the palatinate of childhood
the palatinate of childhood
the players
where did you fit in
fitted in
unthought
how the sculptor of time
and again rough edges
elbow jostled
into the grassed knees
the bloody grazes
the bandaged mothers
while all along the man
was growing in the boy
who ran the bridges
and jumped the streams
without biting his tongue once
all those days now just
an invisible splinter
under the nails of a clause
in the contract with youth
hold on
the wheel is turning
take your seat
trust me
but they don’t ask do they
they ask others to interrogate you
they take their word for it
they they they
could have asked
if indignation is was
their fault all along
the earthquake
that ensued
is predictable
well I ask you
one breath
another breath
the space between lengthens
stops
starts
Cheyne-Stokes
they call it
you can call it out
when it stops
then tears start
explosive
then chugging like an old car
garaged
until next summer
time you see
they say time will
well
we’ll see
we’ll see
three hours!
three hours!
the washing machine says
three hours!
my mum had a brass scrubbing board
on legs that went into a zinc bath
after we had bathed
a recess for a bar of carbolic
on it she knuckled syncopated jazz
long before skiffle was invented
blues in a blue bag
for whitening white shirts
she could laugh for
three hours
but a washing machine that says
three hours! ?
gerra way with you
nebulae
each one a is a star
gazing
just saying
gazing
is amazing
nebulous
thoughts
expanding
understanding
partly
not
star struck
‘The moon’s a balloon’
David Niven said
google him
the Doors
the soundtrack of my youth
that era between the austere 50s
and the austere 70s
a time when everything seemed possible
flower power for god’s sake
where is flower power
or free love
in the 21st century
we banned the bombs
didn’t we?
break on through to the other side?
them days when
we didn’t have personal tablets
we had personal chalk boards
then ceramic inkwells
filled by the ink monitor
stick pens with a nib
crossed in splattering
scratched in concentration
they made good darts
did them pens
i still have the black spot
it is marked etc
not even a gold star
the sum total
sinking like the ink
in the warm milk
cream crated
on the doorstep
of a door ajar
the dream said
be quiet
lie still
we are conducting an experiment
and the results are coming in
through the background
of time’s noise
wait
we’ll report back
soon
i promised
misery misery misery
who remembers remembering
now that nothing ever changes
who has lost the memory
of memory’s sweetest pages
in the book of time that was
where time passed in mystery
if nothing changes it remains the same
said misery misery misery
nettle rash
strike a nettle and it will bite you
grasp a nettle and it will yield
all the smelly lady ladybirds
we collected as children
now a stain on the fingers
of a memory
the real sting
of eyes watering
this blooming of time
the promenade gardens
the promenade gardens
nature tamed to
sit a moment to forget
everything
that is not everything
is that it
the british empire
the decline and fall of the british empire
dry rot
silently
behind the facade
we mirror in mirror words
reflecting only dreams
the slivering peels away
fiddle with your imbecilities
your opiums of the masses
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori
no way buddy
no bloody way
a flash of understanding
and here is a man’s heart
held in my hands
as it was laid down in these lines
neither simple or profound
bare
they carry all that made that man write
and having written
then what
except here they are
in my hands after all
the years that separate us
in a flash
of understanding
and what if there is nothing
nothing never says nothing
so we make it up
it’s nothing really
but we rely so much upon it
pray nothing replies
I had a happy childhood
although
I never had a party
although
I was never read to
I had the Dandy and the Beano
Topper and Beezer too
then the Victor book for Boys
although
that was partly brainwashing
for Queen and country
you know how it goes
although we didn’t need to go
time was
hands that hold
the knife to mind
sometimes cruel
sometimes kind
sometimes hot
sometimes cold
not the hand
but the mind behold
the dawns the dusks
we toiled you know
blown like husks
in the driven snow
look at you now
look at me
asking how
this all came to be
name it as you will
fill the ladle
the ladle is full
skim the dross
the cupola is dropped
pouring now
the visors are up
golden red
bloody red
then sun yellow
pouring forth
the mould breaks
the bot poles aim
flowing slowing
congealing now
there
stop now
let it cool
the clamps are off
the mould falls away
in the black body radiation
we know
oh yes we know
how the fettling smooths
the rough mountains
solid as a rock
it stands scrutiny
name it as you will
for it has set the interpretations of
the perturbations on the sandy floor
where the footsteps walk away
for this is
the word foundry
hot dusty and slaked
has delivered
the claimants arrive
as always
i am carried away
by it all
damages due
in making life
this assaulting of the earth
~
in making the earth
this assaulting of life
~
remittance is due
within twenty eight days
~
maybe 28 years
never later than 128 years
~
< reaction potential >
~
can move the equilibrium
towards equal inequality
to the sea
an ocean in a field
leading down to the sea
waving on an onshore
prevailing to be
a meadow in mist
the breath of a cow
morning thoughts
a series of how
can it be
this season of me
when all of the spaces
between spaces
lead down to the sea
thinking outside of the box
step out of the box
now look inside
it is empty ~ is it not
was it not
when you were in there
was it not filled by you
so
where was the filling
when you stepped outside
not outside of yourself
that is insanity
that would be like
like
stepping outside of the box
and looking for your thoughts
mad thoughts would look
for mad thoughts
would
‘nt
you think
‘nt ‘nt ‘nt ‘nt
the cube of ‘nt is a box
cornered by it
by the square root of it
is real insanity
don’t you think
careful thoughts are safer
kept inside the box
with you inside the box
inside of you inside the box
don’t even think it
don’t ask
if the first step outside
was one giant leap for …
well time’s up
there you go
back into your box
NOW!
meccano
the spanners
so small they hurt small fingers
the small holes frowning
in the coloured beams
concentration
sliding like loose hinges
over-oiled with frustration
making something
a rainy day didn’t need
clattering
sometimes
on the floor
both of us
Suits and ties
The noon of the Kardomah boys, sitting there;
note their notes, handed and palmed; there,
waiting on the edge, the microphone
intussuscepted of their desires to say
what they know in the listening,
and in their trussed looks,
that a day is laying down a time,
when time was short, after the war.
Words were trusted then, offered in condolence
for the impertinence of the hurting times.
A moment in the Grove’s groove of recording,
speaking it as a gospel;
their opinions as fresh as blood in lemon juice.
Hush, the moment is about to start,
to move into an irretrievable goneness;
for even in this painting there is a timed loop.
We see what has gone, all those light years ago
when men did these things and got away with it.
Their spent being our reward to lay aside as treasure.
Our chests swell with a pride they would deride,
yet there they are; the Kardomah boys,
although their graves have daisies now.
Look at them, how could one not love their sartorial inelegance?
Resplendent in their reverie. In their suits and ties they died,
and all we have is their works. The gems of their firmament
held in the fix of a pigment of the artist’s talent to say.
That’s what they might have said - if.
the jellyfinish
the jellyfish ate half a moon
four blue moons ~ a sandy spoon
bit half my hand
when i was swimming grand
a fright right in mid stroke across
the bay where it lay ~ a dead loss now
the moon rose falsifying it all
look at it in enthral
that summer time was
just this like this
and more
away with your valediction
for the one who has left
for although death’s door is closed
to any more today they will insist
to valedict about her now just gone
but let the thought be
would she pretend to take
the sad goodbyes that she
did oft proclaim herself
and chilled at the thought
of receiving back ten fold
the solemnity heaped upon
their going shoulders that
bore life no better when alive
yet preferred to solemnise
on others
baring the hard thought that
one day slipped of the lanyard life
she would sail away ablaze with
probity pressing the pyre ship
deep into the closeting sunset
as the penitents turn away for
theirs like yours will for another day
decide to say or not to say goodbye
for although we all die
perhaps tomorrow my pocket will
be more ready to accept your coin
until then i ask over and over
am i gone
or do linger on
on viewing a Cornell
and did you escape in one piece
or did one piece of you remain
and in that lingering of there draw
voodoo-like a framing down
around a silent rattling scream
~
oh look mummy there there see
there is a funny man in there
i like him he’s just like my doll
summer morning
in the mist he
missed tea
the fog swirled
into the saucer
the hot sun shone
winked at the pouring
just a sip of a sparkle
and the morning
brewed nicely
sipped slowly
buttercups
and daisies
days
a dirge for dylan
lights grew in the curled poet round
who said such things in a bloody town
and long may those ways abound
that set for the future the past laid down
all the bent of youth abound
to say the points of order of those days
and proudly push the lines around
with pencils that mapped the many ways
that certitude cuddled in muddled beer
that blew the smoke rings wet and bar
none were raised in laughing cheers
for the man of words had turned the far
pavilions of the chewed and crowded words
intoxicated by the juice of lines
flowing rancid were the morning lords
of misruled nights and many spitting tines
that raked the cockled bays to feed
and filter meaning of vagabond thought
to twist the tail of the devil led
to a magic flowing yet costly bought
by a soul sold to the devil-cultured verse
paid by age laid down far too soon
the winsome knife on which the hearse
fell swift and buried crossed and white by moon
and all still genuflect to youth laid down
by a poet from that ugly lovely seaside town