Walking souls

Singular faces all.
All amplified by simple soft-souled prods.
Sensory intuition soundly sleeps in dank fairy-tale secret ferns.
And weaves, wet, moon-touched cobwebs.
Softly, round, deep forever reaching roots.

Day long shadows

Sun slinks off with evening's turning tide.
Newly widowed shadows take on new lives.
Contorting to echoes and sighs.
Puppets of a surrendered screen.

Seriously loving,
Cautiously hopeful,
Frightened and funny.

A 1979 black Merc who fancies itself as a pink cadillac.

Slightly beat and a little rusty but a good goer with poke.

Requires some bodywork and lots of TLC but cheap to run and fun.

Low maintenance leather upholstery and easy to read walnut dashboard.

Looking for a good owner.
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A virgin horizon.
Cold and broad.
Unstuck by birds and planes.
A starry sky and a ragged moon.
Steady ebbs and flows call deeper waters and clouds taller still.
Wax and wanes pass without neon buzzing or a telephone ring.
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Computer Love

Wired for distraction,
Blue screen static.
Attention span erratic.
Love and binary codes.
Passion and nanos.
Technology doesn't make the hole it fills it.

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Trigger happy,
Isn't happy.
He's scared.
Heart rotting,
Stomach thumping,
Sweat soaked and scared.
Bang bang bang
Goes the gun
Click, click, click
Rolls the barrel.
All blood, guts, dust and bluster.
In a strange terrain fighting another man's war.
Night terrors, day horrors.
Catastrophe the nom de plume of wartime gloom.
Then it's home for tea and crumpets.
Sugar from a silver spoon.
Wondering what happened to the boom and zoom.

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Tea Ceremony

The electric coil sits like a hot snake hissing into life at the flick of the old plastic switch.
The kettle's at least ten years old.
And needs to be at a certain angle to fire up.
Slakes of limescale coat the bottom.
The blinking thing's a kitchen heirloom.
Covered in well-scrubbed scum.
When the electricity finally flows a cup is primed to be on standby.
The kettle shudders to a stop and is lifted to pour.
Falling boiled water has a distinct sound.
Unlike running taps or cold water from a bottle.
The teabag is squashed against the side of the mug and unceremoniously dumped in the sink.
Finally a dash of milk and a spoonful of toothrotter.
A loud, slapdash, time-aware approach.
Not like the four hour tea ceremony practiced in Japan.
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Cafe, cafe, cafe....

A red neon sign flashes in the steamy window of a local business.
Lacquered wood and jukebox tunes.
An old woman and her son eat a mountain of fish and chips with their coats on.
Well dusted shelves are lined with red Panetone tins and fake flowers in mismatched vases.
Kitsch upon kitschness fold a man's Italian past into a home from home.
Good taste never achieved this level of charm.
European elegance is in the food - the substance not the show.
Top coffee brands, wines and bottles of olive oil.
It's as nostalgic as Elvis on holiday.

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They've left home.

A home hollowed of children.
No piles of school shoes or games half played.
Time to rigorously hoover carpets, matting the threads into submissive rows.
Or to wash in a bathroom where the porcelain and taps shine.

Stacks of picture frames.
One of her, the daughter.
Just like her mother.
Same nose and brow.
Eighties, long corkscrew, curls.
In a tight half ponytail.

The son, grown up and surrounded by his wife and kids.
Milk bottle glasses, tall mousy and thin.
Not like his handsome mother or confident, contented father.
The last 40 years on a pine wood sideboard.
Enshrined with figurines and potpourri.

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24 hours as an Electric Hob

During daylight hours the hob's surface is a makeshift cupboard.
A stack of battered pans lean haphazardly on the backburner.
The top one contains half a slightly mouldy loaf.
Brought reduced and now well-past sell by date.
It's a wholesome loaf of sunflower seeds and oats.

The four on/offs are clean but for a ring of unreachable grease.
Most nights, usually around the same time, the hob is fired.
Low voices burble on the radio and wine fills a thirsty glass.
The ancient ring pops with last night's burnt milk.
The heat is not designed for delicate sauces.
Once hot it stays hot - there is no in between.
It's not great but it does.

On the menu tonight is Risotto. What one laughingly calls risotto.
Not an Italian culinary virtuoso's version.
But a winter warmer.
Of buttery veg and salty buds of rice.
Not slow cooked with judiciously sploshed sloshes of white wine.
But a hastily chucked together exceptionally garlicky delight.
To be eaten one handed with grated cheese.

Testosterone Test

So much too prove.
Too easy to see through.

Superficial swagger too close to a stutter and st-st-stagger.

Brushing against people.
Smacking into them.
Rubbing them up on the way down.
You kick at inanimate objects,
think the world's upside down,
and you're inside out.

Give resentment a rest.
Life's not a test.



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Silent Sunday street.
A Dickensian back alley.
Clattering with cart wheels and hobnailed boots.

Whisps of a long gone age trace their way through this century's days.

Stout, unfired chimneys and frozen weather vane's flow with nostalgic promise.

And aerials and blinking security alarms guard the future.

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Sharp eyes.
High cheeks.
A large beautiful nose.
Alabaster skin and red lips made for sin.
Saggy tights and patent leather mary janes.
She was his girl.
Not perfect.
Not even in love.
But his.
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Here I am.
Selling you fruit and veg.
On a street corner.
The corner of Frederick Street.
This is my life.

This rain smitten street isn't mine.
I am passing through.
People come here everyday.
They touch the food.
Seeing me when they pay.

I recognise some of them but we don't speak the same language so don't say hello.
I speak in my mobile phone to people living here and back home.
My boss tells me to fill plastic bowls with so many pieces of fruit.
and to sell them for a pound.
He knows how many bowls there are and counts the empty ones.

I should live in a street where black cars are outnumbered by coloured carts.
The air smells of spices and burnt sugar.
But instead I am here.
Sometimes it's exciting but mostly I sell fruit.
And watch.

I don't know these houses.
They are a mystery to me.
I live in a room with my brothers. My sisters are next door.
In the morning I hear my mum shaking out bedclothes and smell the day's bread baking.

I don't know how long I will stay here.
Selling you fruit and veg.
On a street corner.
It is my life.
And I think I might have a little bit of a say in it all.

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The Central Line is Red Today

Toeing the yellow line.
Watching the mice in the grime.
He stood close to the passing trains.
Too close.
Wavering on his imaginary tightrope.
Tipping forward and pulling back.
Just in time.
Testing the balls of his feet in brown suede shoes.
He edged forward.
In rapid decline.
Trains ripped through.
Clouds of commuters billowed on and off swallowing him up and spitting him out as they moved.
He tipped forward one last time.
Making a red mess forever impressed on the driver's mind.
Failing finally on the Central line.
A flood of blood and a jumble of broken bones left to the clean up team.
He didn't want to go alone.

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Bethnal Green

Smashed plug
Led to anger,
And dismay...
Leading to a sign in a shop window
Advertising a smiley faced computer on grey...
Led to a house in Hackney and a cup of tea with a man who does bit acting parts in the soaps.
Led to a plug and home for waitrose mulled wine.
With two friends and a sister.
Leading to Dire Straits and emailing an old music teacher.
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We think we aren't free

In Space somewhere:

Racing radar.
Red dots blinking to static,
In a shift of data.
Traces slipping out of content.
Sliding under the radar.
Invisible and errant.

In London:

Beep - Asda credit card - five pounds on a tree.
Blip - Underground Oyster Card - tube ride to Hackney.
Click - Hedgerow and a stealthy wee - she forgot to pee.

On a border somewhere at war:

Bouncing borders.
Treacherous and jealous.
Traced in treaties,
maps
and wire.
Guarded by men in boots.
Chattering shadowless bulks.
Breath fogging chilled air.
Kids play soldiers just out of ear shot.

Internally somewhere human:

Words hold you prisoner and they set you free.

Internationally:

Swap official presence for unofficial essence.
Skip the wire.
Jump the radar.
Be free.
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Aaron to acacia.
As Bacton is to bascombe.
Cambourne to Carmelite.
As Dagmar is to doddington or dongola.
A-D of the A-Z.
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Life.
Matter with meaning.
Substance with significance.
Aspirational atoms.
Cells collating.
Exponential potential.
Never has one result.
Tied down to ends and full stops.

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It's all the same to you.
The one that taught the few.
The few that became the many.
But if you took the time to learn as well as teach you'd see...
A lady's Friday hair-do, her defrizz of the week.
You'd see the haranged husband with his harpy wife.
You'd see the loud mouthed, demanding insecurity of the over dressed.
And the charm of the handsome cottonheaded guard standing at the top of the stairs.
Devil's in the detail.

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Party like it's 19 eighty war.

In 1936 he saw her in a strapless
green
ball gown.
She held her head like a queen.
Features supernaturally refined.
Under the glitter ball.
Clutching an evening bag.
She captured the sparkle and polished it.
Her feet fidgeting to the rhythm.
Itching for a dance.
Her eyes a dancing delight.
Red lips close to her friend's ear.
Whispering hopes for the dance.
The time for romance was near.
She was light headed.
Her heart high.
Hips humping the beat.
Her head spinning with promises and stories...
A million miles away on the No. 73...
down a cobbled side street in the East End...
leaned her mum's bomb ripped two up two down.
Teaming with kids.
Smelling of toast and slippers.
Her dad nodding by the hearth.
Her brother's in uniform smiling in black and white above washing steaming on a rack.
Why wouldn't she say 'yes, cause I'll dance.'
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Deviltry and merriment.
Danced in dusky eyes.
Heavy lashes fluttered.
Echoing lipstick kissed lies.
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Pulling it together.

We streamed through the years.
We pulled together the strings and tied them in a bow.
The memory box.
We came together.
We pulled mattresses together.
We made a bed to lie in.
We lay.
We watched the night lights play in the eaves.
And we felt the lorries rumble by.
We held each other.
We talked.
And then when the morning came we ate enough for three.
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Like he'd always been there.
The newborn.
Head lolling...
hands grapping and mouthing nipple-shaped air.
He'll be ready soon for an outing...
when the sun's out.
For now he's every waking minute
And stolen dream.
The cry between the sleep and feed.
The love of all loves.

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21st confessional
For the exhausted professional
the tired,
image obsessed,
Substance addicted,
abused,
self abusing,
God fearing,
spiritually bereft,
And depressed.
For the soldier, sailor, tinker and tailor.
For the modern family.
The adult-child.
And the child-like adult.
For the single and attached.
Lives resitiched for 45 quid.
Words pushed around,
Jigsawing til they fit.
One pattern replaced with another in a vile, violet room.
With a man size box of tissues in the middle.
And all around a thousand voices getting heard.
'He hit me.'
'She left me.'
'I want to be this.'
'I should be that.'
The I, I, I, I.....
Poured into a priestly ear.
She studied for a year.
Read some text books,
had some training sessions and learnt to hear.
The answers as many as the questions.
The plaster and patch.
But still there is that awkward silence.
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Resting

A dog who hasn't slept, snarls.
Stroke a cat and it purrs.
Horses in fields run together.
And rabbits under threat thump their feet.

If this doesn't quite clearly show that
rest,
love,
and selflessness
are qualities to nurture then we aren't listening.
Not really taking it in.

Gaggle of girly girls.
Giggling in glad rags.
Drowning in chardonnay.
Dancing to tinny tunes.
Saying 'You alright love?'
A cloud of chatter.
Precipitating to Saturday night's pub crawl.

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Wondering oblivion.

9.30am
Invitation to a drink.
10.30am
The nun's at the door.
2.05pm
Doing business in a greasy spoon.
Musicians working out the score.
A fledgling couple in the corner.
The African chef with her soup.
Since Tuesday at 8.30pm
The new born with a brand new mother.
Since B.C
Gladeoli about to shoot.
A wondering oblivion.
The hemisphere's grand pavilion.

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Its down and dirty.
In the world of faces.
People know their places.
Showing aces.
A fistful of jokers.

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RandR train style

She curls her feet in and screws her face up.
Wound up breath caught by imagination.
Sunset's shadows lick the bare carriage wall.
Evening's after glow, seductively red.
Flares
to fade.
Mesmirized by inner logic.
Blank eyes slide over country miles.
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Echoes in empty corridors.
The dank air springs with fists.
Walls ring with wrath.
Her wretched pride cowers under blankets waiting to be kicked.
Holding tight for comfort and clarity.
Violence burns so fast, quickening to the wick.
Fear-smacked paralysis sticks.
Lick after lick.
Hate kidnapped by love.
Sorry is enough.
The door bell rings.
He packed up his fists and heave ho'd long ago.
So she pulls herself together and goes.

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When were you scared and lonely?

Single child building castles in the sand.
Whilst Mum brushes off the sandwiches and Dad looks at the horizon.
She is the sky, sea and land to the quiet couple.
She is all God meant for them.
God's gift.
Treasured in the family chest.
Each season sees the family gather to watch her clever acts.
Clutching her to admiring bosoms.
Smothering her with talcumed arms.
Beaming down at her; glittery, eyes on admiring stalks.
Like beacons of delight on love's lighthouse.
Admiring her creativity and excellent development.
Her ego knows no bounds.
Unconfined.
She is ever dutiful to the life givers, the power providers.
Always rings, sends cards and now nurses them in old age.
As their marbles bounce as glass on stone.
Tiny head filled with ideas.
Prizes handed: hand over rewarding hand.
Favourite foods cooked on demand.
Said to be special.
It's enough to give her a lasting sense of her originality.
Enough to make her unerringly selfish.
Frustratingly oblivious.
Like a dumb animal.
Unperturbed by human doubt.
Refreshingly free.
Terrifyingly naïve.
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