Wednesday, 28 June 2017

Privy thoughts (1955)


little lad's candle cat eyes
flickering on the earthen floor
of a privy in the privet
in a winter dark and cold
teetering and tottering atop
of a slag-sad wall

cistern painted crusty green
trailing the trusty rusty chain
wobbling and thumb latched
rattling the planking door
top gapped with a black wind
for a roosting sparrow
on his dust beam bed
holding back the dam

cobwebs and crawly things
alive the white-washed wall
star cold seat cold feet
pipe paper by the sheet
th th then clank
a crescendo clatter
flushed in history

snuff candled, smoked and
reined in the hall of night
his expedition closes
with the quickly door
ice cold tap cold
towel damp to fire
flickering toast and bed

into cold sheets
shiver curled
ss so cold
cold yore
trust me
was so
it was
it is

earth to earth
flushes to flushes
must to must

Monday, 26 June 2017

Tips of the tongue


I knew the slag-tips, my memory child.
Knew them as I knew the back of my bed.
Then they craned away some hardcore,
and the more my landscape changed.

I found it again as the crane slept
with its windows boarded up.
I saw beneath the strata,
the black slag and the ochre ash.
In the midden black I cut out
the jam jars of the potted past.
The stoneware ginger beer bottles,
empty of cheer in the caesarean slash.

Shivering on my window still they stand.
Refugees. But that's not all they say.
"Doctor Kilmer's Swamp Root Kidney Cure"
on one chewing gum ancient glass,
"my arse!" ran the child's humour away
down a memory, on a temporary road,
delightfully not so sure-footed,
careering on the edge.

Foothills with the white grass nests of mice,
sedge gullies squeezed oozed hidden frogs.
Then step through. The black glass slag is clinking 
grubby pennies, spilled by the dirty hands
that grabbed industry's bags of gold,
and left this child's slag-mind a map.
However hard the history underfoot,
on boy's and girl's own stony ground,
against all the odds they flowered there.

Of all the unexpected places, they sit
upon a castellated circle, a red brick crown.
Each allotted a gang seat in this council 
of child-adults saying it, see?
A remnant in secret, a gun emplacement,
and WWII has no place in this fairy tale.
Gingham dressed girls,
and short-trousered boys,
know that something bigger will whisper,
when they are grown and far away.
From memory's lips the truth will tip
and a cool breeze will kiss their lips.

Their childhood crumbled with the tips.
Many a keystone fatefully dislodged.
Many an edifice sent crumbling down,
pulping the salad days.
Under a foundation of hard slag 
the bloody knees ran contrary.
Beating the boundaries the slag kids
annealed the glaze of the "then" days.
Memories set aside, inside, to visit
again, and again, and again.

I am doing that right now with you.

When I went back recently 
it was all gone. Everything.
Every single thing.

Come on gang! This way ...

Sunday, 25 June 2017

Time to go


The music takes you back to where,
to when, to you 
standing at the pinnacle.
You knew it would be downhill
from there.
You knew that everyone's sore quest 
was to stand and stare.
Their "move on, move on" so cynical,
pushed you over the edge.

Saturday, 24 June 2017

New poem "All Wrapped Up"


All Wrapped Up

An untold number of toes
into the water in a daring dos.
An untold number of hands,
upon the plastic detritus lands,
on sand's turning tide a-strewn.
In God's own strewth - I swear,
pebbles throttled, bottled there,
with nets and rope garotted,
blame allotted,
throttled, mottled world,
that discarded and hurled,
this message afloat,
that will stick in your throat,
in an in-elasticated demise,
take your choice - any size,
any colour, don't bother to holler
as you drown, 
down to Davey Jones' locker,
now made of plastic - and this will shock ya,
is filled with golden nano particles,
the grounds of percolation,
the anchor of our food chain,
in this the heaving ocean main,
will plasticise our insides out upon
our rotting demise, this plastic coffin,
that was not an option ever foreseen 
in all our worst Armageddon dream.

With plastic eyes
go proselytise,
and of this anaplasia
ask why?

Friday, 23 June 2017

Lighthouse Rock


A lighthouse fast in an icy fastness,
middle finger to a storm at sea,
boils a tantrum engorged
and stirred and stamping
and fisting upon the rock.
Howling, screaming retribution,
just you wait and see!

Must hewn wet in sea,
in pewter tankards clashing,
spilling raucous evil foam, sss
slavering upon the prey. Yet
recoiling in the searing light,
flashed in the mist and spume.
Out from the dark they clash
to recoil and crash,
and recoil to crash,
again and again
and again.

Foiled in flash, regained in balance,
flashing taught, eyeball to eyeball,
crackling blue and green.
An electric alley,
split in a valley,
way down upon the main.

See them seething at calm's behest,
in beauty bequest upon the sea.
A brass sun in longing,
in doubloons thronging,
has charmed this snake,
this hissing thing, this
biting mongoose arched in stone.
And humped away out there,
pounding in arteries, flaring in
nostrils, the beast is loose again.

The rock of the man who built
his magnificence, this rock upon
the sea. Defiant of reason,
standing tall enthrall.
Until one day, one stormy day,
we know that it will fall.

This light in the wrath at the light.

always ~~~ shining ~~~ always ~~~ shining


Monday, 19 June 2017

Hazy daisy days


Hazy daisy days

Remember the days when the doors were opened and the fresh air flooded in?

When the coal fire lay exhausted, and the thin curtains barely stirred.

When the privet flowers walked right in, and lay upon the bed,

and the conversation moths swarmed across the hedge,

as we slid down along the waiting, wanting thoughts, 

that were cooling in the air. 

The night has returned home,

setting golden childhoods aspic in a medication rare,

waiting o'er the long years, now melting for we are there,

throwing back the comfort blanket from the old man in his chair.

Away he flows back down the times with aspic tiered eyes,

falling, and falling, falling, into a long embrace,

where the privet moths are bow tie dancing in the air,

to pick up on the conversation, with a small boy playing there.

Sunday, 18 June 2017

What? Another disaster?


Another disaster?
Not another one?
I can't stand this!

What am I allowed to feel?
When all suffering is televised,
and sanitised, and thus inoculated,
we are anaesthetised 1, 2, 3 ...
What am I told to feel?

What is permitted?
That will not denigrate your
religion, or class, or race, or gender,
or colour, or orientation or ...
Stop! Stop!
Permit me please.

But what can I say?
That has not been said,
and around and around my head
it hammers the tears to steam
at my sadness misaligned.
What do you say?

What politics, in contrast,
can I believe to behave and
in all truth say it was me,
I did it, or didn't do it.
For, if it was me, I would.
Simple in contrast.

So where can I find myself?
Where in all the truth of it all?
So that we can truly fix "it"
for us, for once and for all.
Where? Shout it. Where!!?

What is real wealth?
That does not dislocate
the rich from the poor,
in evaluation, in elevation,
or in depression, bipolar
in the richness of cheapness.
Is that wealth?

Dear politician answer this:
do you represent me?
Or must I conform to
your representation of me?
Whose dialectic dictates?
What are we at all, if far apart?
Answer me that!

Are we dead sure it is true?
That there is truth?
That the pain is real?
Really taken away
in the deaths revealed
as we relieve ourselves
believing the die is cast.

When I turn inward
and still see outward,
who can I turn to
to take away the pain,
or put it back again?
You? All of you?
Or just me?
Or me and you?

Is it too late to escape
a fate effete?
Has every shade of empathy
been tuned to white noise?
Oh, boys mun,
such wretchedness is fetid.

Are we lost? Have we lost?
Do you see what I mean?
What dies, what lives,
what emotions in the end
scream at the dark
drowning in mouthfuls

"Oh, I don't know" you say.

I see; so you don't know!
What a crying shame
that no one is to blame,
that no one did it.
I didn't ... did I?
Did you?
Come on.
Own up.

I can't stand this hypocrisy!