I never saw the need for plastic flowers
but there is one. People somewhere find a
use for solid roses and carnations.
There’s a drive I think within us to replace
what’s real with fabricated copies. Look
at fruit. Why would you need a plastic apple
ever? ‘It’s neither use nor ornament.’
as my Grandma said about my brother’s
fake fur moonboots. Philip K Dick knew that
our world is layered with the less than real
as if a facia had been laid down
over the world replacing all of us.
‘You want to read real booksh,’ said my Grandma
as the steradent frothed around her teeth.
Beyond the border stand the fortresses
grown from each mountain perch with granite seed.
The weather’s worn them to extensions, rough
Constable sketches of their firstborn youth.
Today they clampsleep, molared to the mount,
sugarsoaped of neighbours’ blood and warpaint.
Below, trees yearn to draw some truth or leaves;
pencil fingers scrabbling at the grey.
Now ranges rise embossed to see who’s here,
mist-toned into a page of Dulux shades.
This sunset over fatherland rouses
as we rattle on deeper into dusk,
farther than the Romans ever came
to hills of ‘Bongo Jazz’ and ‘Desert Peach’.
the awful power of the internet
is that you can fall in love with people
you have never met, and they don’t just go,
they hang like half-developed polaroids
from freaky washing lines inside your head.
you can give them love, via a website.
three hearts a day. it’s rationed, like the war,
love is. there just may be black market hearts
available from some organ hacker
but I’ll stick with my meagre allowance.
I can spread my love around like butter
on different sorts of man-shaped bread slices
and people send love back, but then they go,
fade like pictures bleached away by sunlight.
At last we parley: we so strangely dumb
so blind to one another’s presence here.
The intersecting axes of our lives
whisk us past like moons in tongueless orbit.
We have the other’s face held safe and burned
inside our heads. We know them like the ways
of walking home, the silent threads of known.
We can not let them go. They’ve made their home
within our window’s worldview. On a shelf
there is a line of heads that stretches off
into the past and darkness. You were there,
in line but in the shadow of a moon.
Now words have passed between us, you will shift
out from your dumb neighbours into the light.
On the fingertips of a spiral arm,
one of four hundred billion gleaming points
orbiting a centre we’ll never reach
whose glory broadcast for our reception
before the dinosaurs passed. At its fast
heart beats an unseen singularity.
There space and time have collapsed, conceived a
nothingness, deleting solar systems
as a candle deals with dust, oblivious,
mindless as the place where prayers go to die.
Please don’t ask why. Why should there be a why?
Just worship what there is. The stars are just
recordings from the sky in silent screen.
They could dead by now, and we so small.
‘Why is it,’ he asked, ‘when I ask British
people ‘How are you?’ they say ‘Not too bad’?’
So I told him it’s part of our culture
as if to express any joy would be
just showing off and letting the side down.
He is Indian and held my hand a
bit longer than British guidelines recommend.
It is too close, too pleasant a gesture
and could be construed as intimacy
but I did not let go, as I should have.
And so I rambled on about our ways
but could not say why I am struck like this
so grateful for a touch, this honest warmth.
‘I’m not, then, not too bad,’ I said. ‘I’m great!’
I’m very happy to report that one of my sonnets has been published today in the wonderful online mag Amaryllis.
Check it out HERE
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’
filtered brita water, this is first, displacing
any air that’s in the chamber, measured
quite precisely by the levels printed clearly
on the window on the side of the machine.
my automated hands take down the airtight
white container and i count out three round
spoonfuls of the coffee, ground, like earth
into the filter. i’m not there, i’m in
the air, transported by the ritual i ride
along the syllables inside my head
while moving through the stations of the process
metered by my breath. i flick the switch
then fire is cabled to a hotplate and the
water sings of time and transmutation.
My lover snores beside me in our bed
while I, my back toward him, scribble notes
tuned only to the thoughts inside my head
(My muse is pleased by this and no doubt gloats)
as traffic grumbles past and now and then
a siren woohoos like a camp banshee
whom God has given wheels and speed, my pen
unflinching, scratches on to quatrain three
where great profound important things are said
about the issues that affect us all,
but think instead of pies, the cost of bread
and what that noise is coming from the hall.
The final lines are done, their meaning clear
and yet I feel I’m missing something here.