Eremocene

It is impossible to maintain
a rooted perspective –
Heraclitus observed
as he openly wept

It is not the same river
but we are also
not the same people –
that will be my shooting stick

to lift me from stiffnesses
of age and old iniquities
Those rivers now rise
under too-warming urges

My car’s curved high glass
requires less screenwash
through summer-flown months
There are no insects to smash

All through it my kids sit blind
behind their bright-eyed phones –
we do not know how much less
they see on their screens now

Portraiture

Those days of old kindnesses
are not stroked into any recall
by my finest of sable brushes –

not weighted by sweet squeezes
of rollable toothpaste-ish oils –
now it is my turn to sweep colour

inside out – now that other tongues
have given up their generous ways
Take my hand – my copier of colours –

and let if cover your unkind mouth
There are no gilt frames to contain
your cold-hearted complaints

The Duchess

There are kinds of poets who give poets
a bad name – not me guv’nor

Perhaps bejewelled ones in headscarves –
those hosts of salons or saloons –

Sorry – my attention suddenly dimmed

Those who do nothing for our honest lies
in verse – with Mr. and Mrs. Thesaurus –

knocking off – and out – in parked cars
No grandiloquent words for us plebs

Before Digital

Revox B77 – high or low speed –
from my easier analogue ways
before everything got too fast

DN300 and DN360 graphic EQs
in 19″ racks – screwed and mounted
Even electric drills were rare

I could load a truck – but only after
being shown how to lift and turn
a case in the air
so that rubbed case knuckles fitted –

Tighter than Jan’s crotchless knickers
Sex wasn’t online or easy to understand
when fellow loaders joked – analogue days

If You Both

For Beth and Sam

If you both show kindness – then your love will survive
Within such an offering is your ever-guiding light

Sam, do not hold her too tightly and leave dark marks
Do not hold her too closely against your fear of loss
Do not hold her at distance and ask her to change
Only hold her tonight – So you can hold her again

If you both find compassion – then love is enough
Every kind word will settle and not be rebuffed

Beth, do not hold him too tightly and leave dark marks
Do not hold him too closely against your fear of loss
Do not hold him at distance and ask him to change
Only hold him tonight – So you can hold him again

If you both find joy – then there is a fabulous passion
and each kiss will seal and assure your marriage

Sam, do not hold her too tightly and leave dark marks
Do not hold her too closely against your fear of loss
Do not hold her at distance and ask her to change
Only hold her tonight – So you can hold her again

If you both offer freedom – then your love will flourish
All lovers are separate – but less separate when married

Beth, do not hold him too tightly and leave dark marks
Do not hold him too closely against your fear of loss
Do not hold him at distance and ask him to change
Only hold him tonight – So you can hold him again

Love is pure regard for another’s well being
You will find love forever if that’s all you are seeking

Excoriate

Do not throw anger
back at your other
unless you are ready
to stoke their ire –
redoubled surelye
by your avoiding eye?

Do not find focus
by pin-pricked pain –
held in narrow
concentrations –
unbroken – then set
to scorch again

Your steady point
of magnified aims –
that glass you do not
use to explain –
instead is held
to summon a flame

Do not mark your other’s
yet burnt skin
with borrowed light –
such scarring
will not fade
with time’s passing

Let us idle by pints
and half-cubed shorts
to steady our nerves –
to refine our remarks
and look without trying
to see less censed lies


Check this out on Chirbit

Cancellations

There’ll be
no anniversary –
it was a date
you always forgot

No doubling
of wrapped largesse –
I always gave you
far too much

You still wear
those gifted stones
Does their weight
not bother you?

Dimmed jewels
set in your flesh –
whilst you grip
another fool

There’ll be
no family parties –
no dates fixed –
no invites sent

Your time is given
up to strangers –
it is with them
you’ll celebrate

Marbles

Dignity is my now tattered flag –
white by surrender’s tradition –
a message to my sworn enemies –
now limp over my fallen nation

You rolled unbroken like mercury –
vermillion in my palm – as poisonous
and ungraspable as quicksilver
You then scattered as if flick-struck

in a bent-to game of clicking marbles –
a crackshot with one eye open aims
to split our glass constellation
and to win with a swift ball bearing

My treasures rattled in an old sweet tin –
now my drugs settle in a smaller one
There are games set to be unwinnable
by that first spread of an opponent’s hand

Noted

From our solemn mediator’s
lined notepad – Just a cheap thing
he referred to his underlinings

He instructed you to observe
Some basic ground rules
now he knows how you are

Do not put aside your husband’s
neurological condition
His Parkinson’s cannot be ignored

It all went wrong weeks earlier
as you pulled out your own pen
when you wanted to Strike a deal!

It all went wrong when you roomed
not for love – a family trait – equalled by
sisterly disruptions of vows

I could not fix that drugged damage
when you stumbled from Brighton
Off your tits and smelling of builders

Our mediator knows who you are
as he gives me a look of concern
and says Are you able to carry on?

Posted

We want to be heard –
us mutterers – we discontents
who can mussitate

I told you so –
because our righteousness
is so bloody close to Godliness

But we do not carry confidences
in such overbearing entities
and we would rather

leave prayers to those humbled
souls who kneel before altars
with their bare-faced soles

We malcontents will feed
in fast flowing streams
until they run with our blood –

torrents drip-drip-dripped
from our nail-hammered
word-wrung hands

Pinned up and posted –
just another Jesus Christ
expletive – re-fucking-tweeted

Pinballed

An incessant ring – ricochets
off cold button slappings –
leaves me rolled by misses
off others’ flickering wrists –

in a too-fucking-quickness

Punched untouchable parts
sing in summoned recoils
of ringtones – ready taunts
as another highest score rolls

against my own low tally

These lights and chimes
of mechanical retorts
wear down my defences
as my bent-to body flips

in my mind – fantasy ways

We keep quid balls rolling
We paddy-whack in arcades
of resized penny slots –
now upgraded to pounds

into adult-paying games

Perfect Skin

This skin on my foot
is turning to cratered scales –

like that of F’s
re-homed grandpa –

with his octogenarian husk
flaking from
his bared feet and shins

as if he had been set adrift
on the sea and salt-burnt

That old combatant held court
in his Surrey nursing home

thirty five years ago
His layers of recalls and of dust –

his remnants in a rented room –
have long been hoovered up

Perfect
perhaps there is hope for me yet

The Boundary Ghost

A crop of prime turf
is to my back
My thin brick perch digs in
to my lowered leg aches
after a blind walk from Ripe’s
church across three fields –
now sat stiffly in Chalvington

Here they face me –
Picknell’s dead family
Engraved stones staring out
at an unmarked boundary –
was it laid in my eye just now –
was it suggested by Robert
Who Departed This Life
February 7th 1869

A slab is sunk tightly
between three yews
It bears equal surnames –
set to unequal end dates –
to be kept In Loving Memory
More of his
relatives crushed
in their compressed beds

Then a blackbird’s repeated
yack-yack of late insistences
lifts me from that moment –
away from Robert’s ghost –
to have me rise
from that low wall
and to leave them all
well alone – for now
and to walk back across
that even outfield –
around his unmarked boundary

Selflessnesses

Do not be sofa bound
by reelings –
by spasms
off muscle contractions

under that uncommon label
of dystonia –
a low waiting room
for our stiff unknownings

Lift a half glass fully
to your lips
without occasional
spillings

Try to sleep for eight hours
without rum disturbances
and rise to daylight with ease
without drugs – without slowed fears

of standing upright and all
alone
again
each morning

Do not be afraid of night
or day
as your unseen naked pain
rides tight on your skin

Birthday Presents

For WM, on yr 15th

It is now that time
we scan around
and make honest
our current account
of fouled landscapes
and our – ever – endless
opaque cloud makings

by cheaply-oiled flights
over raised high banners –
bearing boasts of growth
and much-much-wealth –
as if such heavy hauls
leave no poisons – no trace –
no residues – no spillages –
no inhaled lead in blood

And tell them how
it will be
in ten years time
or twenty more –
or whichever
we can hope to bear
And look with me
into their eyes
and say –
Kids this will soon be yours
to fix – Good luck

Thought

Repeat after me that long-known word
Our first-person singular pronoun

I

Now hold off your birl of cogitations
about other lives spinning from you

Too fast!

They will only weave loose concerns
into your mind off slip stitched threads

We warm containers of

best before

do not sit too well if left too long on shelves

Sleep without disturbing your private view
Do not crowd others’ centre stage marks

Give in to rested dreams – only to those –
and you’ll not be sliced on such barbed wires