Cenotaph of my loathe-quarry
lurks in the corner
ominous obelisk of misery-grey fabric
stained by stagnant-self
arms grubbier than a plagiarist in an inkwell.
It haunts my body
memory-foam cushions twisted
around my depression
like an alligator in death-roll.
If perching, it’s only for seconds
dread at comfort swallowing me whole
or falling over the feet clumsily
delivering self-recrimination
that plunges me into that dark brutal chasm
- again.
The armchair is a sound-hollow
negative echoes only
so I stay silent near its plinth
⁃ yet sometimes the pride in victory
my eyes hold
is loud enough to drown
past despair.
writer
An Affair of Pipistrelles
Shrouded in the half-light
of a crow-dusk sky and ruby streetlamp blur
I observe hidden lovers
tango in mid-air
wings outstretched ready to hold the earth
in their lust-love
time is stolen by the passion of the near-night
and silent melody of the harp-moon
until the crackle of burnt leaf-beacons
warns of a stoat’s prying eyes
endangered by discovery
the paramours bow into the shadows
leaving only the gentlest echo of their romance
to the dark.
Autumn From The Kitchen Window
Maple leaves are falling like flames
touch-paper thin and crisp dry
perfect kindling for burning
the last vestige of summer.
Brambles bruised as a boxer's eye
are being wrangled by magpies and jays
blue tail-feathers glisten
with every blood-spattered bite.
Furnace-chested robins stare menacingly
their smouldering coal claws
seem melted to the gatepost
soul-bound guardians
- a comforting presence.
The arrival of a delivery van
steals my view
- ambushes my catatonia.
Carnivale
rum-wide spacehopper eyes
staring up at midnight Malagan sky
discoball stars glistening
like a dancers skin
my bloodstream inferno
ready to set my beachgrass bed ablaze
voiceless flame amidst the pulse of revelry
the forest of ravers surrounding
will welcome the fire
I raise myself
but remember my legs are lost
to strong liquor and fatigue
stumbling into a dance
floating on the breeze of second wind
rotor blade arms almost take me away
and what goes up
must come down
I’m laughing at myself
backing track of Faithless
and howls and cheers
when I wake
I want this feeling to be my cure
my comfort
my soul.
Footy Down The Rec
To be twelve again
drunk on the scent
of summer-sweated privet
eventful walks to the pitches sometimes
a dog jumping from a garden-strewn manky sofa
or fly-tipped washing machine
and husbands fighting with wives
binliner of clothes next to them on the pavement
comedy in tragedy when you’re that young
we always took a few balls
best to - if some of the older lads were around
on lighter-fluid highs - lacking sense
but the nights of Wembley
three hours of pelting leather against bare legs
ball bobbling along the clumped surface
bodies skimming the field like lawnmowers
making outrageous crunching tackles
ankles twisting like Maradona past Reid
rabid rapture at curling a Mitre Delta into the top corner
and green-kneed, mud-stained wanders home
a magic that can never be imitated
unlike the knockoff boots and shin pads
give me that innocence back
- that simplicity of fun
with friends.
Grains of Memory
Your table is a real table
sliced oak and oil-dressed
uneven surface like the road leaving the village
grains swollen from drowning emotions
- and spilled cups of tea
so many hands have smoothed it
over so many years
some anxious
some happy
- all loved
a few splinters are bulging from the corners
each a memory
some good
some bad
some probably just about the times the ashtray was missed
and maybe one where the beer bottle exploded
resting like a stained glass window
- the table ready to hear pre-night-out confessions
if it could talk
how many stories could it tell
- too many to worry about
next time we’re around it
we should give thanks
drift palms gently over the lines
a loose embrace
that clings tightly to the seams
- like the roots of our friendship.
It Was A Thursday
we drank stout
sombre colour of our suits
and heavy like the occasion
her fingers tapped the time-worn bar
– same wood as the coffin –
a subconscious morse code
trying to reach Elysium
an intimate farewell
sealed with frail teardrop
kisses.
Your Smile
Seeing the gentle quiver
of your smile
reminds me of
the ripples in the pond
when the first water lily
broke cover
fragile opaline petals
the curve of your lips.
Lost & Found
Two Northern harvest-mice
with hawk-lit eyes
we slinked around London
from Kings Cross to Trafalgar
without hedgerow or hay to hide in
only plateaus and towers of grey
we had no map
so followed the route of bus stops
resting only a couple of times
trying not to inhale too much oil-slick air
smouldering under June’s sun
after the fifth wrong turn
tedium began to shriek
like car horns
but you smiled and said
“we’ll try around the next corner, you can’t get lost when you’re in love”
a composure in your voice
that buried the tumult
chaos collapsing
into
calm
we found ourselves on a busy London street.
Exile
I crawled into the carcass
of your scavenged legacy
stitched a cocoon from the carrion
of false epithets bestowed
on your name.
sepia-brittle and crumbling I clung
pupating in a squall of anger
until I sliced my way out
a katana soul-drawn
from the scabbard of my heart
a ronin now
banished for freeing myself
from the collective.
I carry our memories
in the whetstone
that tempers blade
exquisitely fatal.
