How to tell him?

How to tell him

I’m not going to

Age well? I’m

Aging now, in the

Night, in the dark

These hands, these

Feet are swelling

And wrinkling. These

Warts are growing

These ears and nose

And eyes are growing

Into eternity till

They no longer hear

Or  see or feel like

They used to to

Him or me.

How to tell him that

My face, decaying,

Is still my own, although

It looks different,

Misshapen somehow,

Compared to Yesterday’s,

When the sun beamed down

In its Vitamin D and

He looked through

My eyes and into

My soul with

Blind desire, giving in

To me

Yesterday I felt

Him charge me

Up  – Electrolysis

In my veins, an

Electrical murmur

Through my limbs

But not my own.

Today that buzz

Is gone, the current

Lingers but grows

Weak until crash,

Boom, none.

Alone again, in

My midnight well.

Time drips slow

Again and my

Head drops, held

Between my elbows,

On my knees

Feet throb hot

On the cold floor,

Hands grown cold

And sweaty, jaw

And teeth creak

On rusting hinges

And Youth seems

Lost to the Light

High up,

Above.

On Parkway in the Furniture Cafe, London N7

Table 1:

Another one

An Imacandroid

Or should I

Say Imacandroidess

Coz she’s, no mistake,

A woman –girl

And not a man-boy

Imacandroid.

There she sits

Straining her

Tea in this

Loose-leaf cafe

Halfway up

Parkway.

Why here and

Not at home

Where tea is

Free and Music

Low? We can

Only surmise, she

May not be typical -

Imacstereotyped.

If she was we

Could be cruel

And scorn her

Macananical cool.

We could tut and

Sip our lattes,

Chatting idly – why

God made cafes,

Not for her

To sit and

Pout, peering

Regally at we,

Mob, in the dark,

Beyond her mac,

With its Apple-

Shaped lamp.

But no, let’s be kind,

Perhaps she has

Come to escape her

Flat, bored of

Its walls and

Pissed off at

The cat.

Table Two:

Sitting round a table

On deliberately mismatched

Chairs, three mismatched

Friends meet ‘For coffee

On Saturday’ afternoon.

3 have tea,

Two have cake

Milk all round, No sugar.

She, the one

Without the cake,

Talking through

Eye-lined holes as

Listeners absorb

Projectile sounds

Through hair-

Greased ears and

Dull sponge eyes

Bulging with

Her Narcicisstic

Spew.

One chips in to brook

The flow, vain attempt

TO check the vain

As she, the ME one,

Carries on, convinced

She’s prettier, better,

Cleaner and more

Fun, in the most

Intersting of

Possible ways.

Looking round, glancing

Up at the mirror over head,

Down  at her cool grey

Thighs, legging-wrapped,

Looking through Briggita

To the wall behind her,

Next to which  a

Lone man sits

Absorbed in Sunday TImes

And ipod but

Nonetheless aware of

A caress from

Eyes too used to

Looking out, not seeing in.

New Year’s Eve, now and then

Drinking sweet

Liquor rum

In my brain

Thinking of

Cuba and you,

Together. Why,

When you are

Here and now

And that was

There and then,

But somehow

Intertwined round

The same bend

Of year, this

February time

That should be

Winter and isn’t

Spring. This

Fuzzy hiatus

Before the year

Begins in earnest.

The Chinese got it

Right, ours was premature,

Christmas merriment

Still mulling

Recognition through

Old Lang Sine,

Sung too soon.

Febbraio en Cuba,

February in London;

Two thousand and nine,

Two thousand and ten.

Alone abroad,

At home, with men,

With you, maybe.

More at sea than

When the Malecon wall

Fenced me off from

Them, males with

Bright, tall sails

Bobbing, skidding, winking

Through the sun-hot sheen.

Now the year’s

Stacked up its freight.

Destined where?

No ship’s docked

Yet, while me,

A girl, a rum girl,

Waits.

Philosophize

Nothing is inevitable

Much is expected

Much is overlooked,

Opportunities fly through,

Some sought, some

Caught, hooked or

Shot through. Some, trapped

In a web, spider

Long gone

Waste Management

Giggle whirls

Scoop out my pain

And let it rot

Where it will,

Waste box or recycling.

Root-firm Life it grows

Through Pain’s compost.

Eating money

Money makes meat

Money makes wheat

Money makes pies

Money makes my

Eyes look up

To see what I

Can buy for

Four pounds fifty

For gut and skin

Atop a gurgling

Frame, claimed

By Nature, part of

Her despite millennia

Of ink and paper.

Money makes meat

Money makes wheat

Money makes pies

Money makes men

Weep for shame,

Heaped up against

The Life they can’t

Afford, makes them

Dive below the bar,

Without the breath

To see a pearl,

Just enough to

Feel the deep

Press their lungs

And sting their wounds.

Patient longer

Let him come to me

When he will

When he wants to

When he needs to

Feel my warmth

Touch his, back to

Chest and chest

To back, ribs to

Cheek and head

To chin.

Let him look

Away and dwell

There for a while

Tasting air, different

From mine.

Let him stay there

If the taste is good

And that air teems

Thick with Life,

Thicker than mine,

For him.

Leverage

Let me stand tall

And bright,

Strengthened by

The residue of

Love, sweetly

Lasting on.

In short,

On Life stood a long day

Set up coolly

With meditation

And loud water

Gushing through

Fingers into basin

12th January

I’ll write

You a word or

Two, here in

The dark, here’s

My word sounding

Bright through the

Night, I hope,

To you over

There, squared

Out in my mind’s

Eye, through the

Cold dead window

Blocked out with

Ice-mist then

Blind.

Comfort my night,

Warm my thin

Neck and cool

Teeth , set crooked

On this tongue.