Small light core on long legs with
Eyelashes ever ready to curl closely round you,
Lifting, but never
Arrogant, always present,
Stirring truth into spice, he disarms
Silence.
His laundry lines up cleanly
To his pit pat on the door-mat.
His jaw, neat and still, in
Grace, unless moved, grows pepper-
Corns which he combs together into his deep warmth.
You are a world in a
Man, you are my heart in
My hand and my stomach
In a cup that can never
Be drained, you warm up
My soul with your pulse,
Your nostrils and your breaths,
Every hair that moves
On your face is lucky to be
Born near a warmth so
Keen it could run rings around
Me after circling the moon.
We looked at the world.
We took it all in
In colours and smells and
Thorns in our toes.
We smoothed down
The bark, carpeted
The mud, wove over
The stark panic
Or stole skin
From creatures better
Equipped for a trip
To this planet.
We woke up
Morn after morn and
Wondered what had swung
The orb lights round,
Seeming kinned
To the glints in the
Rock; mine it, let it
Wink at its clan.
Danger prints
On the track brim with
Odour, boding blood-
For it or us,
Suddenly
We revved our heads and
Span a thought sharper
Than a sabre’s tooth.
Things are hard,
Life is hard and
Heights are heighter
Than Queens’ dreams of
Man-beaten man beating man to
The top spot
Below the Man,
Topsy turving.
The water lapped the shore
When Brooklyn was battle
And the only iron was shrapnel
Now water laps the shore
Under engineered thunder at
4:41 and 4:45 and more-
Express thunder chud – feeding stakes
To cheese-creamed bagel picnics
But heat sits
None the
Less.
Camel back
Fist snack
Taken from
A branch
Hanging low
Over Cadillac
Driven last
On a track
Broken off
From Havana.
Pomegranate
Hip flask
Drunk deep
From lip-
Thirst, taken
Out from glove-
Box locked up
For fear of
Bandit- brigands
Drawing near.
But lonely
Is the track
With the Cadillac,
Deserted in the
Heat, it hosts
Only one, the
Thirst-quaked
Caballero, donning
Baseball cap and
Poncho – No –
In his dreams
In real life
He’s wearing
Jeans his
Father had
From some
Canadian,
Bootleg cut,
That was the
Fashion, so
He’s told,
Faded now,
Patched all
Over, hot
In the heat they
Itch at the groin and
Pinch at his thighs.
In the distance
A spot-billow
And the grunt
Of diesel – mule
As a truck bucks,
Rearing onto
Track’s horizon,
Will it help?
Stop, get out
Proffer aid
To a fellow,
Soldier of the
Road? Hoping
So, he gets
Out, our poncho
Dreamer, and
Waits – under
The same tree
Mentioned earlier
Orlando’s wheels
Turn, truck driving
Over track to
The Cadillac
Beached beside
That strange
Old tree he
Passes every
Day on the
Way into Havana.
Break, stop, lean
Speak, hola,
Man exchange,
Help, proffered,
Help accepted
Wheels carry
Four legs and
Arms, to Havana,
Hungry but
Calm, Cadillac
Waits for
A tug and
A push
And a glug
Of shampoo
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.
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.
Fourth from the
Front, too
Squashed, hop
Back one, and
Space. A
Head pops
Up and floats
To fill the empty
Seat beside
Me. I hear
His breathing,
higher than mine, a tall
Man, about
My age,younger
maybe, or healthier.
He reacts to the
Film in the normal
Way and puts
A manly distance
Between me
And his laughs,
No sighs.
Ice crackles in my plastic
Cup and I hear
Coke rush down my
Throat, trying not to
Gulp and sound revolting.
Corleone rumbles on,
Tomato trees shake
With his frame –
Shots sound and
I shudder, alone. My
Ice rattles
While the head looks
On, still,calm,
He’s seen it ten
Times before,maybe.
I’ll never know
Being Every Day 