Sunday 28 December 2014

Childermas

I've not posted in a while as I've been busy with other things. Here's a silly little post-Christmas poem to get things going again:



On Childermas,
we dance,
flat-footed
on frozen
platforms,
to keep
out winter’s bite.
Run ragged
from days
of joy –
verbum caro
factum est –
we pass
through carriage
doors and out
again to life.

Sunday 19 October 2014

Break up

To be clear, this is wholly fictional. Husband and I are fine!


You can screw me
in the kitchen.
It’s the best
we can do.
We’ve wrecked
the rest
of the house already.

We’ve torn down
the curtains,
spattered the paint
with our venom
and our bile.

We’ve ripped the sheets,
smashed the chairs.
We’ve cut a swath through our
once happy home. I’ve
called you names I can’t take back.

You’ve looked at me with
eyes full of spite.
We’ve robbed each other
of the will to love.
Now here we are, ready
            to come crashing down.
           
I’m exhausted and delirious.
You’re breathless
and bruised. We’ll peel off
each other’s
sticky clothes and lie down
            here
among the mess we’ve made.

There’s no fight left in me.
Let’s make this one the last.
We’ll have one more throwdown
before we call it quits.

We’ve raved and we’ve screamed
and we’ve shredded
everything that was good.

Now we’ll ravage each other
in the middle of the ruin
of our domestic bliss.

There’ll be shards of crockery
in your back,
and bits of glass
in my thighs.

And then, before it stops,
there’ll be the shells
of broken eggs, clinging to your palms,
and smears of burst fruit,
heaved against the floor,
congealing, sweet
between our stomachs.

And then we’ll fall asleep, wrung out
by the violence of our ending,
and I’ll wake up,
and you’ll be gone.

All the world is conquered


All the world is conquered,
And the stubborn stain of
Revolution rubbed out.
Who are you? I’m
A question unasked.
I’m dry river beds, I’m
Bleeding tongues. I’m
Crumbling walls, I’m
Shrivelled fingers. I’m
Empty eyes, I’m fraught,
I’m chaos, I’m naked.
I’m the shame of the shameless.
I’m a million ghosts, I’m
Nothing in return. I’m
Another voice, another
Face, another no one to forget.
I’m fresh oblivion, day
By day, I’m the sign of the cross.
I’m a shapeless spectre, I’m
A shadow, I’m a pall. I’m
The pill you never swallow,
I’m the cure and I’m the cause.
I’m the scream and I’m the silence,
I’m nothing at all. I’m
The devil in the detail, I’m
A body in the street. I’m
Close to death, I’m
Still alive. I’m flower petals
Crushed underfoot. I’m
The sweet scent still hanging
In the air, I’m the stench
Of decay. I’m withered, I’m
Rotten, I’m shiny gold. I’m
Resignation, I’m resentment.
I’m what’s left behind.
All the world is conquered,
And the stubborn stain of
Humanity rubbed out.

Song


A tragic song will swell
In your breast, my love,
And the tears will
Blossom in your TV-lit eyes
And all the thousand thousand
Dreams of the thousand
Thousand thousand lives
You thought you’d have
Will come swimming up
And you’ll weep, my sweet
Because none of them are yours
But I’ll be with you
Just the same, my heart
A thousand thousand times
I’ll grasp your fingers
Just as tightly as I can
Lie down beside me, dear
And put your hand in mine
I’ll wrap your dreams
In pretty paper, and we’ll
Open them one day
And I’ll sing your song
And we’ll weep together
Because I am yours
And you are mine

Wednesday 8 October 2014

End of Days, part IV


“These are the end times,”
            you said,
and I thought
            you were joking, 
            until
you flipped on the TV
news, and said,
“Look at this.”
And then
I believed you.

Saturday 6 September 2014

Story

This is what one might call a flash poem. Completely unedited, totally off the cuff:

Shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?
I am not a perfect thing,
nor shall I ever be, but
this - this is what I am.
And do you understand that?
Can you claim to count
the heats that simmer
under my ruined skin?
I am all at once a star
and the absence of light,
exploding, fading, rising
falling. Do you see?
I am unacceptable, but
still such a simple fit
that I go unseen.
Shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?
I am come for my judgement
and you'll hand it out
freely, without pause.
Do you come back at all
to think of that?
Can you be ever other
than what you are?
I am wrong, wrong, wrong -
the word that, no matter
how you say it, is always
wrong. Do you hear it?
It's there, singing and
screaming in a million
million voiceless voices
under my eyes.
Shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?
I am full of this nameless
compulsion, words that beg
to leave my body, and you -
who gave you permission, love?
You have it, though.
King of the castle, ruler
of all you survey. You get
that, don't you?
I am nought but earth, beneath
your booted feet. I am nought
but guts to spill, and hands
to be rapped for their great sin.
You, most powerful, you, most
holy, have me in your thrall.
You, most wise, do you even
know?
I am answers to questions
you never asked. I am
wretched, but I am unafraid
at least.
And shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?

Sunday 31 August 2014

Hymn to the Sea

I entered this in a competition, and, surprise surprise, it didn't win. So here it is:

O, sea! Seat of my soul's
deepest repose.
Infinite memory lives in your
boundless body.
Home and homeless, you call me
ever back, O sea,
and bend me to your self.
Guileless lover, you keep me in your
heartless heart.
No respecter of station, you bear me up
on savage hands,
a queen.
Swallow me whole, O sea, and take me
to your depthless deep.
Your froth and foam console me, sea,
your icy waves my rest.
Wrap your briny fingers about my ankles,
unseat me, sea,
and pull me to your bosom.
Endless, ageless, king, what torment
writhes beneath you.
Careless of uncouth men, you kill,
unconcerned and unconfined,
but timeless, onwards flow.
Rage as you will, O peerless sea, but still
you make my chaos still.

Saturday 2 August 2014

Trick

I've been experimenting recently with layout, and how it can change the way a poem is read: it can completely alter the tone, cadence and feel of it, and I really enjoy that idea. Below is a very quick poem, entitled Trick, which is an example of this experimentation, plus a (slightly rubbish) recording of how it should be read. I'd do another video, but I'm running solely on caffeine right now and I'm not fit to be seen.




I’ve learned the
trick
of you.
I’ve mastered it,
there’s nothing
to it. I know
all there is to know.
You thought me
so unfit, but
I’ve got you
beat, my friend,
Because I’ve found
the steps
ahead of steps
The way to make it
work
The lines between
lines
The empty whiteness
of blank
chasms, opened
For the filling
with words
You imagine I might have
said. That
is the trick,
I know, to fool you
into faith. Oh,
what have I done,
You’ll say, but unshakeable
now,
I’m in those spaces. That’s
the trick, and unshakeable
now
You’re full of me.

Thursday 31 July 2014

Shred

You make light work of my skin,
Strip it from my body,
Like there's a zipper in my skull,
All my sinful blood and flesh and
Guts and everything on show.

Excoriate me. Rip me up.
Make me tiny wretched shreds.
Claw my awful sinews from my bones.
I'm base meat to be butchered,
Till there's no human left.

No weapons, you use your teeth
To tear me limb from limb.
Grind and grind and grind and grind,
You pulverise me, punish me,
And leave me nothing at all.

Monday 28 July 2014

Cross roads

Not trusting them
Not to pull out
Even when the signal's good
I run
Because
That's not how I want to go

Tuesday 22 July 2014

Shrinking

I think I'm shrinking,
Melting and fading, and soon
Nothing will be left

Monday 21 July 2014

Zoo

Inert, they lie
Neither sleeping
Nor waking
Neither dying
Nor living
In the greasy
English sun
Truncated
By their cages
Gazing emptily
Through half lidded
Limpid amber eyes
At the melee
Inured to
The shrieks
Of the wildlife
Around them
Robbed of their
Magic, won
Over centuries
In distant
Desert lands
Once glorious
Now lifeless
Once proud
Made mute
And revealed
To an eye
Without wonder
Once thrilled
Now saddened
To find
The wretched truth

Friday 18 July 2014

To her mother's mind

A little short one, musing on the headlines lately about the horrifying prevalence of rape culture.

To her mother's mind
Any dress that isn't
A voluminous sack
Is an anti-feminist dress
That night then
As she'd understand it
Was an anti-feminist nightmare
To most men's minds
Any dress that isn't
A voluminous sack
Is an invitation
That night then
As they'd understand it
She was asking for it

Sunday 6 July 2014

Heart

I will scoop out my
heart and give it to you as
an eternal gift

Monday 16 June 2014

Sand

A bit of flash fiction for your Monday evening.

Her face stung and her eyes burned and her skin all over was always raw and red. This was because of the sand. Miles and miles and miles of only sand that got stuck in her lungs, choking her, and made it hard to stay focused on what she had to do. It whipped in her face and stripped the flesh from her hands. Sand was her enemy. 

They gave her an old metal detector and told her to find things they could sell. Make us some money, the men said. That's all you're good for. They sent her out, alone into the sand, where it was hot and silent but for the whistling of the wind in the dunes. Sometimes, buzzing insects would scratch their way out of the desert and bite her. They left big, angry welts and made her angry in turn. At night, she clawed at her itchy skin until it bled. Little red rivers of blood crept out and gave her peace.

It was hard to know what she might find in the sand or even what she was looking for. Usually, it was little screws and things that had fallen from the aircraft that went screeching overhead every now and then. They were watching them, looking for signs of - what? She didn't know. She imagined she must look like a little brown beetle to them, not worth the trouble of watching. She only knew they could see far down below and they had eyes on her camp. 

They never came close enough for her to see them properly but sometimes, they fired their guns and people fell down dead in front of her. The guns made a terrible, deathly rattle but they never made any noise when they fell. They were walking among the tents, talking, even laughing, and then they weren't and that was that. Their blood marked the sand only until the wind picked up and turned it over.

On certain days, she was allowed to leave the camp with the men to go to the town where they tried to sell the things she found. There were little white buildings there and smiling men, selling fruits and spices. The women were clean and they had pretty clothes in bright colours she didn't even know the names of and they had long, long hair. They made her cut her hair until it was short and bristly so that the men in the town wouldn't look at her, and her clothes were plain brown sack cloth, just like everyone else in the camp. 

The people in the town always stared at them and some of them even shouted abuse and spat at them as they walked by. The law said they couldn't live among the civilised folk and the civilised folk hated them for their lowliness. Some of the men let them stop to show them what they had for sale, but they never looked them in the eye. 

When they sold something, it was cause for great celebration. They would go to the tiny bar set away from the shining white buildings. It was made of dirty yellow stone and always smelled of sweat and urine. It was set aside for people from the camp and they would drink cheap alcohol and toast her and clap her on the back. When they couldn't sell anything, they beat her and cast her out and made her walk back to the camp alone. 

She dreamed of somehow sneaking into the town alone so that she could live there like the women who thought of her as filth. What a trick it would be to walk among them and be treated as their equal. She could laugh in her pretty white house about how they didn't know a camp girl from a civilised woman. She could wear her hair long and do as she pleased and never take another beating. 

The best thing about the town was the animals. Hundreds and hundreds of them roamed the streets, bleating or clucking or whinnying, herded by men with clear, loud voices. They outnumbered the people and outranked the cars, always going ahead of them between the houses. She loved to see the faces of the animals with their wild eyes and defiant look. They were like her. 

She didn't have a mother or a father, but she had a faded photograph of a smiling man and woman and she imagined they must have been her parents. One of the old men from the camp told her they found her as a baby, alone in the sand with nothing but a blanket and that photograph. The women looked after her until she was big enough to be useful and after that, she looked after herself. 

She could read and write a little, thanks to one of the women who took the time to teach her until she was found out and they made her stop. She was the lowest of the low and didn't need any schooling, they said. That was the first day they sent her out to search the empty desert and earn her keep.

Day after day after day, it was the same. She scoured the burning sand, listening for the metal detector’s insistent whine. Then she gathered up her finds into a sack and took them back to the camp at sundown. It was a day like this when it happened. One of the aircraft went screaming by and she looked up to see something large and shining falling from the sky towards her, very nearly hitting her as it landed.

Looking anxiously around her, she scrambled across the sand towards the crash site and found a metal box, grey and square. It was hot when she touched it so she upended the metal detector and used the handle to prise it open. When she looked inside, she fell backwards in surprise. There, in the searing desert sun, hundreds of gold coins winked out at her.

Friday 13 June 2014

Beast


This way danger lies!
The beast, not vanquished,
But cowed into brief submission,
Lies asleep.

Not of flesh and blood, but
Vaporous and far more
Perilous to those who would
Venture near,

It waits. It waits and patiently,
It bides its time, until the moment
Comes to rear its fearsome
Foulsome head.

I will be swallowed whole,
In vengeance for my sin,
My foolhardy spell, cast
To grant me

Peace. That magic, alas,
Was too impermanent and
I, too sure of myself, must
Accept my

Fate. In penance for my
Folly, I will never know
Whether I have slid into
The belly

Of the beast, or the beast
Is somehow deep within
My being, hid, unchecked,
Inside me.

Friday 6 June 2014

Defiled

Spring, five years ago
A child still and reckoning
With the future
I committed the gravest sins
With you.
It is as real as real as real
A big, black mark
On my blotter.
Unresolved and unabsolved
Still a criminal now
As much as then
There is blight
On my leaves
And rot
At my roots.
I am defiled forever more.

Hell

Do you know the real
hell of it? Five years later,
I'm still not ok

Wednesday 4 June 2014

Karaoke night

Wednesday night
Is karaoke night
And I am here
With you
Among the half drunk
Pint nursers
And the sad, tired
Minimum wagers
And I have determined
That I will sing
You are surrounded
As always
By people
Who have no idea
But your face
Shines out in the
Hazy crowd
I am drunk too
Too drunk perhaps
Full of false courage
Standing there
Before the aged mic
I open my mouth
And shut my eyes
To shut out the faces
And I can see
Only you, half smiling
Speaking without speaking
And the voice
That comes out
Is not my voice
It is a secret siren call
For you alone
That you may be
Wrecked upon my shore
And I may believe
You are in my thrall
Here
Among the empty
Glasses, and half broken
Chairs. Wednesday night
Is karaoke night
And I have sung
A song to seal my ruin

Wednesday 28 May 2014

Summer storms


Soaked clothes on soaked skin
Sad summer storms make madness
Of rational men

Wednesday 21 May 2014

Cave in

You all seem to be
Exploding while I slowly
Quietly cave in

Tuesday 20 May 2014

The Taxidermist's Shop

I submitted this to a magazine a while ago and never heard anything back so I'm assuming it's ok to publish it now:

Through a pane of elderly glass,
besmirched by years of inattention,
they gaze out -
a menagerie of vacant faces,
surveying the empty street,
ill-lit by adulterated London beams.

A bear.
A badger.
A bat.

Animals, exotic and otherwise,
hold silent court, breathless and
becalmed in perpetual stillness.
They have been
made eternal by the purveyor
of a dying art, and keep company
forever with the bettors and diners

who stare occasionally,
open-mouthed for a moment,
affording them a split second's
amazement before they walk away,
and leave them, flightless and sightless
still.

Monday 19 May 2014

Did you ever see two people kissing (an attempt at humour)

Did you ever see two people kissing
And think
What's she doing with him
Or he with her
Or she with her
Or he with him
You know what I mean
There's a mismatch somewhere
Something that doesn't
Quite add up
Did you ever see two people kissing
And think
God, they must have
amazing sex
Because there's no way
An eight
Nearly a nine
Would be dating a four
Maybe a three
Unless there's some kind of awesome
Carnal prowess involved
Did you ever see two people kissing
And think
I know I shouldn't stare
I know I shouldn't stare
Why can't I stop staring
Just stop staring
But you can't look away
Because his tongue in her braces
Is like a hideous accident
Involving a combine harvester
And someone's -
Did you ever see two people kissing
And think
If they can do it
Why can't I
I must be a five
At least
Or maybe a six
On a good day
When my hair is clean
And I'm not wearing
The trousers with the split
In the seam
Did you ever see two people kissing
And wonder
What you've been doing wrong
What incantation
They must have wrought
To close the gap
That gaping gulf
On that disparity
Of physical beauty
Did you ever see two people kissing
And think
If there's hope for them
There's hope for me

Sunday 13 April 2014

Knight in Shining Micra

[FULL DISCLOSURE: Husband actually drives an Audi, but I thought Micra sounded better.]

I like to think of you
Snoozing gently
Open mouthed
In front of the telly
Football, or snooker
Or something
Equally inoffensive
While I'm out here
Out in the dark of night
Wide awake and wide
Eyed, and full of
Mad, sad, bad thoughts
But yours still
You, level headed
And king of good decisions
And I, anything but
But you always come
To get me, to take me away
To rescue me from myself
And I love you, darling
Knight in shining Micra
Be always mine, my dearest
And keep me safe
Save me from my silly ways
Always, and I, for my part
Will try my best
To be what you deserve

Beauty

I gaze upon
Your lumpen breasts
Your domed stomach
And big, shining eyes
And wide
Childbearing hips
And I wonder
Are you beautiful
Are you what a woman
Should be
And if so, what am I
Where do I fall
And where do I rise
You are curved
And soft and your skin
Is smooth like amber
You are sweet and good
And pure and true
Is this what a woman
Should be
I look at you
And I think of
What someone wise
Once asked of me
Don't you think
All women are beautiful
And I answered in my
Adolescent omniscience
Most vehemently, no
And now I look at you
All ripples and dimples
And everything
That the movies tell you
Not to be
And I wonder
If I've been wrong
To be so unkind
To my sex,
All these years
And if so
So then
What am I

Everything is Bullshit

I don't like the way you walk
I don't like the way you talk
Or the way you dress
Or the way you act
Or think or are
But damn if you don't
Get the love
From every corner
Every living thing
Oozes tumultuous,
Uncontrollable worship
When you stroll by
And that's what
Pisses me off
Yes, I'm the bitterest lemon
I'm the sourest grape
But I just hate the way
They celebrate you
Just for being you
They treat you like a rock star
And maybe you are
Maybe you deserve it
Maybe you deserve
Everything they throw at you
All the admiration
All the wild adoration
Because you've got it right
And I've got it wrong
The way I walk
The way I talk
The way I dress
The way I act
And think and am
Doesn't fit
Because everything is bullshit
See
In some form or other
But you've got the right kind
Of bullshit
And all I've got
Is me

Statue

I will plant my feet
Upon the sand
And feel the grains
Commingle with my skin
Embed themselves
In the fabric of me
And make me theirs
Turn me, slowly
Into vacant stone
Hardened to the wind
And water
Swirling about
My unmoving ankles
And I will be a statue
Soulless rock
Impervious to the seasons
Until my time has come
And bit by bit
I will fall away
The ground will quake
Beneath my stony feet
And I will break
Rent asunder
By my brittle being
First a finger
Then a hand, an arm
A breast, a shoulder
Smashed to ash and dust
Until I am sand
Again

London Bridge Station, Midnight

Rattling and shaking
Hurrying closer
You whip round to see
A man, with skinny
Brown arms, astride
A drum, in pseudo
Tribal gear
All decked out
With metal rings
Jingling and jangling
Your fragile nerves
Running down
The steps behind you
Shirtless and careless
Or maybe just carefree
He smiles at you
And laughs at the
Fear and surprise
On your face
Which are always there
You hate him for it
But you smile back
And pretend it's ok

Sunday 6 April 2014

Adam, Lost, parts I-III, edited and extended

When his hair got too long and tangled, he would cut it with the sharpstone and then he would send the clumps of fuzz flying out into the trees for the birds to use in their nests. It was tough and coarse because he couldn’t comb it, and when it was gone, he felt better. He liked to think them, the birds, closing their little birdy eyes, falling asleep in it, making use of something he didn’t need. He rarely saw the birds because it was dark in the trees, but he heard them, singing and whistling above him, and that made him feel happy.

Sometimes, when the sun was bright and the wind parted the trees just right, he could see them, with their bright feathers and sharp beaks, and he wished he was one of them. He wished he could fly up through the branches and into the sky and never come back.

When the sharpstone grew too blunt, he would hit it hard against another stone until it was sharp and dangerous again. When it was newly sharp and he looked at it in his hand, it scared him. It was a life of small things and small ways of keeping himself from falling asleep forever.

When he was lonely, he talked to Monkey. Monkey was small and squat and hairy and had a long tail and sometimes he didn’t come back for days. But when Monkey came back, he would be happy and feel safe again. He could look at the brightwater, which gathered in pools after the rain, and see the doubleface staring back at him and not jump back in fear.

He had to look at the brightwater to cut his facehair because otherwise, he would cut his skin with the sharpstone and there would be blood.

Blood frightened him. When he saw it, his heart beat hard and his hands began to sweat and he would shake all over. Sometimes, though, he wondered whether he might not use the sharpstone to make the blood come. It would be so easy to cut his throat and go to sleep forever. He was so hungry so much of the time and the little animals he caught and killed with the sharpstone were tough and tasteless to eat. It was a life of small things and sometimes, sleeping forever seemed better.

At night, he dreamed of the before time when he had a mother and a father and there was a little girl they called his sister. There was a wooden house where they all lived together and his father would make a fire, while his mother cooked. Sometimes, if he thought hard enough, he could still smell the food and his mouth would water.

She was pretty and small, the girl, and she followed him wherever he went but he couldn’t remember her name. It was such a long time ago, the before time. He tried hard to remember what happened in the time before the before time, but it was hard and the pictures were all blurred and strange. He knew his father had told him about it but the words of the story wouldn’t come to him.

There was something that happened in the time before the before time. It was big and bad and he knew lots of people died. There was something that made his mother and his father and the girl they called his sister disappear. Whatever it was made all the walls and the houses and the streets fall away. When he thought about, it made his head spin and he had to sit still to make it stop.

In his place among the trees, where he lived with Monkey when Monkey came back, he could see some of the old things, beyond the leaves and the branches. There was a hill near his sleeping place and when he climbed to the top, he could see them. They had names, the tall grey stones and the smooth clear notstones, but he couldn’t remember. They were all broken and crumbling and some of them were burned and black. He wish he knew why but there was no one to talk to except Monkey and Monkey didn’t say anything. He just stared with his big, empty eyes, and sometimes he walked away.

Many years must have passed since the before time, or so he imagined, because his skin had grown brown and hard and it wasn’t the same when he lay down because he felt the sharp sticks and stones digging into his body more and more. His facehair and the other hair were still brown though and he remembered the old people turned grey like the stones.

There was no way to mark the passing of time, but he knew when the sun was high because it was hot and he had to keep to the shade of the trees or his skin would turn red. It was hot most of the time but sometimes, the rain would come and he would feel peaceful. He would turn his face up to the sky and let the water run over his eyes and his nose and his tongue. It was cool and sweet and he could hear it softly falling on the leaves and it made things fresh again.

He dreamed of them often – of his mother and father, and the little girl – and that was the only time he could remember the before time. He imagined the little girl must be bigger now because he had grown bigger but in his dreams, she was always small.

She had lots of dark brown hair and dark brown eyes that looked like his, and his mother and father stood tall above them where he couldn’t see their faces. In his dreams, they were all together in the wooden house. It was warm there and safe, and there was always food and the food tasted good.

Sometimes, in the very deepest dark of the night, his mother and father’s faces would come back to him, hanging like smiling ghosts above him, but he could never catch hold of them. He would reach out and grasp at the empty air but they would melt away like clouds in the hot sky.

He longed for sleep to take him back to them, but he hated it, too, because they always faded. In the morning, he would lie very still, hoping he could trick his body into believing he was still asleep so that they would come back, but he could never keep them in his head when he was awake.

Later on, when the sun crept up over the tops of the trees and they were gone, he felt cold and sad and alone all over again. It was like there was a hole inside him, always there, always growing, and he could never fill it up. He wondered where they were and what they were doing and whether they thought of him, but he couldn’t bring their faces back. In his saddest moments, he imagined they had forgotten him, or worse, they were glad he was gone.

After these moments, he would talk to Monkey when he could get Monkey to sit still for long enough, and try to make him understand how he felt hollow, but Monkey was no help. He was only squat and hairy and he would swing his long tail and then he would be gone again.

It was only when he slept that he could see them and they would bring him peace. Most of the dreams made him feel safe and loved and whole again, but there were other dreams, too. In the other dreams, it was dark and loud and there were people everywhere, running and screaming, their eyes big and wild and afraid. There was fire behind them and all around them and some of them were bleeding. He was running too, trying catch up with them, but his legs wouldn’t move fast enough. They felt heavy and hard, like something was weighing him down, and the harder he tried, the heavier they got.

He was grasping for his mother’s fingers but his hands were too slippery and he couldn’t hold on. He could see her face, all twisted up with fear, and he wanted to cling to her, but someone else was pulling her away, telling her it was too late. Too late. Too late. Too late. The words bounced and bumped inside his head, making him dizzy. Something was chasing them and they were heading for the woods, where one of the men said they’d be safe. The little girl was ahead of them, in their father’s arms, getting smaller and smaller as they disappeared into the night.

In these dreams, his head would always clear up. There were no ghosts – only sad, scared faces, streaked with dirt and dust. In the middle of the screaming, he could see all of them, all crying as they watched him stumble and fall. In these dreams, he could always feel the sharp, raw pain shooting through his fingers when he hit the hard ground and put his hands out to break his fall. In these dreams, he was small and weak and left behind.

In these dreams, he was alone.

There were other animals besides Monkey and the birds and the little animals he was able to catch and kill to eat. They walked silently among the trees and some of them had big, sharp teeth. Sometimes, they came out of the trees and they would chase him because they wanted to eat him. He remembered some of their faces from pictures he'd seen in the before time, but these animals didn’t look proud or beautiful. They were bony and their fur was ragged and rough and he knew they would kill him if they caught him.

Once, one of them came very close. It was a hot, dry day and he was sitting under a tree, waiting for night to come when he heard a crash in the trees. Then it was there. One of them was coming right towards him, creeping closer on its four powerful legs, with big yellow eyes and thick yellow fur and wide, snapping jaws, full of awful teeth. It was growling, coming closer and closer, ready to rip him apart. He knew he had to run, but he was afraid – more afraid even than in his terrible dreams – and his legs seemed soft and they wouldn't do what he told them. He picked up the sharpstone and threw it as hard as he could at the animal, hitting it above one big yellow eye. It made a horrible sound, full of anger and hate. Then at last he was running. The branches and the vines caught at the animal skins on his back and scratched his arms and legs until the blood ran down them, but he knew he couldn’t stop.  He ran and ran and ran until he was far away and he couldn't see the animal anymore.

When he stopped at last, he didn't know the trees or the rocks around him. His heart was beating too fast and the air was hot and painful in his chest. He looked all around him, trying to find something he knew, but there was nothing. He could hear water somewhere and the air felt colder. The stones beneath his feet were bigger and smoother and the trees were further apart. The dark was drawing in and there was nowhere for him to shelter. He knew he must be far, far away from everything he’d come to know and he didn't know how to get back.

His home, his real home, was long gone, but he had begun to love his new one. He had spent a long time making it better, with the animal skins he didn’t wear to use for blankets and soft dry dirt to sleep on in the little cave where he sheltered from the rain. He had never strayed far because he was afraid of the other animals and he didn't want to be lost again. He dropped down on the hard, cold ground and began to cry. He hadn't cried for a long time, but he was so tired and lost that he couldn't stop himself. He didn't know if Monkey would ever find him or if he would ever find his way back. For a long time, he sat there, his chest heaving, wailing out loud for the first time in years and years.

He must have slept at last, but not peacefully. When he woke up in the grey, cool morning, he felt sore and stiff and his skin felt tight where the blood had dried. His heart felt sad and heavy inside him, and it was a long time before he felt he could get up and begin to walk. He wished he knew some bad words so that he could curse the other animal that had caused his sadness, but he couldn't remember any.

For days and days, he walked, following the changing trees and the sounds of the animals. He slept little and dreamed horrible dreams when he did. Sometimes, he thought he heard the other animal again, but he never saw it. He tried hard to keep from giving in to the big, horrible aching in his heart, but it would rise up and make him want to lie down, and let the other animal come and eat him whole. He had to live on the berries he could find among the roots of the trees because he didn't have the sharpstone anymore and it was like a terrible game. He couldn't remember which ones would make him sick and he grew frightened every time he needed to eat. Days and days and days, he walked, until he thought he would die from his sadness. He stopped to rest only when he was so tired that his legs were about to give way, and when he closed his eyes to try to sleep, he thought maybe he would be lost for good.

It was a long time – weeks, he thought – and he was almost ready to let himself fall asleep forever, but finally, finally, he began to know the trees again. When he began to see some of the trails he had left and the places where Monkey used to sit and watch him, he thought his heart would burst. The aching faded away and everything – the leaves, the stones, the dirt, the bugs – seemed bright and wonderful. He started to cry again, but they were happy tears and he felt glad for the first time in as long as he could remember. Then he could see his little cave and his animal skins and he was home.

Sunday 16 March 2014

Brussels


Sickly sun on sickly trees,
whose spindly branches crave
a better life, lets me know

I am here. I have arrived.
No welcome will greet me
and no change will be registered.

It doesn’t matter. The sad,
pale yellow light will not
shift for me, and the weak

willed wind will continue
in the same unbroken breath.
I will not impinge upon

the consciousness of this
ailing town, and not on
yours, either. I will come

and go, unseen and unheard,
unmissed and unkissed, and you
will never know.

Friday 7 March 2014

Housewife


She would go into the mountains,
or woods, or some other quiet place,
with no bullet or blade for her ally.

She would find some cold, silent
night, and lie down in the damp
grass, and let that be the way

she would go. Her heart was sore,
a dead weight in her chest, and she
wanted it to be light again.

If she could choose, she would leave
her stupid life, and start again,
by melting into the earth.

She would drift down, down,
down into the soil, and let
the worms and bugs and critters

free her. That – that would be
the way she would go, if
she could choose her ending.

That would be that


“But why shouldn’t I?”
she would scream
in a voice much,
much too loud
for indoors.

They wanted to quiet
her, and still her
swinging fists.
They wanted to
hold her down.

She knew this. It
engendered such rage
in her that she
thought her very
skin would burst,

like heavy fruit, hurled
against a wall, smashed
with the awful
hammer of the
unfairness of it all.

Her juice, or blood,
sticky and oversugared,
would spray their
white quiet and
that would be that.

But they would win
then; they would be
right if she let herself
explode before she
proved herself worthy.

They could clean up
the nasty, red mess
and forget the
whole sorry business
if she did that.

No, then. 

She must breathe
deep and spread her
arms wide, from where her
wicked, wonderful wings
would unfold, and that
would be that.

Saturday 1 March 2014

War!

War!
Glorious war!
We shall march on you,
whoever you are, for
men were made to fight.

War!
We must have war!
For what is life
without death? Peace,
without corresponding
destruction to make
you glad of it?

War!
Give me war!
A man is nothing
if he has no martial
ambition, no lust
for weapons and
bloody combat.

War!
Any war!
Give me senseless
struggle. I have no
need to think, only
crush, kill, maim.

War!
Ceaseless war!
Fall. Break. Bleed.
Die. Fall. Break.
Bleed. Die. And
onwards, ever
onwards, until
we fight again.

Your face

I wish to reconstruct
your face
I wish to conjure it
from memory
I wish to invoke your eyes
and summon your hands
I wish for more
than pictures
lodged
somewhere in my mind
I wish for solid proof
that once you existed
as part of me
I wish to recall you
and recommit you to flesh
I wish to compel you
to come back to me
I wish to resolve you
reissue, and remaster you
I wish to enjoin you
entreat you, implore you
I wish to beseech you
to be bones and blood again

Tuesday 25 February 2014

This is how I imagined it might have gone... as spoken word

Another video. Ignore the dopey face:


Unfazed as spoken word

Following the advice of my friend and colleague Michelle Madsen (now a published poet. You should definitely buy her book), I'm trying out a few of my poems as spoken word, partly to see if it works and partly to try to get over my camera shyness:


Tuesday 18 February 2014

Unfazed


The earth is black, where
the fire has got to it,
scorched and bruised
where match and lighter fluid
met.

A mess. Dead and barren,
smoking still, awful in the
English late summer sun. Sadness
hangs in the thick, pungent
air, for a livelihood laid waste.

A field once bright and rich with
life, rent asunder by careless youth,
lies lifeless now, outside the window,
behind his house. He sets a stony
face against his ruin, but he is
caught unawares by something
unexpected

A heron. There’s no reason for this
bird in an inland island of dashed hope,
standing one leggedly, out of place and
lost. He laughs, before he can stop
himself, and stares for a full silent
five minutes, at the misplaced animal

until its wings swing wide, and white
and surprising in their big, open span,
unfazed by the death beneath its
feet.

Monday 17 February 2014

This is how I imagined it might have gone, if there had been an ending

You suck on the end
of your cigarette
its red eye
winking at me
in the failing light

Look, darlin'

you say

Look

With studied insouciance

A pause

Another deep drag
You take in a breastful
of white, whispering smoke
and blow it out
in precise curls
(A little cough
threatens to ruin
the effect,
though)

It's not you
or more specifically
it is you
You're not the you for me
and that's the problem

There's nothing wrong with you
per se
It's just there's nothing right
not right for me
at any rate
You're too good
and that means
you're not good enough

You were a transgression
I'll give you that
But you
just weren't
transgressive enough

Don't get me wrong, love
Having you wasn't bad
Don't look like that
It's just
you just didn't
cut the mustard
That's all

Cigarette burning down
you look at me
really look at me for the first time
and for a tiny fraction of a fraction
of a second
I think you're sorry
and then it's gone
like the winking red eye
winking out

I want to hate you
I wish I were angry
or even surprised
but
here we are
ending it
over a cigarette butt
(you've sucked one dry
already
in silence, slouching
and shifting from foot
to foot, scratching
your three-day stubble)
outside the tube station
and I just
don't

No hard feelings, darlin'
you mutter
with a squeeze of my shoulder
and you suck on your cigarette
one last time
in the failing light
before you go

Saturday 15 February 2014

Poems from my old blog

Streets (21/2/13)

There are crocodiles
That walk the streets
Round here
Jaws snapping
Coming for me
There are lions
And angry creatures
Unknown
And they catch at me
And snatch at me
And furiously try
To drag me down
Into the swamps
Of the streets
Round here
There are shadows
That whisper
And creep and claw
And swallow me whole
There is death
With his hood
And his scythe
And they try
Their very hardest
To make me one them
And make me part
Of the streets
Round here

Perfect (21/2/13)

I am made up
Of the things
That make you up
I am bound up
With you
And your bones and
Your flesh and your sinews
And I think sometimes
I made you up
Because you make
So much sense with me
And I don't know how
Or why or where
You came from
But I am glad
Very glad you did
And I want to go
Back to that place
And see
Whether there are more
Like you
More perfect men
I've never known

I wannabe (16/1/2013)

I am 26
Or nearly 27
I must admit
But at any rate
The point I'm
Trying to make
Is that
I'm too old
For this shit
I look at you
Hear you
Shoot a rhyme
Straight from the chest
And I guess
What I wonder is
Do I wannabe like you
All that pain
All that glory
All that terrible energy
Ripping you
At the seams
That desperation
To be heard
To tell your story
I don't know
You're all of 19
With these great ideas
And great big plans
And dreams
Dreams of being
The artist
The tortured soul
And maybe you are
I don't know
Because after all
your rhythm
And flow
Have that certain something
That ring of truth
And I wonder
If I'm too old
Or maybe just too
Plain vanilla
I mean I do have
The requisite
Drug habit
Prescribed of course
And I do have
Issues with depression
And repression
And regression
To dark
Places filled
With dark memories
But I wonder
Do I really wannabe
Like you
With your heart on your sleeve
The star of the show
The one with
All the
Places to go
I bet you think this song
Is about you
Don't you
But I'm not like you
No
I think maybe
I was once
At the very least
to some extent
But then again
I'm not from
London town
I can't spit riffs
On smoking spliffs
Or watching my friends die
No
I'm from bonny Blaydon
On the banks of the coaly Tyne
Aye
And I tell ya
What it is
I'd get the shit
Kicked out of us
For talkin' like this
Back there
And I wonder
If what I've got
Is worth the paper
It's written on
Maybe not
But the point
I'm trying to make
I think
Just to reiterate is
I don't think
I wannabe like you
Because at the end of it
Really
I'm too old for this shit

Your face (30/9/2012)

I look
At your face
And it says
Unfinished
Your face
Speaks
Silently
And I wonder
How
We got here

Trap (24/6/2011)

I am caught
In a body trap
With two minds
One to govern
My outward self
The other
Ungoverned
And convinced
I do not belong

Loved (29/5/2011)

The drugs make her sick
They quiver
In her stomach
And your face
Heaves into view
Swimming
Across her weary
Dank and dreary
Eyes
And music sounds
Plaintive and slow
And she wonders
Weakly
Whether you
Hero, sinner, child
Man, maybe
Ever really loved
Her
As she did you 

This

He breathes in deep and slow and
smiles wide
and lets the air slide out through
his teeth
whistling and old as it leaves
his lungs

His eyes are older than time
and his
skin is like a map of all the things
he’s done
and the places he has been
and the
women he has known and loved and
the ones
who taught him what he is about to
teach me

In the cracks and crevices around
those eyes
there’s a deep knowledge of all
the things
I wish I knew. And he says he will
share it
here and now, in this cold and new
and hard
and ugly place. What is happiness?
he asks

What is joy?
What is love?
What is pure, white
bright, unfiltered
bliss?

It’s this, he says, and waves his hand
in a
big, broad, comprehensive motion
it’s a
blue empty sky with the smell of
the sea
in it. It’s the coldest cold you’ve
ever been

when you think you might just
die there
and someone who knows your skin
pulls you
into their body and suddenly it’s
so warm
and you can feel the blood beating
in your
shared heart. It’s the end of the race
when you’ve

run so hard and far that you thought
you’d fall
and never find the way back home
It’s the
hard earth under your feet when
you thought
you were drowning. It’s the
wide blue
yonder. It’s the day you let go
of all

the hands and claws and chains
that stopped
you. It’s the first breath you take
without fear
It’s the one little grain of perfect
truth in
amongst all the dark and dirty lies

It’s hot sunshine and cool water.
It’s the
long, long, long days that seem
to last
forever. It’s throwing your arms
out wide
and screaming, I love you, I love you, I
love you

It’s everything
all at once
It’s life, life, life
It’s handstands
It’s having your
heart broken

and finding someone to pick the
pieces up
It’s you, here, now, with me
Alive
It’s words and music and big, mad
scary thrills
it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and
never knew

It's friends and flowers and letters
and hands
and feet and toes and tongue
and eyes
It's all the things you've ever felt
It’s this

Sunday 26 January 2014

Simulacrum

The below could either be a bit of flash fiction, or perhaps be expanded into something larger. 


Mary isn’t right. She knows this. She knows the people she knows know this. It shows – shows on her face, in her voice, in how she moves. She’s out of sorts, off kilter. Waves of dread rise up in her stomach and threaten to overwhelm her. What’s worse is she doesn’t know why.

Sometimes, she feels like she’s coming apart – literally ripping open at the seams. Like she could just wink out of existence at any moment. At other times, she feels like a piece of bad programming – as though she was accidentally written into some computer algorithm and she’ll be erased. Fixed.

This is a new feeling. She’s been sad before, for extended stretches: she remembers this clearly. But now…now. This is different. It’s as if she’s slowly drifting away from reality. She wants someone to explain what’s happening to her. But who? She can’t describe it to anyone. Who would listen? Who would sit and let her tell them she’s afraid she’s disappearing? That, one by one, each part of her is flickering and guttering and going out?

They’d think she was crazy. Maybe she is. Maybe that’s the explanation. Maybe she should be medicated. Maybe that would solve the problem. She decides she’ll go to the doctor. The doctor will tell her how to fix it, how to make herself solid again.

On Monday, she makes the appointment, and on Tuesday, she goes to see the doctor. He’s a middle-aged man, with a paunch and a sympathetic furrow of the brow. He listens to her describing how her life is disintegrating – not just her life, her whole being – and nods as though he knows exactly what she’s talking about. She suspects he doesn’t – how could he, really. She tries to be more emphatic, to be clearer. She raises her left hand to gesticulate, and she realises one of her fingers has disappeared. It’s only for a second – it’s gone and then it’s back – but it’s indisputable. She stops mid-sentence. She doesn’t wait for the doctor to speak. Instead, she runs.

She runs and runs and runs, all the way across town until she reaches her apartment. Sweating and panting, she stares at herself in the bathroom mirror.

“What’s happening to me?” she whispers.

She’s shaking all over and there are tears streaming down her face. She can feel the desperation building inside her. There’s only one thing she can think of doing. Still trembling, she reaches for the razor on the side of the bathtub, and slowly, precisely presses it down against the soft flesh on her upper arm and draws it towards her.

At first, the blood rises to the surface and flows as she hoped it would, proving there is life there. But after a moment or two, it starts to flicker and fade, and any sign of injury disappears with it.

A few days pass. She’s afraid to go outside, afraid to speak, afraid to move. She calls her office to tell them she has the flu, and then she calls the doctor again.
It’s a quiet, grey afternoon. Everything seems to be as it should be when she works up the courage to leave the apartment.

The doctor looks at her gravely.

“You’re a simulacrum,” he says. As though she should know what this means.

“A what?”

“A simulacrum. A cipher. In short, you’re not real,” he says, and sighs heavily. She stares at him, blankly. There’s a long pause and she can see him trying to decide how to explain himself. He sighs again.

“You’re an amalgam of various different people. You were constructed out of pieces of memory.” He pauses again, waiting for her to process the information before he continues.

“Your parents couldn’t conceive, and they didn’t want to adopt. Effectively, you’re a very sophisticated computer programme. You were designed to develop and grow, just like any other child. Your facial features were constructed so as to resemble an approximate genetic mix of your mother and father.” He pauses yet again, watching her, waiting for her to react, but her face is frozen.

“Unfortunately, the technology was relatively untested at the time. You’ve already made it much further than we thought you would.”

“We?” she asks.

“FamiGen. Your creators. Look, there’s not much I can do for you. These are their contact details. Tell them I sent you.” He hands her a white card, with the word FamiGen printed in small black letters, and a phone number underneath.

“They might be able to help you.”