My son

Dinner time is like a one man opera
My son takes the role of many
thespian characters.
Tears cut to laughter so
Seamless. He has talent. A method actor. 

Maybe he just doesn't like brocolli but likes crisps

Last orders

When the day is done at 5.

And smoke perfumes the past.

And Shiny Happy People*

is another way to fast.

And the last of the office lights 

make you feel she's gone for good. 

 

It's Autumn. 

There was a void like...

Trafficked trees                         
Only seconds with the dying sun 
Monday owning her Sunday best
A double bed on its last legs,
(just a commodity for selling sex)
A bus routine, the blank faces
Another day with a bare lake, a weekly window gone...
Memories fading from the age I was someone
Old friends flying to unfamiliar places (to meet new ones)

Just a few passing thoughts as they call last orders.

 

Paris for us

We did Paris and I got sick.

I just about made it from a day in bed to the bistro next door. 

I ordered dry fettuccine and the waiter met me_with a blank face_ 

She bought fashion magazines but wanted the Louvre - 

Flicked through TV channels but needed subtitles. 

And   when   I  was  able, we walked by the Seine. 

Traced the citrus notes over the waves

. and then hung on to the railings. 

We walked until the blisters on my heels were like radishes. 

Gave a begging man, freshly squeezed orange juice and a block of dark chocolate. 

He.kissed.the.air.  

We made it to the Eiffel tower but didn't have the money to go up or even to buy one from a suitcase. 

And so we broke bread on the grass and watched. 

That was Paris for us.

There was a bridge, a trip switch between my stomach and my sanity

I was on my own 52nd street, heckled at for poor time keeping

Charlie parker ducking a cymbal  

Only severed syncopation between my lungs and my breath. 

Every time jump leads to get them moving together. Every time a panic attack

 I'd cave under invisible pressure, trying to be present,

melt in the mirror, take in the bigger picture  

The only time I didn't break down was on a sofa, with Rick Stein repeats

So that's where I'd be for months.

Economic agents

Workers wear overtime on the catwalk 

It's vogue for the everyman 

I do solemnly declare I did not enjoy my day off

I started work in my sleep and finished in A&E

 Ah but...

'In my day we worked when we were dead.' 

More schemes

I paid by finance and felt as though I was cheating on my wife. 

Tell me why I'm headed to jail?

Because you still haven't paid the interest on Sunday's lunch. 

Bucket of ice

My friends said I should write light
write up when I slept with a
bucket of ice one night
Submission in summer
'A record breaking heat wave'
(until the ads were clicked)

I dialled 0 for the desk
said I couldn't sleep
I NEED TO CHANGE ROOM NOW!!!
they said it wasn't possible
but sent up the bucket
which I threw on the bed
The steam set and I slept

I'd already said goodbye to
some body weight -
the usual stuff, heart ache
but this was another way.
Oh well.

I almost went heavy again, didn't I?

George Floyd (the sequel and prequel)

This year was for
Sisters of the moon
a thawing echo chamber
a piano player with broken wrists
asking for full disclosure

This year was for
clarifying instincts
while zoning out to television repeats
These mediums, a choir of canaries 

This year started with the Coopers
and ended with statues of slave masters
in the deepest rivers

RIP GEORGE FLOYD 

AGE

Somewhere between top of the pops disappearing

A G E

and a paedophile priest

 
He got older. 

 

Can't you just curtsy

Can't you just curtsy 

those who've harboured PTSD

from 12 hour shifts, 

a blitz of screaming fits, the pits

Up against a sideline of

Michael Fish sceptics

Wearing the dark eyes of a 

doped up graveyard 

A hospital in 2020.

Underpaid  undervalued.

Can't you just curtsy them ...

if anyone at all.

A land of landlords

A land of landlords creating box rooms for families out of poorly cladded high rises or old libraries . Lucky if you get a window seat. Ice pops and screens on hand , just don't all need a piss at once .  

Smoothie

Tomorrow I will make my Nan in law a smoothie...  

Banana, 

honey, 

peanut butter. 

rice milk

She won't remember but I hope she remembers it's there 

by her side willing to be finished.

Ribs

Springs dig in my ribs

As I reverse from 

vivid trips,

distorted relationships.

Ones I hope won't outlive 

this feeling of _springs in my ribs

Springs dig in my ribs 

As reality hits, I remember social distances...

And throughout the day

I may have to unbuild such extensions 

Repair make belief bridges.  

Realise I never rode space mountain. 

It was just me asleep.

Pyro pink

Sea swimmers have soup in their veins 

I push a pram away from the sun, 

 transfixed on its stand off with the moon 

It backs down and bleaches the sky pyro pink... 

Others no longer focused on patchwork pavements either. 

 

Weather proof

 From creosote

To when we were shaking 

Dead fire coals as spring unfolds 

A familiar beautiful wasted space 

Why didn't this add up?

All these times were weather proof 

for me, not you. 

Wonderland we're holding hands

Somewhere between a dead charade and a glue eyed dance.

An old one excerpt from my song the Magpie Turns. Just a bit of winter imagery. 

It's Autumn

When the day is done at 5.

And smoke perfumes the past.

And Shiny Happy People*

is another way to fast.

And the last of the office lights 

make you feel she's gone for good. 

 

It's Autumn. 

(walking home) 

shiny happy people* by R.E.M  

Bleach blonde hair

Bleach blonde hair half tied

Her family are the only ones who ride 

without masks. 

Caught somewhere between a pandemic and a farce

Her kid's tablet is a never ending peace treaty 

She's on her last legs but hasn't any to stand on 

But for a few hours it will be lights out 

nestle her head in to other problems 

Relentless texts from an ex. 

A stream of empty politics, 

and shut her eyes to Talk show hosts 

who shout at her through the television set. 

(my best bet)

Blue vein lips

 Her chin rests on her hand

And her eyes rest ahead of her heart

And in the bar. I'm a shadow. 

She has blue vein lips on

Stood at the back of the room 

And no matter how hard I tried 

I couldn't get through. 

I'd never move

I’d never move 

When Sunday opened it’s legs

for Monday far too easily, 

I would never move.

There were never many stills of us 

making the most of the passing hours 

My memory couldn't focus, 

from the station blank, still can't.

By the time it does 

I realise that every memory passed 

was the greatest work of fiction 

(based loosely on us)

(written a while back but realised I never shared it)

Burnt sweet potato, pigeon blood

Memories of this place.

Burnt sweet potato.
Pigeon blood.
It wouldn't come up

A 2 bed rental.
Housed our birthing pool.
Stagnant water from a stay in hospital.

 First responders and midwife  treads

An untouched courtyard.
Plans of plants just roots in our heads

An unhinged neighbour. A freedom fighter
left drowning in his stereo, the night before 

Rat Olympics from the kitchen to the bin store . 

And a landlord second toke nonchalance  

But Our little carpet crawler, new knees, the bees knees, we could've been
in a tent and still been happy with him. A new lease of life.

Every moment marked in these four walls. (but any)

Every moment now flaking paint in a world pandemic 

Having to downsize due to COVID19