throws nets of rain-mail knitted from quadratic equations
over my roof and thoughts.
solutions dissolve like chalk as they slide
into wet guttersleep. i resist,
just in case a unified theory
should come to me uninvited
like a gift of engine-noise and water.
the plane fades into ink still loud on the page
but the rain is tenacious;
scratches formulae on the slate.
it is late.
time conspires with space and gravity
to pull me down into a black hole;
the pen now weighs the same as a
and my lashes
drag my blinds down to the
Where do we keep the faces that we know?
There surely can’t be room
just in our brains
for all those eyes and ears
and teeth; my friends at work,
my cousin Keith and Michael Buerk,
the cast of ‘Friends’,
my Uncle Jack and Cilla Black.
And then i think;
how many brains have got my face
shut up in some
dull dark medulla
place with other
eyes and ears and
teeth, quite apart from
cousin Keith and friends from work
and Uncle Jack? I’m
locked into ten thousand heads
with Michael Buerk and Cilla Black.
Going home again in Cnut’s taxi.
a sea of dreams slow retreats
leaving a childhood stretched out to dry over
the rock exposed.
‘I know a shortcut,’ he says, as he did last year.
In the night
the tide turns back.
Driftwood memories launch at the window, clacking,
rattling like ribs flensed by years
into shells scrimshawed with pin-fine fears.
Cnut’s hand reaches for the fare
as if beckoning the waves
in through the shortcut
between his fingers.
sirens, pole-dancing on their wicks
splash kohl on our faces.
head shadows chicane to beats imaginary
in a flat menagerie where
out of body furniture
flutter-rumbas worried over the walls.
i tell you they are the ghosts of moths
– summoned by long-dead candles –
warning off their offspring.
you are blind to it
even as they cling at your cheeks
mocking your nose with
jiving conesnout silhouettes.
furred heads merge over the sideboard
when i take your wine glass.
your thoughts moonwalk to me through the black
along a one way wall
carry fragments of light sources, physics,
sharp white with superior angles.
only briefly later does your mind flap
at a bright question.
it dawns upon you with the hatching day
to wonder why the moths all keep away.
they must have such long thin arms to reach the past
blind grabbing in the clockwork fluffclog dim
tracing out shapes of reasons for
the present they received;
the cogs of cause and effect.
but the gears have shifted strangely;
faint light glints old on the springs and balances
which ticked the small tock.
reconfigured into presentable sentences here
they run smooth with measured swishes,
past tense and pretence.
my arms no longer attempt such extractions.
and the pistons run truly.
the flywheel spins so fast
it looks at rest and at peace with the past.
‘can i leave it and pick it up later?’
‘pick it up? pick up what?
this large copper pot?’
‘yes the pot’
‘have you paid for it?’ ‘yes’
‘i’m afraid you cannot.
someone might steal it.
the shop may catch fire,
due to freak faulty wiring
and burn to the ground
and then you could sue us
for thousands of pounds.’
i’ll make my exit into bell black night
tolling silence with my old heart’s clapper.
trees will join the beat with some percussion
and mexican waves of leaves and leaving.
we’ve met obliquely at goings away.
when the lights dim he shows his shady face
pocked with stars and the moon’s polished goitre
and we’ve talked over drinks. always outside.
so i can say we are acquaintances.
we have an agreement, the night and i
to postpone any cold unpleasantness
until the inevitable moment.
i know he’s waiting, patient as a shroud.
one breath let out at dusk, one in at dawn.
these seconds are being stolen as i write
with all the unrecorded sounds and smells,
the waspish ink machine
poised as if to sting the page with words,
and my reflection in the clock
mouth set at twenty to four
outside, the distress calls.
the misplaced faith of gulls
in their direction, lost.
they hawk the names of washed-up nights and postcard beaches
back over the summer autumn border.
street trees rustle to remember where they put
the keys to the forked locks of creaking boughs,
loose the slow grumble of roots in london dust.
some memories cling like stubborn stains
on a shirt in a black and white telly
and the windows dribble smiths songs down the concrete.
but then i see you
face like a diary
open to now
where sun gleams on the leaves
too still to think of keys.
This is one of the first poems I ever had published (in the online magazine ‘Nth Position’ edited by Todd Swift) nearly ten years ago and it’s still one of my favourites.
what i do not want
i do not want just your spring.
i want a discovery channel
geological age of you
during which we rage and
love and bleed
like old celebrities
into new green forms
by water surgeons.
i do not want just one
jerry springer show with you.
i want an endless soap
of bleeding hearts
and pregnant pauses, ropy
dialogue and ageless teeth
until the final viewer’s
armchair sinks beneath
deep green waters
and only we are left
to read the credits.