Friends
Are the past
And present and the
Vastness of what could be.
Clusters
Round the spikes,
Good bacteria
To our wounds.
Soldiers
Standing by us, reinforcement
Stacked against life’s
Canons.
Pigs
Leading us through
Woods, sniffing out the
Truffles.
Windows
Softly bouncing
Back our full-length
Portraits.
The past and present
And the largest part
Of what we need.
Those times when we would
Walk across plains to see
A place whose face was home
For a time; a nose and mouth
In addition to our own,
A pulse whose tick was echoed
Through the day, however far.
Our wrists are severed now but
The rhythm still goes on even though
No tie but nostalgia links our veins,
Our roots are intertwined by
The strengths we shared and
Weaknesses we endured together.
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
Interesting 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.
Being Every Day 