First Hour

I boot-up from an ill-night,
one of disturbances, of pain,
under unpolished dreams,
to the unnecessary brightness
now lighting domestic chaos:
my slept agitation seeps
across the bathroom, bedroom,
and then mills about, recalcitrant.
I carry over the dreamt infection
into the first hour of each day,
my crude night’s spilt-illness
will dissipate, but only under
woken, worked-on, distractions.

06:34

That stillness
feel it
not even a clock

no scrape of chair
nothing dropped

just me sat here
in this echo hall

with upright piano
and parquet floor

set below bays
and the same break
of day

but offset by
time

and the tune
we must play.

Grand Designs

Here I sit, baked,
in a perihelion place,
and you back home,
under aphelion greys.

Our distances different
from the nuclear heat –
my reading of Hawking
left me browbeat.

Our divorce dictated
by EasyJet flights,
our separate beds
moved closer tonight.

Beaten

I half-stand ring-centred,
in our squared kitchen,
just upright, aware of the
transmitted box of blows,
these roundings upon me,
and that scream-spat radio:
Yes, I feel beaten, as though
I should throw in my towel,
now surrender, step down,
no longer the heavyweight,
me, the former title holder,
in these endless rounds.

The Visitors

I have negotiated
with such black rooks

(in our last two homes)

those soot ghosts
trapped in chimneys

most living

less a stiff pair
which

come the summer’s
long release of heat

woke nested flies
finding the window panes

there
made spot-spattered

fly-trapped

those small dark
scavengers
of the dead

The living rooks
were easier to
release

Return

For CM

You are waking 10,000 feet above me,
a fact I haven’t Googled,
more an ill-educated guess,

that precursor of the internet
when my intelligence was never doubted
by you, or me.

The sky will be different over Alpendorf
when you wake in a rented bed
before your coach-trip return,

when you shall try to slumber, bundled
on two thin seats, plugged into BBC
downloads,

as low Austrian, and dull German
suburban views
lull your plunge, infected to sleep.

Then your swallow-dive off the highs
of steep black runs, into the deep-end
of the dream pool.


Mrs. M

Risen, our ghost,
on this landing,
her, embalmed,
our prior owner,
wishing to leave,
without asking,
M. reduced
by a buried composure,
slighted under
daylight’s exposure.

Our eldest child
met her in his room,
dark, spectred,
unexpected there:
he slumped back
to sleep’s deep rheum,
in doing so she slipped,
rent back to air:
our review made her
his dreamt-slept affair.


 

Drawing

Another day of distances
at my complicated desk,
workings-out/drawings-up,
a world, yet to be seen,
here conjured, cuff-rolled
under my sleights of hand;
I am a whore for every hour
at this, my digital alchemy,
turning fixed ones and zeros
into other fools’ short gold:
And when their rush passes,
designs met, now unamended,
I can then draw out my words

across other complications.


Naked Killer Dolls

One could stand by herself,
being a Pedigree model,
but her voice had gone,
her real hair discoddled,

knots of locks trimmed
by nibbling vermin.
Two dolls from the loft
in one box, both hiding:

I brought them down,
as found, unbidden,
with rolled back eyes:
old toys, MADE IN BRITAIN.

From the same place
a thin negro doll,
but more limbs missing,
no hands to hold.

They sit mute and watchful,
reading us, the shocked,
with unabashed stares
and glass-eye looks.

We play tricks on the kids,
which becomes quite droll,
the unexpected placing of
those naked killer dolls.


 

Fear of Climbing

I have my inner tremor,
my lower jaw mumbles,
my right hand joins in,
connectedness concurs
to plot, and I cannot
easily climb the stairs,
instead piss in the garden
the less-stepped option –
until this house (for-the-fit)
is re-made, is bomb-proofed
to the extents it can be,
because I cannot live
like this and still be,
I’ll not let inched timbers
and imperial bricks unsettle me.