

Dead in your tracks.”

“You’re mad, he said.”

“No, the Metro’s for

Fools, sponges,

You might say.”

She meant no

Offence, only

To break though,

Shatter the

Void stretched

In that two

Foot four inches

Of space, wedged,

Stuck between

Him and herself,

Embankment and Waterloo.

(25^th November)

A Morning, Late November

 

 Rod of silver

Wand struck

Soft on my head

Of thoughts laced

With sweet, dripping

Nectar beads

Sweet, dripping

Nectar drop.

The Sun shines

Nourishment on

Me on the bedclothes

And my day dawns

Thick, cool, clear

And tinged with

Autumn, crusts

Of the year, left to crumble, crunch

And pile their juices into compost

Fodder for the Spring.

I rise to meet

These orange-browns,

Lights dangling,

Lights drifting, drunken

Twirling through

The gusts,

Traffic wardens flick them off.

(26^th November 2009)

Night Ramble

Take a dream step

From the house,

Pin it back fast

Over Time.

Take a road stun

Out of mist

To the train tracking

Past.

Make an in-rail over

Muddy waters where

The wind blows crude

Circles through the

Window’s timber

Lanes, bowling pins

Over heads clean

Through the dark.

　

 

A Man Trapped, Now, Outside

Dew drops came

Thick, sticky

Things in the mist,

Gone as soon as

Seen, washed

In the morning rain.

Inside,

His sorrow bled his

Soul and gauged

The pupils deeper

Through his eyes,

Bored through brain.

Pain pools welled

Round these holes,

And bounced

The light back, blue,

Ungrateful at the

Interrupted shade.

Thoughts welled up

Inside his head,

Of loved ones

Crudely detached,

Cords severed,

Mid-flight.

The restaurant

Dimmed, she,

Opposite, receded

Into Silence, as

The Past caved

In, confining him

To Memory’s passages,

Flickering, beckoning,

Grim.

Occasionally, sounds,

From above,

Outside the cave,

Her voice, something

Trivial, no guidance

Through these tunnels,

Only proof of Present

Beyond his prison,

Past.

　

Mirror

Deep, dive in

Past black heads, hairs,

Spots and wrinkles,

Deeper, down behind

The glassy waters of

The eye

Under Mount Rushmore

Nostril tracks,

Behind the teeth somehow

And back, towards the

Brain, mother of all

boisterous angsters

Teaming round,

Shafting catapults

Down the spine, planting

Booby traps till

Good intentions trip, tumbling

Into the gut.

 

In the Wallace Collection, Last Admission 5:00 pm

Walls clothed in flock

Wall-paper, decked

With paintings of falling

Women and luminous skin.

Tock-ticking clocks

Sticking to seconds

Set in enamel,

Pointed with black

Ebony. How many

Tick-tocks through

Time since the

First tick of this clock

Made in the

Dust and clop

Of shit-shod

Hooves, Paris

1782?

Has tick ever stopped

With the thud of

Revolution or the

Quake of bomb?

Does it chime or

Is it soundless,

Useless witness to

The passing pulse

Of Time?

Above,

The warm dead

Hang on the wall,

Alive in paint

Eyes,

Mute testament

To the passing hours.

Now,

Figures staring back

At them, wet

From the rain,

Hot, in coats

Left on,

Heavy, with water

Bottles, and little

Necessaries, and

Souvenirs, or shopping.

Not as when

Taffeta shifted

Through these

Rooms, layer

On layer over

Bone, when China

Warmed between

Thumb and

Finger, over letters

And green felt,

Strewn.

Now the Cavalier

And George the Fourth,

In silence,

Under dim

Phosphorscent

Strip, are looked

At and look on,

No household murmur.

After 6, lights off,

Alarms on,

Staff gone,

The clocks

Start up again,

So it seems,

And tick

Through Night,

Keeping time alive

For those outside.

　

Autumn Walks

　1.

Trees split the light

Softly

Prizing away

Sinews

Like a surgeon,

Through to

The Sun’s

Fleshy core.

Leaves glow yellow

In the gloaming.

Sunny reds

Fleck the endless

Floor.

No chestnuts rust

The grass,

Not yet. But

Squirrels forage

For crumbs and

Tit-bits huddled

Under-leaf, left,

Last morsels

Of the Brightness

Lost to Day.

　

2.

The light recedes

Behind

The trees and lights

Fold out electric

Strips across

The Lake,

No thought for sleep.

The birds, in trees,

In lake, must

Hood their

Eyes,

Hide lids in down

 

Heavy Lullaby

Take me over the hill

A round juice-step

Or two, through

The windows of Time

Up the road past

A church burnt out

And shaken by

Bells louder than

Air pounding the aged drum of

Past.

 

Kick me, the meat, now

Hanging low and

Ripe, ready to

Fall with my weight

Of blood,

Resound through

Space. The weight

Of me dropping,

Dead round slab

On the cold floor

Of Day in the

Warm blood of

 Night.