Such Dug Up Stuff

I could bite on Mr Heaney’s
lust-sight of her

of lost flesh

of navvy-dug amber nipples

under hard-weighed stones
over her cracked oak-bones

which are not
my spoken words

Language is not my tight weave
of Sussex-ness

no fluttergrub’s spade
to turn my empty laine of chalkland

His words are kissed intimacies
in his Castledawson rooting –
in peat-dug dampness
of vowel-soundings

If only we could speak such –
with such – reverence and blind love
of a long-buried bog-stickiness –

then this would be my
other language –
one not yet fully known

Slept

One hushed minute is mine
around our slept-still house
as tea scabs cold in my mug
beside my unloaded bed
My asset of sleep is long lost
Me – not being cocky enough
to walk naked and scratch
Me – not wanting to unearth
all that has been lost overnight
Yesterday’s choice of clothes
is such proof of my new ways
now there is no inquisition
or other solutions – I love it
Such sluttery no longer matters

A Taste of Honey

Dear Steven Patrick Morrissey –
mononymously known by your burly surname

I fell in love with you in nineteen eighty-four –
or maybe slightly before – when you sang a lullaby –

Yes – it was just for me – played on an ache-laden
Scouse-spun John Peel Session

You were Alan Bennett – on a sweat-rinsed riser –
taking straight boys with your stirring words

A glimpse of your chest was enough to doubt
girls’ shapely tits had enough to give up

Then you spoke out from your tooth-whitened America
whilst making those Mexican boys doubt

How you turned me off with your racist complaints
My Dear Steven – you no longer interest me


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