ThursdayIII September

Waiting room

Hospital corridors
The colour of oatmeal,
Walls a sickly green.
Waiting patients tap and read, frustratedly.
Allowing their minds to flit and drift. Travelling over the faces and walls. Slipping through hospital hours; minutes for the notes, blood tests and waiting times.
Metallic clangs and toddler cries skit on the gurney's squeaking wheels and doctors mutter in corners.

WednesdayIII September

Blue

One saturated colour,
Of singular intensity.
No gradation,
No tarnish, blot or smear.
One colour glowing in primary glory.
Multiple pigments uniformly compact and blindingly clear.
Wielding enormous cerebral impact.
A softly suffocating density.
Blue of the truest hue.

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TuesdayIII September

Punk

Pupils pinned,
Black dots,
Hair the colour of rainbows
European accent,
Hoarsened by a quick night of body bopping,
pill popping,
bar hopping.
It's coming up to lunchtime and you are still out there.
Coming down here.
Do you have a home?
What's it look like?
Spiky ripples from the blue,
A snapshot assessment,
Turning to recognition.
Just a girl with a bottle of water and a fur coat.
Dirty ducks and the odd coot skoot on the rising lock,
Lunchtime trade mills round.
Sniffing at exotic foods from Malaysia to Mexico.
Buying cheap tshirts and other trash.
'Have you got water for the dog'
'Shit, shit'
'What the dog's called shit?'
'No'
'What the dog's called shit?'
'No'
Tipping water into a cupped hand for the sandy boxer.
He laps at it.
And barks for more.
Standing back, box chest thrust forward.
'Jesus dog chill the fuck out'
He gets another lick.
She moves on.
He shouts 'thank you'.
She doesn't turn around.

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Dear David,

The jolliest eyes,
Hazel under bushy brows.
The kindest of faces.
Turned out, doggedly eager.
A smile made of a thousand good graces.
Vneck sweaters, cord trousers and a clicky hip.
Sensible shoes and an excellent taste in red.
It's the way you ask your wife if you can hold her towel as she tries to balance with one foot in her knickers,
It's the way you love the multicoloured flowerbed because it has no colour sense,
And how you know the kitten's on the landing because the rugs askance,
It's the fact you talk and talk about Dali, dahlias, dogs or Daimlers.
It's not the subject, it's the chance.
The world's safe when you are in it.
Safe, good and well mannered. Just right.


Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

There's no accounting for bad taste.
Or good.
Tasteful is in the eye of the beholder.
One eye, one standard.
Benchmarks.
Enthralled to a network.
What about the patent white stiletto?
Derided as silly girly abominations.
Now on the feet of the uber fashionable scenesters.
Or shabby chic Tiffany lamps?
So long coveted by elegant brown house Bostonian's now ten a penny in Dixons.
There's no accounting for taste. Because there is no account for it.
It's free.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

SaturdayIII September

Eavesdropping

On average it's the worse,
Where it becomes sea and estuary
I see the bishop of france
Certainly far from the east and not near the west and still a mile from here.
This will be the 2nd time but then again there are so many links.
But what will be missed is the teaching and friends and country.
I first met her in my first ever teaching job I think it was in East Ham I was teaching English as a foreign language at the time.
That mouse is a worry because it is all about where it's coming from not where it was caught.
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FridayII September

It is what it is.

Lighting the way,
Slivers of silver torch light.
Piecing together shadows in the darkness.
Making corners walls.
Pointing out signs,
Marking new maps.
Shortening distances.
Translating lingos,
Lending words to the eyes.

Stories told in body's hum and rhyme.
Puzzling riddles,
Created to mystify.
Clearing cluttered corners,
Stuffing newspaper to the holes,
Blowing cobwebs from the stove.
Setting the free free.
Breaking bars.
Cracking chains.
To float from here to dancing spheres.
To lie easy as trust in infinity.
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ThursdayII September

Youth, bright as oil on water.
Untended growth
Defined by irrefragable seasons and human touch.
Untended growth
Blooms to a sickening rose.
Browned and furled.

Dissolute years quickens
To a deep old age.
A painful age.

Unrepentant and resolute,
The old soldier wrestles on.
Yeilding blindly to inexplicable design.

Petal-delicate head down.
Resolutely dissolute.
Losing the future in the past.
Refusing pity, forgiveness or whim.
Stupidly steadfast, digging in.

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WednesdayII September

Happy talk,
Daily warp and weft wafted,
In warm gusts of friendly air.
Batting the guff and flux,
On a cheery verbal breeze.
Smiles and bent heads,
Familiar nudges nodding on familiar ground.
Bright sparks,
Chatting,
Making it calm and easy
Making calm look easy
Making calm easy.
If all around you loose their heads
Remember how easy it was.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

TuesdayII September

Sleepy wasp

Woken from winter sleep
By a warming sun
Befuddled
And fighting
Far from the hive
Alone and high
Dashed again and again
To a useless window
Wings beating
Waspish body thrashing
Frustrated buzz busying
Sting leaking poisonous zeal
Scooped up and tossed from the open window
Nose to the wind
Arse in the air
Skittishly pitching higher.
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Special

Who would it be?
It is not you or you.
It's someone.
It's written that way.
And it's what people say.
Back off,
Slow down,
Or show your cards,
Be honest,
Open up that part.
It could be you.

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

SundayII September

Broken In

Blue suede shoes.
Brought on a Saturday afternoon.
A gift for two sisters.
Who saw them month's ago.
And couldn't warrant the expense.
A price reduction and fatherly generosity makes them a story.
Size 5 for little one and 6 for big sis.
Size 5 walks straight out of the shop discarding torn shoes with rotted insoles.
Stepping out to Regent's Street in blue chic.
Boldly walking where the brave go.

Size 6 is carried home in a green box.
And broken in to another world.

Neatly turned, carefully poised.
Size 6 sits in the midst.
Heart tired.
Full of love for another's expectancy.
It's a language from another world.
It's the time of their lives.
A million miles from this room.
A gift these blue shoes will not see.
Unless blue's the colour of miracles.

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SaturdayII September

Powder pale,
Peach soft cheeks,
Lips vampire red.
A dark quiff.
And a kneelength camel coat.
Baker boy boots.
A model on the town with her scruffy man.
Seeing the sights.
Stopped by admirers and the like.
An urban gazelle out on the pavements.
Reed thin and tall she stalks to VIP lists and roped areas.
Rarified smiles serene as an African Queen.
She danes to stir to the world she's living in.
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ThursdayII September

Stay or go?
Better to have said yes than no.
Say yes:
Yes, yes, yes.
It's for the best.
Yes to beer.
Yes to the country walk.
Yes to next door.
Yes to polar exploration.
Yes to invitations.
Yes to the brave.
No's for slaves.
Yes is a mighty life-light racer.
No is for so two point four.
The steady pacer.
The trace, not the tracer.

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FridayII September

GAUGIN'S DAUGHTER

So this is what it is like to be Gaugin's daughter?
Standing in my dad's old hut.
Feet aching from the hot, stony path.
Leather sandals slippy with sweat.
Surprised heart sitting birdlike in my chest.
Turpine still tarts the air.
Tahitian dust motes, float on splintered light.
He trailed paint across the wall.
Painting dreams onto the wood,
Fevered dreams the colour of humidity, whisky, women and ambition.
I can trace the figure of a man.
Pictures tacked to the wall are totamic swarms.
A cowshed and some early cubists.
Impressions of his salon favourites:
Smiling ladies on red;
Eyes undisturbed lakes, in tiny white bodies.
Paris to Tahiti in a brush stroke.

ThursdayII September

Things that happen on the first few dates.
Attention never wanes.
That's me, all over, a real listener, selfless.
My sheets are always clean, like my loo.
And I never lower my standards to poo.
Legs are always shaved, toe nails painted red, hair washed and armpits box fresh: waxed, shaved and plucked within an inch of ingrown hair.
Let's listen to music. Radio 4 is great but not sexy. Upbeat and fun, no bleeding heart love songs or music for lovers, wrong signals.
And at this stage most of it's a second guess.
Outcome the eponymous photo albums;
You at your best, looking like wall to wall party.
Or just drunk with red lipstick.
Or next to an ex in a suit.
You ten years younger.
Before you met.
Quick leaps from the bed.
Worried about morning light and flesh.
Swiping at last night's makeup,
Scrunching hair into a form of ponytail.
Trying to fart silently.
Sexing it up.
Keeping it fresh.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

TuesdayII September

First Date

Things not to do on a first date;
Talk about stds
Or pick your bum.

It is what it is.
Always smiles, sun beams from a sunny soul.
This is the lightness of wanting to know more.
Not being bored.

Things to do;
Sit straight
And be polite.
Smile.
Smell nice.

Forget Mr Serious at the door.
Pasts are pale,
Tales to be told.
Now is now, not tomorrow or cold dawns.
This is the time.
Sit back.
It doesn't get better.

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Life's spreadsheet,
Loss and profit.
Formulaed out 'til the very save and send.

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Testoterone spiked the air,
Yes that's right:
Bravado invisibly pricked.
Battle potential flooded real fists.
Fast and furious: fracturing time.
Blood punched the floor,
Spotting the pavement liquid crimson.
There'll be hours yet for analysing a drunken flush.
One way to make it into Sunday, high on last night's supply and now with a bloodied nose.
Didn't think - maybe I will leave now;
Why end on a fight?
Why not say- it's 9 o'clock, the sun's out, there's ducks, kids and joggers - I'm off to sleep it off?
But that would preclude:
Teasing out the finer details.
Holding up old badges of honour.
Thumping the chest.



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SaturdayII September

Not being morbid or anyting,
But if I die tomorrow,

Remember to contact everyone in my phone;
I don't want them to think I'm ignoring them.

Remember to pay the newsagent £2 for the paper I brought on Sunday;
I don't want him to think I would breach the trust.

Make sure you ring work;
They'll think I have gone AWOL.

Cancel my subscription to Sky and stop record.

Tell my landlord, he'll expect a cheque.

Take what you want, the rest give to charity.

You've already had the best of me;
But if there's a good organ take it.
The rest can be burnt.
It means nothing to me.

Then sit back with a gin and some nuts,
Don't cry,
there's no point:

Word association.
Literary bolts,
Shot fast,
Verbal belters,
Deaf defying,
Hoping to be heard,
Above a common chorus,
A virtuoso force,
Embraced in all its grace
And deep disgrace.
Heard in silence,
Seen in the dark,
Felt with a full heart.
Fob offs slip and trip.
Everything fits,
Sits in semblance,
Its a game,
Associating words with words.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Wordplay,
More than linguistic foreplay:
A mere fumble.
No, no, no...
Much more.
It's serious.
It's the real thing.
Par lay?
All the quick tumbles,
Measured mumbles,
Rhythmic rumbles,
Priceless puns,
Painstakingly assembled ensembles,
Pearls grown in language's shell.
Diamonds hardened in word-fire.
Heart shaking,
Til your body's aching,
Flooding the world with laughter,
Washing it in glee.
Thoughts spinning in sound.
Wave on wave delivering etymelogical ecstasy.
Head-thumping joy at each syntactical stroke.
Poetical symmetry.
Taking on a fervent verbal intensity.

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WednesdayI September

An old woman.
Reaches out,
And the girl falls straight in.

Bent double with Iceland supplies.
She shrugs down at her heavy basket:
Oats,
Malted beer six pack,
Full fat milk,
Olive oil,
Honey Nut Clusters.

Mismatched shiny nylon,
Hemming in a lush old body.
Bosoms the size of watermelons,
A body full of the suns of ages:
School yard grazes,
Teenage flushes blushing under wet palms,
The first baby.
And the last.
A heart deeper than all the love.

Popping eyes,
Brown,
One popping more to the left.
Natty hair neat under a hankerchief.

A tender face.
Full of human grace.
Lit from within.
Lit up for the girl.

TuesdayI September

A man, sartorially dressed.

Scrapping the end of a thining wedge,
Hardcore,
On a tether.
Sticking to the grace of Godlessness.

Windless windswept peppery hair,
Swept under the clamp of ear phones, big as crumpets.
Sallow skin slung on bones.

High polish on brogues,
Together enough to purchase polish.
And use it.
Expensive shirt,
Proud enough to plug in an iron.
And use it.
M&S V-neck,
Young enough (just) to make old, new.
Apple MAC and skinny jeans.

Tell-tale signs:
Beacons in medusa's sockets.
Panic scratching the eyes from within.
Nostrils snort against the windows,
Creating hot haloes.

It is in the hastily packed shaver.
The signs of pulled together togetherness.
You are scanning for dangers that were never there.

MondayI Sept

Long and lean,
Modern lines,
Squeaky clean.
Seersucker crossed with old school tie.
And mod rock.
Well-cut spiffy chic.
On a football geek.

Picture image you,
Laughing sat,
In sun-spilt splendour.
Summer sent,
Velvet,
In deep-lit
Green.

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Sat SeptI

Chrysalis,
To carcass,
Yeilding yellow skin,
Laced with growing pains,
Yawning butterfly with
Emperor cloak wings,
Stretched in a royal rainbow.
Flitting to pretty things.



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Friday1 Sept

Mortlake Road

The building waits at the side of a busy road.
Empty except for creaks.
It speaks.
All houses have a way to be heard.
Generational flight paths,
Linger on.
Patter and chatter traced in abandoned cobwebs.
In the cupboard below the stairs is the 5 year old's shiny bike.
and in the attic are fifty years' back issues of the national geographic.
And a samurai sword.
It is cold. The roof more than leaks there are gaping holes.
Frightening sky-filled gaps, dizzying to four floors below.
Poking around two generations of domestic stock.
When it's flats will it remember?
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Thursday

Smack

It's prochoice
A still born decision
Aborted of reason
Born from experience
A choice unknown.
Until it's done.
And then undone.
Try it and see.
It smells sweet as can be.
The poison apple.
In the fairytale tree.

WednesdayIIII August

Out of the norm.


Flashing fields of Technicolour green.
Grass, sheep, the odd bit of meadow sweet.
Heaven for concrete crushed eyes.

Inky tidemarks in variant greens,
Green stratas as perfect as rippled ice on a Scottish Loch:
In a bloody biro.
Millions in existence but none, not a single extraordinary one, has these.

Hot white seeds in a glass of chilli tea,
Cloves from Zanzibar smelling of Christmas,
Early evening crows hustling for space in the trees,
The extraordinary lives and breathes.