I need the venture to photograph myself
face the lens boldly
an old mountain
trying to forget what I can see
the overhangs of jaw
I’ll direct light on the north face
to catch an aspect, leave the rest concealed
unrecall it further distanced
into continents of white
rising from an inkdeep sea
I have to learn geography and me
cross the pass of exams
face my face
I could have foreign parts
I need to know
the lay of the land
‘so’ I tell myself ‘face it
it’s come to this’
to forgetting who I am
look at this face as a new place
a random set of shapes
that upsets me for no reason
like a map of home
we were led to believe he was running
when he was found.
the impacted body of a large fly
was discovered on his left spectacle.
one of them at least had been travelling at speed
both heading toward death
at more or less the same instant.
why were they both in such a hurry?
we were led to believe the deaths were simultaneous
or why would he continue running
with a large dead fly obscuring his sight?
why would a fly divebomb into a dead man’s glasses
at high speed?
‘we can but speculate,’ said the coroner,
with no hint of irony,
‘as to what happened immediately after the collision occurred.
the fact of the collision itself is irrefutable.’
afterwards they brought me the glasses and the fly
in a sealed bag
as if this could serve
as some mute conjoined witness
to lead us to believe an absurdist truth
and bring us closure.
‘Westfield Christ—‘ I read
through a window at Wood Lane,
like it was a sign.
Mormons at the door
spoiling everyone’s Christmas
with religious talk.
Snow is making threats
of invasion. Advance troops
are already here.
Bags of alcohol.
I used all my nectar points.
‘Westfield Christ!’ I said.
vulnerable to predators
hovered far too long beside her monitor;
ears a mere blur
about to turn or dip for nectar
exposed and trapped
as the world stopped to hear her heartbeat.
Panicked into its thrum
she fled into her mask
zipped away to a hubbub hide
a smalltalk undergrowth
away from the desks.
The others, worrying at the bones
of a Masterchef discussion
cackled, hooted, snapped and
scrabbled for some level in the order
had missed the moment.
I have my kill concealed
among the roots
swivel chairs, wheels, power cables
to savour later when they’ve all
gone home to roost.
dusk has been dragged back to the watershed
surprising us all, as it does each year.
dusk; a word most suited to its meaning,
hushing the day as light begins to fade.
the low sun bowls light as a passing gift,
paints everyone stretched across the city
all the same colour now. all just shadow,
lightless, godless and free to wander off.
my shadow fingers stretch out, reach the post.
someone wants to buy my work. i blush, bloom
against a blue background. i become dusk.
my words have shadows stretched across the world.
but night is coming, washing all away.
night will hide my blush, my words, my small shame.
sun, you are distant
as a man thinking of rough
sex while drinking tea
and even if i
were sat at the same table
the distance is there
only to be crossed
in a mythical rocket
and i don’t have one
i could think about
rough sex while drinking tea but
it would be my tea
the distance remains
a tenuous warmth of steam
hanging between us
Still no sign of God.
I’ve called and left messages
and had no reply.
I even prayed for
a valid e-mail address
that I could write to.
He should move with the times
in a mysterious way
but mostly forward,
set up call centres,
Mumbai and New Delhi.
We could ring and
complain to ofGod
if we can’t get a response.
Then they can fine him.
Apart from the antibiotics I’m
taking life isn’t that bad. It’s just not.
Robert’s been round with his dog and he peed
on our laminate flooring. Not Robert,
the dog. My mother would have scrubbed it for
days till the laminate gave up the ghost
and peeled off. Quite apart from all that we’ve
had Mormons come buzzing. I let it buzz.
They can buzz all they want out there in
the snow. I could hear them offering books
to the neighbours. The antibiotics
have given me the hearing of a bat.
They’ve got a cheek! Ringing our front doorbell,
spoiling our Christmas with religious talk.
‘you’re beautiful though
you could be in hollyoaks
honestly, you could.’
we’ll go to see beowulf friday then.
it’s an old english poem they tell me.
cgi actors. ray winstone’s buffed up.
he has to fight wotsit, that tomb raider bird,
or her son. he’s a monster called grendel.
it’s likely symbolic, single parent,
monster child, happy-slapping round england.
winstone is the voice of older people,
facing up to feral kids and their mums.
she’s got her hair tied back in a croydon
facelift, and her feet’s shaped like stillettoes.
beowulf talks like he’s from dagenham.
i reckon it’s a chav allegory
jonathan ross missed all of that subtext.
published in Monkey Kettle 31 in 2009
I miss Monkey Kettle, a magazine based in Milton Keynes which had a taste for the quirky and the off-the-wall. They brought out an anthology once (sadly before my involvement with them, which meant I never had the chance to be in it) called ‘Now That’s What I Call Monkey Kettle’ which may still be available. I found a second hand copy on Amazon. Well worth checking out.