I’m on the mobile.
On the train.
I might be in a tunnel soon.
Just thought I’d say hi.
Can you speak?
if you’re asking me, then yes,
I’d call it vibrant,
frequency set at a blade’s tremble
not so clean, a touch of rust but
slashflashing in the sun that trips, slips, collapses
into the split belly of atlantic road,
has an edge
slicing past argos and the eyes
still as the town hall clock
watching from the
scaled dead laid out in oblongs
past yells, bawls, catcalls, pleas, cacophonies,
slits through the bustle of rustling carrier-bags
– froth on rocks, quick legged tides
of skin-wrapped suns disguised as women
proud, fierce as fire –
goes scraping along the paintwork of cars
fuzzed with distorted bass;
barry white through a kebab paper comb,
cuts through beats, through cobbled streets
that spread like christ arms either side
where crackheads sing like no one died.
The emerald plumage clawed at my eye,
bright peacock green, the dent beside the door,
damaged migrant, back from its winter home
like cuckoos do, eyes peeled for likely nests.
Now my phone, buzzing like a robot crow
for attention. ‘I know. I’m on my way.’
although I am not moving, ‘Yes.. Chicken.’
It is! It is! It’s him behind the wheel!
‘OK. I have to go.’ Too late. The slam
is followed by ignition and… he’s flown…
leaving a churned wake of head silt settling
like a shroud of seed on a bluebird’s grave
as outraged pigeons scatter to the roofs.
‘No… Yes… I’m here… Just chicken then?… OK’
Today I took a walk up to the beach
all by myself, to face the Atlantic,
not like the surfers do, all challenging
but like a supplicant, with reverence.
This if anything is our creator
breaking like a wet heart upon the sand
oblivious to its driftwood offspring.
The exciting thing is knowing all this,
not bothering to share it with the world.
Let them keep their dry bibles and baked words.
I will hold this secret for their children
and the vision of their joyful fathers
skimmed like flat stones over the thoughts of God.
helen is terrified of anaphylactic shock
to the extent that she screams when
people mention peanuts
latex, she claims, can bring it on,
defence turned to lethal attack;
deadly condoms waiting in packets
for that special moment
to send her into spasms
she runs from wasps and bees
through potential trees
though she’s never been stung
or been shocked by anything
apart from that scene in ‘game of thrones’
and the price at which they sell fridges
she may not be suffering at all
apart from a condition
a substantial proportion of sufferers
have no cause found
despite all efforts
even in the most expert clinics
doctors call such unexplained
symptoms ‘idiopathic phantom anaphylaxis’
the word ‘idiopathic’
in practice means
we just don’t know why she does it
As I savoured the day’s last cigarette
a fox appeared, brazen, from Nando’s yard,
too cocky for one so ill-proportioned,
tongue proffered with a wet invitation
as he turned to gaze at me, appraising
my place in the general pecking order.
He swaggered from the car park then, slunk off
into the darkness like a one-night stand
who’d not even stayed for the entire night
but left while the streetlights were still burning.
I’d seen those eyes before, on a cool prowl
for something uncomplicated, easy,
sweeping languidly around a packed bar,
sometimes from the mirror, bounced back to me.
Come with me. We’ll look for the old places
from the dawn of Amstrad when the net was
just a twinkle nesting in the eyes of geeks,
when you and I had hair and typewriters.
Unwind me from this, spool me back to the
super-eight clattering magic of light
and the night Nick Cave first appeared like god
from a vinyl circle, pointing to the sites.
I’ve sifted through the strata of t-shirts,
found no remains of our conversations
long drowned by buses rumbling away
like the passing of a saurian race.
Look! There’s a fossilised Olivetti
half-buried. Its blunt teeth may spell… something.
as i smoke my last cigarette
i see the shapes of men
through the net curtains in the park-keeper’s hut
engaged in arcane park-keeper’s duties
that may involve tea
and rough council biscuits.
their hanging jackets tease a wink through the netting.
they’ve aroused the curious beast in me
that i exercise in the park.
his paws are on the window
but the doylie curtain baffles him.
meanwhile i am drowning out here, alone
in a tide of russet leaves
which has rushed in vertically as i’ve watched.
they’re watching me i know
over rims of grim cracked mugs
through the net that secrets their games
as i sink into the waves
if you find this poem
then it means i did not make it.
and present it to the town hall.
they knew i was drowning, not waving.
we found like a gift
stilled on the stairs, perfect
as frozen mink
placed there by a shadow
i was awed enough
to lay it out in state,
this preserved velvet silence,
on a white plate for viewing.
something this magnificent
odd things just happen
sometimes. we may question why.
why is there a why?
i stroke the cold pelt
then lean in to whisper
‘poems start like this’
He told me he’s stalking a barber today.
He hangs round outside when the boss is away,
round about closing time
hoping he’ll speak to him,
spark up some chat about clippers or foam.
Then he’ll invent an excuse and go home.
He’s the girl in that song, what’s her name? Delta Dawn.
‘Prettiest woman you’ve ever laid eyes on’
It’s all in his head.
He’s the Lady in Red
and Chris de Burgh’s in there, doing a trim,
maybe singing a song, but it’s not about him.