It is always unexpected –
as if
a stinking drunk that barges –
that interruption –
a smell –
in
it comes –
its degraded ways –
this month of bonfires & slips
on leaves –
our pre-Christmas
slump of clock change
[& rain
if things balance] –
light’ll run
thin –
we fear a power cut –
by
five it is dark outside –
less to
see beyond cold-slap panes –
desires reduce in November

I want this hard rain to fall
& rip leaves from up high –
my monsoon-lustings met
by cruel love’s falling sky –
hear flooded gutters spew
after everything has fallen –
see a still watercourse rise
with its muddied infection
& then I will settle – sleep a
re-construction under tiles
as rising levels aim threats
from each upstream shove
on our latest flood defence
[then my nights will settle]

Finish off that night alone
& look back – reprise each
conversation [consider all
& replay how much was in
your harkings that may be
heard in other heads] – via
speech we exist & in those
spats we’ll evaporate – our
given – our prize [that time
on our side] – we do not – I
don’t – nor do you – have it
all – we reside less as after-
thoughts – we are not their
honeypots of sweetnesses
[or sugar-coated loves] – in
stints memory is lost [time
is a heavy ghost] – sleep as
if boreal nights are agreed
in deals – deal in sick Gods

You strip me – I’ll bleed
& weep [greetin’] – you
feed on blood’s grips –
coagulation your slow
supper [before death’s
grasp – gasp] – breaths
& other leaving-offs – a
thickening countdown
[no clock] – a time lost
to windings – my great-
grandfather wound up
a palace’s still clock – a
famed piece – my auld
father time [in a family
of time-keepers] – drip
of passings as I bleed –
my timestamp on card
[a stamp of tepid scab]

‘She’s doing it for 250 quid –
most women are rubbish’ –
Our Friends in the North in
full flow [grabs of flesh] – a
bad deal [fag-lit] & Soho is
a bloodied claim – We will
roll in history’s dull replay –
still forget easy errors – our
swiped lives – endless pour
of ale sips & righteousness –
wet nights in panning shots
& made-up faces play parts
to die for [unions’ rates] – in
cut scenes careers will end –
250 quid her script-writ rate

Here is a man – again – set
to screw us – [we workers
to drop before] – to do us –
he succumbs to his loving
dealers – & markets’ll suck
at blood – grind our bones
[we will live under cruelty]
& a crush of thin hope will
follow – there is that man –
too rich to know us – his is
a lucky hand – a screwer of
cash & kindness – reducing
all offers for all – to benefit
& save our kids from debts
laid by his gambling gangs
over years of low odd bets

There is no capacity – a drain
of any auld reserves – as if all
those lewd acts were nothin’
in this scheme [a dry well] – I
fail to fall on my limp sword –
a weapon of less choice – my
dancin’ days all done – say I –
a bow-legged man – no casts
of cloak or furl of coat over a
chair a’fore I swirl – See me?
I will sit these last songs out
& tap my good heel in time –
as nameless bands churn [&
love becomes a sweet ghost
over water – distilled by this
verse] – Do not expect a twirl
this side of their irate border

I sit with my mug of foam-fill
latte & a background siphon
of near-audible songs – I quit
my work to settle outside – a
quick hour without software
& other requests [I know ‘em
by sight – almost by name –
quiet bar staff] – memoirs of
nights out now pissed away –
in drains we leave our names
& tatty receipts – less change
handed out – no notes as tips
in our digital days – it cools &
nudges me to return to work
with less of that two-shot hit

I will move to a town
where no one knows
me or presumes that
they do – I will sit in a
café & not be seen – a
corner chair’ll suit – I
will work alone & not
hear spits of mistruth
over others’ slurps – a
place of less will pass
muster for last acts &
my life will flatline – a
welcome fact – there I
shall settle for less – a
shallow pool [of mine
to wade] – tepid times
will warm me enough
in another small town

Under Hammersmith’s slabs
of flown road a truck slows –
a dance-floor trailer – cough
of diesel fumes sift – a group
of capable bodies stir – they
will unload cases & truss via
a rattled anti-slip ramp [that
clang & settle of truck metal
is fused in me] – a cry & loud
call to hands for crew at this
tide of hours & daylight [that
never-never time] – I stood &
watched as a once-eyed fool
I had seen four decades past
doing as I do now – observer
& quick note-taker of others –
I could still tip a flight-case &
load trucks [I know – almost]

Lyrics for David

We were upended
by this strike,
fooled by all
(that’s not right);
we forged tools
in cold blood,
searched low
for shameful love.
In my sleep
I’m a moral man,
with a body
that still can;
I wake
to day-break’s truth,
this weight
could crush our love.
Leonard sang
of auld shame,
in God
he laid his blame,
my own
are songs too short,
with my body
at all fault.
In my sleep
I’m a moral man,
with a body
that still can;
I wake
to day-break’s truth,
this weight
could crush our love.
I wield sung words
over you,
as hopes
collapse too soon;
we work at love
to fix our dreams,
my body is
worn as seen.
In my sleep
I’m a moral man,
with a body
that still can;
I wake
to day-break’s truth,
this weight
could crush our love.

Four decades before this was
my tide-run of pull & catches
on its muddied course [rough-
edged blades on wind-whip’s
waves] – stuttered catches – a
less clean finish – no swirls – a
tug of rudder to tip us – those
boats are my recalls – down a
shout from Hammersmith – a
shelter from headwinds until
that curve of river – all tidal &
stinking – now launches buzz
eights & quads – splutters via
megaphones [coaches slag &
flail by amplified tongues] – a
constant across time slurps &
breathes by tides – we rowed
that auld father for hours – ‘til
our blisters & pleasures burst

That tension of late crowds &
queue-thick places – shove of
drunken bodies – that electric
smell of underground lines &
banshee wails of train wheels
between stations – type print
held in auld eyes [newspaper
reader count down to one] – I
have been here before – a life
ago – urgent re-connections –
London hasn’t slowed – Slew
of faces – uplit chins – all of it
rare enough to make each of
us so critical – this city won’t
let us win – spat from station
[or cabs] – we slide on grease

See this is no normal –
we were not designed
to live in silence & in a
chilled vacuum [feel it
run like slowed blood]
& no one seen – a day –
another one – without
an opposed face in my
eye – no sly reactions –
I am blinded by lonely
sights in my still days –
Lear’s sure demise will
be met in cold time – A
countdown of stiffness
is my brass inheritance

This is a light kiss of late
sunlight over my latte &
lunch – remnants of god
& his/her touch – chat of
coffee shop habitées – a
series of settle-to scores
& lines are drawn – they
deplore absent spouses
with slick put-downs – a
laugh-with is agreement
in kind [a look is slipped
across our waiting boy’s
arse & he says ‘amazing’
too many times] – urges
distill – thought’ll trawl –
those ladies seek a hit &
thrill beyond bedrooms
kept [mornin’ – Uckfield]

I hate living alone is my
latest upset – it drags at
me – set by my disrelish
& curt overflows of acts
filed under ‘others’ – I’ll
live on a road of gossip
& asides [noises off my
agitation] – for too long
we are anchored [or sat
on groundings] – I listen
to a playlist-past online
& loudly – a time before
my awkward years – we
can drown in thoughts –
we can rise to bright air
& not tread dark water –
I will lock my doors – as
night pulls on my body
I will tip shutters & hear
only my echoing words

We are louder
with re-use of
apophthegm-
shortcuts – re-
tweets suffer
from a re-run
of ill sayings –
ill repetitions
infect more &
all – sooth is a
lost cause [all
truth is frail &
in retreat] – If
we drink on a
brew of hope
we might live
longer & hear
less olid stuff

This is a filtered cross-section
of humanity in which I am sat
[five hours from home] – ours
a clan of unconnected – up-lit
& distracted by ‘phones – kids
bounce around too much – in
this air-con wet tongues slap
to scold & complain – a rub in
unison [to settle over-excited
brats] – & do not sit with your
back to animated families – a
travel tip [applicable in other
circumstances – too] – We will
queue a dozen more times – I
will sit alone once I am home

Brand-slap by ads – we’ll be
tempted by gloss & shinings
[us quick-hypnotised fools]

Two tube staff slow & turn &
canoodle outside Terminal 5
[we are waiting on a minute-
dragging bus] – Whirr & kick
of trolley bag wheels spins a
commonly heard complaint
in our minacious transit hub

Then a diesel gush & air-hiss
of a red bus – re-connected –
I find a seat – a map dot – we
are tracked [merged for now
on my screen] – a shudder of
coachwork panels on speed-
humps – sway – a bottle rolls
from its resting place – freed

My destination announced in
rudely lit words ahead [press
to stop] & my passage ended
for my night in another hotel

without a paid connection to
a woman’s online allure – Bed
& bathroom tired – fit for refit

Her sun-struck pool hasn’t
seen a fill in all these years
of visiting [grasses abut – a
lawn as mat] – a household
still halved – an abiding [of
time] cut & left – Cooled ire
& desire to fill it long gone?
Less seen – now with a wall
between plots – borderings
[as marked] – agreement in
auld plans – planner-set – If
revealed a vacuum will fill –
nature abhors loss of loves
& our vacant painted pools

It is easier to recall our pasts
than create new possibilities
[as we plough our opportune
days] – let loose auld weights
& measure a future yet-built –
appreciation to be settled on
others’ foundations – Find as
you look & take on positions
that will favour you – then – a
time will be met with grace &
a jouissance moulded by less
& less – that is our happy day

This is a place of no signals
on devices – routed by one
[parked – it briskly shrivels]
& so finds no agreements –
Ze Masada? – Re-located –
facts jar offline in campsite
chat – a jaded download of
my less played catalogue –
Our late risings gather – tri-
generational timings – then
we enter recovery phase of
coffee & our cool reprieve –
a stir of consciousness out
of dislocation – Retreat into
paper [broke books & news
brought as back-ups – just
in case] – No escape – yet –
Yom Kippur’s godliest rule –
we will stay until six [less a
threat of death from godly
souls on our data-directed
return west] – dust-bowled
& sat beholden to a sunset
& sight of a star to break it
[allowing us to drive home
across this ill-fit holy land]

A route I have taken a few
times before now detours
& sets me a thousand yard
trail
[it seems] alongside a
new road-way –
they build
them quick here –
I scurry
over pedestrian crossings
[you’ve seen their driving
here? Best veer] –
A recall –
a padlocked gate
[I have a
key] –
a wrestle & tug & my
way is clear –
This is where
my brother lies –
alongside
one hundred+ kibbutzniks –
also dead –
A stone is mine
to place on his white grave
under that bent evergreen

There are a thousand chairs
in Nezer Sereni – a thousand
set to seat anybody –
now unused [more than one
or two] – they inveigle ghosts
to sit on a few –
I gather those hauntings as a
place in time – See that
woodwork tip aside –
as if discarded by a wrathful
child? – I will pick it up – I am
required –
[I’ll add that seat to my pyre]

How little matters [unless
soul desires are entwined
with honesty] – I watch it –
reality on TV – but cannot
bide a scene [maybe two]
before I switch to others –
Our inconsequential lives
are naught [unless a lover
is found] – Perhaps a fall &
nursed recovery is enough
for some – perhaps not – A
friend once said he hadn’t
ever known love’s trouble
& was content – enough in
his life was enough – I sit –
this veranda is my family’s
landing pad – kids come &
go – & grandkids follow – a
wave of hello & later layla
tov – Ivrit echoes in empty
early hours – all are gone –
this morning is coffee & a
woodpecker’s hollowing –
my hosts at work – how in
any place so little matters

We were just another pitch
of settlement on sand – on
throws & under UV shades
across swathes of seafront
seating – human formings –
Israeli land grabs – but just
for one day [almost] – Such
an array of body types – fat
& thin [white to black] – We
we ate sticky Jachnuns & a
choice of hard-boiled eggs
to go with our viscoid treat
on Palmahim beach – scrap
& shout of younger cousins
broke it up – small egos – in
time they’ll be all front-line
fixed – set to argue more on
shifting borders – re-settled

That heat – of course – &
clatter of Hebrew & kids
& family talk – all details
fly over me [my Ivrit is a
wee offer to their broad
Anglit] & Kibbutzniks sit
in still shade & watch us
fly past on Ruti’s buggy –
like retirees in Florida – I
don a shirt of twenty-ish
summers gone – one left
last time I was here – It’s
Shabbat [of course it is] –
chicken is in – work is off
all agendas – it seems – I
sip black coffees on this
porch my brother built –
his kids [his other stable
constructs] will visit us –
Chilled wine & discourse
will flow later – of course

Such an array of laundry
bags – they take me back
to Netzer Sereni & a haul
of volunteers’ uniforms –
long gone – A laundrette
in Sussex is not [usually]
twinned with a kibbutz –
My flight to Tel Aviv is on
my devices [an appalling
pile of administration to
get airside] – Thirty years
earlier I had first been – 2
stops via Bucharest – It is
sepia now – all recall of it
stagnant – [briefly stirred
by a disgust of bagwash]

As if scattered in advance
for our bent-to harvesting
under that cleared wood –
trees managed for light – I
carried a bag-for-life filled
by our fungal searches – At
an altar sat boxed-up food
[soon to be re-distributed]
gathered from Tescos etc –
no perishables [advised] &
also no alcohol – less risks
of poisoning from either – I
trust in mushroom choices
& other treats you offer me

Nature does well without
memorials to her dead – a
dispersal left to a filtering
by weather & temperature
shifts – A white gate leads
from a miry churchyard to
a refitted stately home – it
trades & gropes as a hotel –
A plastic bouquet graces a
moss-haired stone – name
of deceased unknown – In
suites drunken guests will
raise up [a living dead] – In
pews [in St. Paul’s] no one
sits long enough for God &
prayers – no congregation –
attendance better if those
buried are allowed back in
& given more time to pray –
Late checkouts offered up
next door are paid for – It’ll
open – that tiny white gate

Lifting pictures from walls
[& not much else] –
a box –
books also piled in a hired
[rattling] van –
no wave-off
or looks-back either
[lay of
re-tellings of truth unravel
in heard-of exchanges] –
As
we age we off-load burden
& guilt
[such weights do us
no good] –
possessions will
fall away with time –
I keep
a few too long these days –
Our homes –
these display
cases of our winnings –
We
align cheap gains in bricks
& mortgage deeds –
I know
families who set their true
worth by house price rises
& others’ values –
agree of
estate agents & bank rates
a devotion & binding faith
put first –
I will pack all up
to eschew a crush of stuff
[my un-lifting of pictures]

To AA

You in your pool with me
your dry mouth Tantalus
erect below low boughs –
eyeing such fruits [steam
softens that held lens] – I
fell asleep with arid lips –
a stiffness & far too much
exercise in my mind – Dip
& embrace not real [trace
of spent seconds a stain] –
A hand upon you [fingers
too] – a wet fold of flesh &
my mouth on yours – That
tree overhead hangs near
[but not in reach for me –
as unease weighs on it] – I
push in & am taken on – a
visitor tonight – your pool
assistant – a shaded ghost

I still suffer a soft PTSD –
says
my counsellor –
fallout’ll thin
[she says] in time & offer less
resistance to swell-er things –
to kindness & honesty –
those
also long missing –
Keep off all
medications & avoid contacts
who disarrange –
those lovers
of fleshy affirmation –
seekers
of dignity by dirtier tricks
[a
sad game played out] –
She is
one of those Sussex women –
open water devotees
[all year
round] –
Our sessions swell in
line with lunar surges –
a drift
of troubled recall is swept off
by her voice –
Do I go there to
listen as much as speak?
Our
relationship is built on me at
a loss –
treading fouled water
as she swims off
[£45 to dip]

There that thickness of my
books [inked print weights
a nugatory account among
leather bindings & covers] –
I’ll work out shelf-loadings
& their press on me to read
[& nudge to complete] – By
spine-crack’d & tea-stained
pages I can track my lines –
better than thin bookmark
fingers in that tracing game
of consumed tale turnings –
I read in lonely quiet places
& with less attention now a
screen props in my pockets
to suck attention – scuffings
& cracks tell of its handling
[& Google stores my leafing
history – filed neatly online]

By agreements I feel myself
being given away in pieces –
a production manager – I’m
a scattered man-child spoilt
by time – Parts of me meant
to fit are bestrewn by puzzle
fitters [onerous] – I grew fast
on sound stages without my
role defined – a parts-maker
who laboured [less scripted
& directed] – who re-painted
black boxes pitch black – tar-
thick – I grew up in rehearsal
spaces – a fixer of moments –
a shifter of heft – flight-cases
my nodus to forever-resolve
by a spreadsheet & nuance –
Design is a foolish half-sport
dictating endeavour & fakery
over abstract faces – [my art]

All of this [now] is purgatory –
Leonard’s suggestion of life’s
role as an experiment – as he
endlessly intoned holiness &
hormones [Rato observed in
one conversation] – A resist –
doubts – Leonard took out a
tour into his third act – cash-
bust & a performer’s fear his
unexampled abut – Just two
words a day put down in ink
constitute pyretic writing – a
sweat upon Leonard’s brow
at most [‘cept for Hallelujah
& a hundred+ edited verses]

I met Simon – him on his
sticks – surviving – age’s
slow game scarred him –
his skin paring – blisters
& welts split his cheeks

He was now moving on
to a sheltered home – &
nearer to his son – now –
he lived all alone [he’ll
pass soon – left unsaid]

& his grip & touch warm
in mine [roughness] by
working at things to fix –
a marriage & life’s tricks
had laid furrowed scars

Now his auld home will
be stripped back to less
of what it was – there is
inevitability – fed upon
by profit-eager harpies

[& commission-hungry
agents] – a life cubed in
piled cardboard boxes –
with destination labels
of ‘recycle’ or ‘charity’ –

& ‘KEEP’ is all he has to
cement him to his years
of brick-sat dignity – his
garden & garage – [links
to his just-passed love]

Those walking wounded
hobble zombiefied by all
kinds of cross-infections
collected through union –
from bites & scrapes [via
other tainted bodies] – a
kindness offered by Billy
Liar’s imaginary splatter
of his MG-42 to put them
out of [shuffled] misery?
I hear more tall tales as I
rebound between places
for coffee [or ales] – men
mainly screwing it all up
in living dead marriages –
& wives also into upsets –
dating site visitors – both
seek better flesh to graze
upon & sate ageing egos
& fill their near-to-deaths
before nothing is left – by
vows wedlocks fall apart

Translucent sunlight in
September [& a cooled
coffee in Sussex] – Less
UV spoilers to bear – In
my palm my phone [on
which all of these lines
get plied] – Bare verses
are ours to align – day-
to-day notions unlade
after dream-begrime is
cleared by light – Set to
my crafting of ten thou’
posts as a last hurrah –
I endure my loneliness
with modern tools – I’ll
outvie in this quietude
[‘til coming of quietus
& my batteries flatline]

I have never hefted a coffin
to my shoulders – no lifting
of a polished-off life from a
elbow-buffed hearse & up –
I’ve attended four funerals –
I met my father’s cold body
in a stilly funeral parlour [a
grotesque remnant of love
& graft] – I knew his sounds
better than his embrace – a
man who struggled to grip
[except a gun’s trigger] – as
his coffin was shifted out &
into a furnace they played
a tune – Sailing By – He was
at ease with military bands
& less with popular songs –
Coppers directed traffic as
colleagues spoke in groups
& my family hardly uttered

A chicken to pay off –
Socrates
was to die –
an afterlife will be
a chance to converse –
or take
annihilation’s endless sleep –
I
turn to Henry James & his met
new friend –
so distinguished –
not high on my list of fears
[no
longer tied down by my creep
to that equal end] –
I’ve a love
affair with Death –
that rout –
Love lifts me from fear’s denial
of growth through uncertainty
& every unknown –
I’m here
[&
now] for a time I steal from life

Saint John said
Where there is
no love put love –
& you’ll find
love –
an itinerant preacher of
relevance –
My baptism by a kiss –
an anointing by lips under her
showerhead’s rush –
there my
grip works
[other parts not so
quick t’ function –
for now] –
I
crawled into sleep –
breathed
as if dead
[forgive my hefts of
air & grunts] –
Under her lawns
flows a holier source of water –
found by a diviner –
a well will
be bored –
she will drill
[& her
store will burst] –
almost a holy
act by that drilled commission
from under a diviner’s crosses
on dry grass –
to form a pond –
in which she’ll dip
[to lustrate
& take me in] –
pooling to love?

An irregular rectangular patch
of rutty turf –
no other marks –
a reason missing –
less heat is
displaced by our story-buried
victim –
one of my dead Dad’s
workplaces –
above remains &
among remnants –
TV shows’ll
nod to procedural correctivity
between acts –
police & killers
fill our eyes
[how he would’ve
embraced streaming services]
& aulder actors pass away
[off
stage] –
His labour all extra –
A
sailor & gunner set ashore –
As
life trails life we find ourselves
at greater distance from those
who trod before
[Dad’s hands
hold up evidence bags in shot
as orchestrations swell] –
This
series –
a stretch beyond now

How to Love & other raw
guides align in my drives
as digital books –
real-ish –
my implied pages –
less so
truly published
[now my
plugged-in on-line array
of voices –
assisting me &
keeping me company] –
I
let them slip deep by air-
pumps of in-ear devices –
my high-wireless act –
In
ego’s game knowledge’ll
gain advantages –
Loving
requires a vulnerable act
to be offered up –
un-disturbed by previous
errors –
I’ll be read it again – Love
advice is downloaded –
a
voice will conduct me via
swipes to improving such
to find me so well read-to

Our too-quick lives between
breath-fixing book-ends will
be a bet
[played at & spread
by usual behaviours] –
Hour
by hour our dealings of time
fall off –
What happened
our
refrain
[we fumble time as if
blind] –
now left re-counting
as we lay thump-flattened &
breathless –
We’ll recall our
pasts –
recasting selves hero
status in lost moments
[that
list of players long gone ] –
A
certificate will usher us in –
&
one’ll see us gone –
book-ended

Under a vine
[& in a stone-cooled
room] I sup on travel shots –
you
a chameleon overseas under slip
of Greek skin
[on cotton sheets] –
I
sip on an oozy Calvados
[a gifted
kiss from you] –
You’re sunk in to
my mind as a graceful marking of
shadow-passings at our irregular
intervals
[I will pursue time’s grip
by our breaths in my mind] –
You
will return with fine Greek words
to re-centre
[I’ll bring poor Ivrit]

I consumed all truth as if
a summoned sin eater – I
bear a belly-full of upset
& auld poisons – No time
will be a right time to off-
load swallowed burdens
from my ill gut – they will
not hear my malefic haul
of words – never read out
to feed rumour-mongers
or fools – A nether history
will be held among colon
deposits down there – no
throwing up of bared bile
as recourse [no – not yet]

This is my curt report on
my current state [on my
well-being] – My illness?
Imperceptible – almost –
well near-negligible – My
wit? It will distance itself
from concern – a cure for
all things it seems – & on
my future? My unknown
[about which I know less
each day] – a straight line
of time across a calendar
of vague possibilities – as
we wait on others to rake
a path under karesansui –
& other far-distant arts – I
will be a skint visitor – We
are set apart by concerns
in book-kept columns – in
balances my art distorts –
I puzzle if being so works

Into birthday season out
in Israel among nephews
& here my kids age too at
speed –
My mother added
one more
[an-other story
of forever-forgetting] –
So
does time go into now-&-
then hidings?
Regrets not
a sweet fruit
[if sucked on
& chewed] –
But I haven’t
been there in years –
I aim
at a flit return this month
on cramped flights
[along
with bewailing Israelis] –
I
disrelish seated resettlers
& flag-shaggers –
I’ll hand
out loud wishes for peace
among family & friends in
every
[raucous] gathering

He decreed that only lovers
would survive His final act –
without stating what it was
[or when it would enact] –
a
new Christ not to be found
in time to shield singletons
from His fist [only lovers to
survive His fast closing act –
lovers bear such art] –
With
a slick flourish He forsook a
hundred million lonely men
& women via several nights
of lust –
Tangier first
[& then
Madrid] –
He preferred heat
to cold –
He drank on blood
& sweat –
Disfigurements by
a murderer’s hand were His
across ruined continents –
a
pile of unkissed carcasses in
each capital bore a mark off
his rings –
in time flesh falls –
in time lovers die & His plan
will fail –
until then He killed

Here a subtle scoosh of you
on me – a whirl of perfumes
you wore – your skin’s scent
dried & set [no twisted lane
or tight country roads blew
it from me] – no near-death
[or erasures] to loosen you
from my memory – I wear a
whipped cape of you being
on me [a flourishing lover’s
embrace] – Take me in your
curtain-drawn bed – there I
will reload your redolence –
there engage & trace finger
& tongue across your waist
& then deep into that place
of soft folds & of sweetness

I want to wander from room to
room behind you – I’ll tip every
switch to off – be asked if doors
are locked – promise to make a
tea at eight o’clock – follow you
to a turned back bed & witness
your honesty in flesh – I’ll rub &
roll your naked body until your
breaths contract – that sex-huff
you do [my imagination’s cruel
exploitative ways] – you are sat
upon Surrey’s quiet hills as my
air in Wealden ticks & switches
off – we suffocate unless lovers

A lass serves me my tea with
a loud
Here you go – Love &
I’m jolted by her use of Love
in her address –
am I such?
A
repeat of it when my cleared
plate is taken –
All ok – Love?
& I nod –
I give up my worries –
She is trying –
borrowing trite
lines from better actors –
cast
by circumstance –
She will be
in uni by next month –
I heard
her saying –
auld affectations
will not be tolerated up there

A tacit house – this my echo
chamber of miry reverb – in
two hours it’ll be soundless
for another night – Stillness
rules me here [it is too easy
to not move – to lie down &
nap for an afternoon whilst
others graft] but grind’ll tie
& bind us [we swing higher]
& swept by shove of clients
until we loosen timed grips
of deadlines [& knots’ll slip
for us & grab on bent necks
until we snap] – time is now
to claim [stillness my ruler]

For AA

Back-row shenanigans in Sussex
as revisits of youth [we Boomers
seize opportunities] – We toured
by perfervid fingers in tug & grip
of covered parts – kisses to meet
& confirm such – Elvis suffered a
residency in Las Vegas – Our hip-
swings such un-censored acts in
that movie – Daylight on our exit
after Elvis left his last show – We
played a part as film extras [that
placing of us lovers endorsed on
Uckfield’s softest casting couch]

Nick Cave hung pictures of
himself on his walls – when
I grow up I want to be Nick –
he’d like to nail-fix all of his
furniture – Susie moves it –
he prefers high heels – they
track streets that my kids’ll
walk on – threat is ever rife
in Brighton – I fear for them
when they do late nights – I
am tortured by distances &
unknowns – every shadow –
each creep of constant tide
on a shingle-sucking shore
just below roads of cruisers
cries out – tired push & pull
is Kemptown’s scarred deal
in history [a mislay of cool]

Cross country at rip speeds &
close to quietus
[my sped road
in threats of turn & brake] –

I’m
a wall-of-death spinning rider –
gyroscopics –
horizontal [quick
to unstuck of kerbs] –

re-twitch of
steering wheel responses –
lick
of threat-of-death & other hard
urges –

I’m of mis-connecting &
so re-fixed by speeds
[by break-
neck thrumps] –
this is my cure

Should we mention our lovers’
ways when with our kids
[they
turn adult tricks] –
We will rest
stiffly-dead before they inherit
conferment of our knowledge –
In a grave there are no retorts –
wonted fallacy is being true in
our kids’ views –
f*ck up
[now
& then] –
be human –
I want all
my ambitions stripped bare –
I
seek an honest life with every
one –
I’ll take death’s hit & run
as I cross from here to there in
bare feet
[& wrapped in sheets
supplied via my care provider] –
Our children’ll choose to love
in mis-fitting
[mis-sized] arms
& so become us –
I am circling
above –
should I mention her?

This bed is not as broad as
my last one –
less room for
a revolving cast –
No more
my French lover on re-tied
sheets
[scented by sweat’s
offloads] –
not here –
this a
place for recovery’s clutch
& dreamt release
[not sex –
no bedewed libretto] –
my
mis-direction works well –
less quick acts –
no report
of my talking in my sleep –
no morning critic to hear –
to bear –
I lie solus
[below
striped shadows] shutter-
tipped ‘gainst early rising

I was at work in someone
else’s kitchen –
I looked at
an angled stack of pans &
calculated my long hours
left of scouring –
outside I
could see my naked lover
out-perform a former one
with slow grace & beauty –
she rolled & stood –
baring
her breasts [arms spread]
& took me off my work –
a
stark scowl broke another
face –
Someone’s kid took
an offered-up pot of fruit –
I fixed a pan’s split handle
without my tools –
I woke –
but I re-submerged to my
need to see her stretching
& offering to effectuate all
my vile history
[with failed
lovers] –
A dream rubbing
by her hand on my neck &
back
[slumbers’ll drug us]

A golden pint pulled &
stood –
ready to sink &
be found waiting on a

refill via cleaned pipes
by a grubbing barman
who ‘cannot be arsed’ –

auld boys hover bar-&-
stool-stiff by a littering
of emptied snack bags

as a miserable dog sits
between shoe-shuffled
points of view –
I met a

brace of men I knew –
a
stood odd couple –
said
a few words
[compared

metaphorical cocks] & I
withdrew to my snug of
flattened ale
[a floating

halo of Harvey’s] –
Then
our retreat uphill to our
next homeward-set pub

of less grubbed bar-girls
[ale-weight of fantasies
rub us boozed-minded]

I only want to fall in love
with someone good
[my
turn to be turned by soft
advantage] –
my longing
to erode an error-strewn
history –
a sidelining of a
cruel reign –
& things will
alter –
I will desire –
kind
findings in a kinder lover

An overseas war rumbles on &
has fallen from breaking news
squawks – editors avoid it now

preferring to lead with an affix
of less painful copy [palatable
for subscribed ostriches] – this

way it will continue – one long
year of slaughter [we are used
to ignoring mass death] – Kiev

is a loud siren city near to our
reinforced borders – A right to
independence set in stitching

in embroidered shirts – efforts
especial – adorned under fire
[sewn with prayers] – We turn

our backs [hoping not to view
what is real] – screens will dim
as we scroll [again] ‘cross it all

Only worn once – taken
off [drunk] then stored
in a fusty costume box –

lust rots in a loft space –
[hate’ll suck out breath
once held] – a white run

of off lengths sewn into
a dress – Rare promises
made in exchange for a

now-rare kiss – they will
break each said line – &
any silk will disintegrate

[as will kissed vows] – in
time’s shaded counts of
days a cock crows often

enough to confirm fates
as explained – mother &
others knew it’d end so

This glass is my refilled
re-route from dull days
[not in gripping hands]

I reduced my soft grab
of red wine to less – no
kissing it lightly & then

greedier tips – my trick
is to resist its sip – Look
at those legs displayed

by heavier reds – Drink
fools our softened eyes
& hands – a longer pull –

see auld drunkards fall
[when booze-weighted
& off-kilter] – glass men

are frail & seen through
in cold mornings after –
a wallet flops – skinned

We are sweat-sweet men
& women lined & packed
in numbered rises above
an unnaturally level field
of manicured turf – every
eye on design-cut shirts –
every well throat primed
to roar – anticipations as
played contact blooms &
finds a scant advantage –
a fading of all hope next –
rises & falls of emperors –
a momentary false 9 god
runs forward – result in a
war [here are dull draws
too often – it is said] – we
return via sardine tins to
quieter homes – win-rich

I know Surrey’s sand &
root-ridges underfoot –
mute beech trees [also
taken] –

road signs aim
at a once-visited town –
this is my hinterland &
time-of-fallen ground –

we circled each history
with careful words in a
managed wood – avoid
all kinds of falls –

warm under sunlight’s
kiss in clearings – moth-
confusion kicked up as
we stepped –

these minutes aren’t to
end – time is an undone
knot meant to hold fast
passings –

we parted [& I drove off
on re-filled pot holes to
Uckfield] – I am an auld
Surrey man – still – I am

Do not communicate it
quite so poorly – quick-
marks guide no one – a
measure of time is not
corrected by deadlines
or texted demands – in
work-slow oh-too-slow
shifts we slice our souls
for others to profit off –
let me alone – leave me
to labour at your needs
& harbour equal beliefs
as clock hands turn – in
your head you weigh it
up – but my art is a true
imagination [you fail at
with scruffy conjuring] –
we find a commonality
in an email – no thanks

My position is that ageing
is not a loss of youth – it is
gaining more possibilities
[a benefit in kind] – We sit
& see an arrogance swell –
tits & cocks excluded – we
command loftier grounds
& can spy every weakness
laid out behind us – errors
nudge a recalling [but not
regret] – cruel hinterlands
are thick [like middle-age
spreads] & we will retreat
at clumsier speeds from a
fat battle field of juveniles
& their crabby bravado – a
position is held on ageing

A tradesman sucks on his
sickly sweet vape – infant
sups [as if from a tip-able
cup] – red-haired & crisp
in this sun with his tattoo
mate at that wobbly pub
table [at it since eight] – a
local woman [flirty & too
quick to flash her tits for
their liking] is waiting on
their return [to finish her
off – she had chirped] – A
call breaks the silence of
this pub garden – work is
their constant master – a
cry of waiting customers
disturbs this lunch break

I do not feel things quite
so intensively – I see this
life from my perspective
& encounter frustrations
less unruly in my days – I
sleep clinging to pillows
for solid hours – Comfort
is my near-companion [I
take fewer lovers] – Each
third thought is done as
it floats [noted – but also
forgotten] – I see people
I once knew – before my
‘troubles’ as was said – a
politeness levitates – not
a ‘shake [post-Covidness
distance is hard to break
& goodness knows what
they have touched] – Am
I fussy? I lock every door
on my rare ways around
my extrinsic encounters

Our constant end-of-day rooks
squabble – they will not cease –
their wide cloaks’ shimmers’ll
offer them a creasing uniform
as they turn to fight – almost a
foreign scream of heat & calls –
inches gained on stab-to-rule
branches – in position – a brief
republic [an undignified place
of sweat – of fat power brokers
dealing fat beaks] – clamours –
a parliament – a building of all
those rioting birds set in calls-
&-response – we are not clever
in their aged dark ways [glints
in bead-eyes] – skaw of threats
enough to make kids retreat &
auld folk to grab hatted heads
in bent-to defence under flight
paths of dropping shit & sticks

A pub post-match in that
narrow beery hinterland
of staggerable distances –
screens recall pitch fights
between flit millionaires –
screams’ll rise in drunken
hubbubs in that boozery
& sun-left hours [baking a
long afternoon into a rise
of voices to be heard] – in
louder & louder crowds a
hardening level sticks in –
people grin with inflected
stuff – a rough-deafening –
my beer high – for now – a
girl spurs a murder [pixels
witness lines above every
riotous scream she emits]
& bouncers look bored as
all humanity falls from us

Two days in a row of smug
boozers – fat gatherings of
beer swillers – triumphant
with disposable incomes –
salary-swells [saving up &
glut of pensions] – enough
left over to fly – to ski – see
it all before it’s gone – less
time left so why not? They
suck on shallow barrels as
their kids look on – houses
with extensions & decking
spread like lazy guts – they
will sell well – downsize to
a countryside view – plans
set in brick & quick before
blowings [third little pigs]

I slap a five-string poem set
to G [Keef taught me] & add
lightness [doubled-up notes
to hit it] – plus my repeat of
my disjointed mess to create
a song from limping chords –
scour other attempts & steal
lines from myself – we’ll etch
& scratch with air-dried pens
again – my composing way &
word-play – Ron says – Mick’s
hips re-swayed on his fiftieth
birthday – I was there as they
played in eighteenth century
dress – Strawberry Hill a ripe
venue & a late night shake of
arses & egos on a dancefloor

& when your friends are dying &
you don’t know how to say how
very much they mattered ..
Every
bloke fails to play long games &
leave a credible message –
thank
f*ck for Whatsapp’s prompt draw
of a line without any talking –
we’ll
poke out texts as if masons
[all chisel-slick stutterers of quick
headlines] –
Here lies everyman –
here lies a life of what-ifs & what-
could-haves [ten thou’ poems &
none read by those’d matter] –
A
shorter service for all dead poets
is my request –
do not read verse
aloud at a gathering –
speech matters

Another death outside my
family & I’m mourning my
loss of other things – other
comforts & breaths – We’ll
never have rooms enough
for Heaven’s queue – place
her coffin there – sealed in
by brass screws [there is a
tool for every fitting] – Say
a prayer to our missing – a
nod to God’s absence – we
are not heard in His house
of awaiting-to-be-burieds
[weeping relatives here to
greet that body-filled box]

Silence every news programme
[of repeated disappointment] &
delete each link to downfalls – a
bedroom is comfortable if quiet
& free from bulletins – a bed will
do – less compromises in selfish
votes leave less room for a lover
or love’s gropes – let that breeze
before that heat kiss your skin &
play a short game of chase – this
isn’t how it was planned to be – I
will encounter this day in silence

A rub off dreams still unsettles
me – my day itches & positions
left over from my unruly night
blister my thinking – as if sleep
is any sort of cure [wickedness
patrols in my night submission
of rest] – a return to blankness
would not be a curse – Erasing
of memory-clots a solution to
this woken discomfort [a pill &
all recent tragedies gone] – we
can’t work out why dreams lie

As if it were an easy choice
to walk away –
offload –
as
if it were a straightforward
employ of ‘A’ or ‘B’ –
simple
days are rarer remains –
we
cannot plan for collapses –
offset domestic mis-haps –
all happiness tempered by
her needs
[each letting go
not planned in advance] –
I
walked away from shame –
a soft retreat under red eye
conditions –
a leave behind
without a full explanation –
a step off-stage from a play
without a satisfactory end

A tentative kiss will be his
first thing – brush of prises
& sensitive breach – revisit
of 1984 – or before [& from
that wrong side of rattling
tracks] – a light lip-landing
as prelude [they moved to
carnality quick in eighties’
England] – then a touch by
crafted fingers – tendering
teases of squeeze enough –
thrusts would come [a sex
life pared by auld & newer
worriments of infections] –
these days a deflection of
disease with lazy eases [in
fresh-laundered beds a lie
of less contagion – a hope]
& scarred lovers stumble –
without youth’s confusion

People I do not know that
well unload into my pit of
other in-fillings –
a dump
of wronged-selves
[as if a
re-course is set in my soul
& theirs to fill from] –
now
sip from my tipped cup of
sorrows –
they will pour a
poison for a man –
served
stories are re-born –
fatter
tongues spit ‘em
[as tales
are spun finer than silk to
make a soft hanging rope
to spin sinners with] –
My
hole’ll stink with death &
torsos’ll swing above
& a
stranger will tip his lovers
& wives –
spent by a knife
& wrist –
into my filling pit

A headless stone figure
should be a metaphor –
& stairways to climb as
another [every history
chipped by sculpting &
seen after ascensions] –
her grim decapitation –
I would have raised my
voice – complained – at
least attempted to halt
that abuser – if I were a
witness [instead I am a
useless historian] – see
extra frost-worn cracks
at her snapped neck – I
find no head or crown –
instead we will inspect
other disconnections &
other auld beheadings
on our slow walk [& we
loop back by footpaths
to our encounter place]

Through severances I have
emerged –
an eligible man –
I use fewer serrated words –
no slice of hatred unfurled –
no bloodied spurts –
less is
pumping hard –
I won by a
toss by rubbing sovereigns –
a small fortune
[my settled
estate in my hand –
no held
birds] & Feste’s whirligig of
time’s revenge long off-set –
let loose from hate’s sways –
my being is now elsewhere
[not one of breezily recalls]

Start without your
scrolled history to
drug your limbs &
curb [regathering]
cheaper thoughts
[shaded in hatred]
& pull off your wet
coat – leave it now
on this post – leap
from broody slips –
stand back – avoid
falling in – looking
into a dirty well is
compelling – sunk
pools suck out life
from lungs [& pull
on drowned love] –
do not re-play any
recalls aloud – feel
how each moment
is easier now – aim
thoughtless stones
[into that ill throat]

He was a man in green –
camo
dressed –
to be unseen –
a slip
into submergences in verdant
heaps of fern-deep slopes –
in
shades of boscage & shoots &
thickets he hunted [no snaps –
or cracks –
just brisk reloads] –
whiff of rubs of gun oils hung
as he pressed cheek-to-cheek
under his aim
[balancing acts
of barrel & body] –
a high wire
exhaling & a timed squeezing
to loosen his primed hammer
on buffed brass –
then it kicks
& reverberates in his bones &
hits him each time
[all alone]

Those couples that stay
entwined also derogate
as those failed pairs do –
stuck in quieter games –
a sideways swipe & love
is set aside [‘til nothing
remains of it] – Lift it up
[whisky-ish] to dry lips –
a warm glass-kiss taken
in place of exchanges of
less sweeter drunk-love
& hopeless gropes – See
another couple fall from
their arse-sucking sofa –
see them fall apart – out
of love they unroll – a lie
is set straight [over time
their aim will drop away
& misses a settlement] –
those couples fool us all

This cold town of grey faces
& hesitations wakes early to
greet traditional deliverers –
possibly a last year of this &
that [banks are closing] – in
a grimy nail bar another girl
is bent at more ugly cuticles
& an impossible thrusting of
fingered demands – reduced
prices are starting places on
all goods [everything’ll drop
as offers – by drastic Sharpie
markdown] – coffee is never
pushed for less – aged kids’ll
pay best rates – in time cafés
will sell their heat [by seats]
to grey-faced red bill payers

Every third thought disturbs
my day – a given at – almost –
sixty years of age – Prospero
reminded me to mind death
& a settled place – a grave to
envision – a bed for ever-rest
& quieter times [alongside a
silent neighbour] – Carve my
name one last time in stone
[& no more hearts] – a three-
score years & ten to count to
end – my hundred thousand
hours to fill alone [sleep less
to maximise all that’s left] – I
have a funeral parlour close
to hand – nodding terms are
held to with its kindly staff –
they shine their hearse each
day into a constant gloss [as
if God cares] – & I will lie one
last time for everyone left – I
will fit in their wicker option

When whip-cracks are hot
for pleasure – when a split
of pain sits wide apart – in
that moment embosom a
sweet discomfort – as part
of your meditation – grasp
that thrilling spasm – bent
to slapped delectations &
commands you will suffer
a fat fool [& oily slick ways
into sex] – no explanation –
no understanding of such
demands – nothing to see
here – no obvious spasms
of lust [sex – a firm hand &
read as fingering bruises]

Big Nip & Fat Lip sipped
their chilled beers after
work – un-spoke notes –
didn’t chat [men don’t]
& revisited their ill-hush
‘hind skinny rims of so-
expensive lager – a cool
choice they agreed – sat
in a pair as if lovers [but
not] – their cocks itched –
silence spooled at a B77
rate [tape-strung] – cool
they cooed in unison – A
lemure slipped between
them – wearing nothing –
Big Nip covered his tits –
Fat Lip curled a wee grin
[of pain] – that ghost sat
so tight – too close again

Our resident town badger
has –
[perhaps]
come here
to die –
alongside dug soil
of fox diggings from those
years of lock-down –
alone
he’s laid a set to wither in
[according to our local vet
who lives opposite] –
I saw
it sitting quiet atop its hole
in last night’s gloom –
rush
of white on its forehead –
a
slow turn to me
[enough is
enough –
he said] –
A weigh
of pelt & age –
festooned in
ticks & fleas –
untouchable
until dead
[then shifted for
twenty-five quid for labs to
deduce any instances of TB
in his pile –
in East Sussex]

Her teeth were brightened
beyond belief by that tan –
that tan – either sprayed or
paid-for-thickly in Magaluf
[other places are available
for sun-lovers] – Her age a
complete guess for us few
pale observers in that café
where we sat – her fangs a
fixed grin [of pearls] upon
her fag-kissing lips – pucks
drawing wrinkles in [scars
of worship across her skin
& revealed by her vest] – A
barista spilt a cappuccino –
her Pantone match – roast
beans refilled empty cups

I didn’t know about that
un-weighted mass in his
head – a hid malignancy
or left unmentioned? – A
truth filed aside because
of all his other weights &
measures under his skin
& buried early? Propped
up for viewing – as in life
& love – he said nothing –
showing what lay ‘neath
his shroud not ever said
aloud [fronting up as his
foot slipped in that lock –
& it bared his last game]
& my version of his story
recaps his Words of God
verbatim – I rob them all

That elderly couple – him
still tall on his stick – with
his frailties – she aids him
between chairs [a hazard
at each table – as it is] – a
duality from café & lattes
on to shop [or gatherings
for God – what do elderly
couples do all day?] – Our
plans are in tatters for an
auld age that matters – in
sheltered homes we were
not expecting our ending
[but circumstance’ll twist
wrinkled narratives] – My
took path is led unguided

Running off impossible
ideas
[my day job] –
my
kingdom of disdain for
outcomes
[my engines
pump virtual things] &
my sketchbook ink will
fail to fix arrant circles –
in my hand my pen is a
rubber hammer –
silent
on surfaces –
a numbin’
of invoiced creativity in
my head
[knock it out]
& days always coalesce

Shaded under my tree – I do
not know what it is [I cannot
be arsed to gather its name] –
I slump in my garden chair –
spilling coffee stains a stone
&’ll remain ‘til I do not know
[& other Stoic stuff] as rooks
outwardly gulp their calls in
response to awkward gulls –
my body aches with disease
[extremities scream] & sleep
is a lover – this shaded place
is my escape from their sun –
I am working out how long &
what I have to plan for – heat
is projected as high executor
for those of frail dispositions
& aged ones – by twenty-fifty
I will be done – Gift me shade
‘til then – no hot death alone

That smug man [with his
extravagant suffer of hair
& smile] stood before me
& allowed no passage – a
wiry chestnut-skin-thing
[who took eager joy with
his screw of enquiries] – I
stood my ground as each
of his pokes found places
to agitate – a represent of
this town in his ways – We
are dealt our hand & find
that our tables spin [a tip
& cards set scattering] – A
dream took me away last
night & troubled me – my
dire days of being set on –
rabid dogs’ll never dilute
their grip – spittle & bites
take a hold [through that
dream a bitch chewed] – I
woke in my pool of recall
& sweat – smug in my bed

She opened those shutters
on our dual aspect lodging
rooms – Marseille hummed
as her Mistral re-visited – in
one hour we’d fucked [& as
a pair slumped into sleep’s
still obloquy] – Our shower
spewed [almost] sea water
[too hot to remain under] –
Soon we were sat in a café
talking [again] about need
& disgrace – we laughed as
we counted all those dead
on one hand – triggered by
heat in Marseille – A ship’ll
swallow us [our grave acts
on land will depart France]

She is bowling [with a
twist of wrist & strikes
with spherical weight
off a flipped fast spin –
from him to him] – Fat
Ugly had eyes averted
& wouldn’t speak – his
pursy twin also tied in
her knotty twine of lie-
on-lie mischiefs [they
hobbled along streets
whilst resenting each
other’s needs] – A pair
of sweating auld men
is what they’d become
in long years of hate &
bile piled by time [set
as asides – about each
other when out of ear-
shot of fat partner] – a
game set against auld
men by a professional
spinner of rubbed ball
& pitch of mis-corrects

We were cornfield kids
[before
they built what Americans call
freeways] –
we all rolled in hay
& twisting straws –
we all wore
All Star boots & rode Spielberg
scripts –
Yankee hooks –
We hit
on girls with tits
[we were that
age] –
Hollywood tripped us to
be involved & too beholden –
a
rundown on IMDB’s data sets &
x-refs took us to dead-endings
& then sequels –
endlessness a
slight-ish unknown in our reel –
we loaded film cans after show
of movies as longer-term plans

I think my neighbours know
me – we’ll often pass at ends
of roads – gates – on fields –
dog-walked space [our pups
wrestle & growl] – I offload a
touch too much [they put up
with my gyres of gripes] – My
hope is they do not mope as
I do – they remain paired – as
happier souls are so – intact –
& we joke – well I do – about
failings of known marriages –
they are not [married] – free
in being less burdened [I do
not think there’ll be babies –
they’ll not breed now] – this
is going tits up – no room for
any long-term responsibility
[reservoirs & rivers are dried
enough to fuck harvests] – a
life of choosing less is given
& consumed – this moment
is now fate – My neighbours
know me as we pass quietly
with our exchanges of nods

There is nowhere else to be
outside now –
Our pasts are
as relevant as our futures &
this is not a moment to live
in advance of –
finite times –
finitude our only given –
my
ambition is present –
Recall
is that wiry fool with a stick
& inflated gut –
distraction’s
trumpet blower –
We speed
up with ageing’s view & our
yet-met distances drop off –
hope’s avarice left to starve

Such brashness in one so
rash is my own downfall –
a world king’s view – how
we tumble [knocked over
chess-men mis-placed] – I
know my limits [for now]
& labour under restraint –
Do not exceed those lines
laid out by my consultant
[he knew so much ‘bout a
trod route] – Pain claims a
role in my stargazing eye –
[I scan all of that upwards
& now-known dead] – this
surly difficulty lives in me
[as if a forever fazed echo]

Here – that swelling heat
off bricks & tarmac – fed –
swilled by wine’s sweaty
intakes [seared & necked
from a quick glass] – rise
of records across Europe
& small islands – shall we
count days until normals
are this? My thighs stick –
sex is off – it all stinks – In
far countries they’ll cope
by hiding & blind-pulling
until dusk’s kiss of life – a
foreign art [Brits are crap]

Living on a coastline reduces
my algorithm’s choice across
dating sites – my unfortunate
geographic place – Sussex [in
this heat] competes with sun
& beaches alongside Tel Aviv
& Magaluf – although both in
command of pure sand – See
plethoras of profiles on SUPs
[boards appear – mostly from
Enfield] – I steer clear of age’s
difference by narrowing such
to a few years either side [not
to be fooled again] – Photos’ll
never ‘nough – their words &
political leanings my advisors
to swiping left or right – Avoid
fish-face poutings [at my age]
& veer wide of any unverified
beauties [less you pay a price
by scammers] – Heat of desire
yet met on these lucent apps
& sites – [factor 40 in my mind
is applied for each encounter]

A weight inside my eyes
[my
tumefied fear] –
That throb –
a prelude to my weeping &
then it passes
[dry greeting
my thing] –
a fat pain –
like
a hangover –
thuddy & slow
to shift –
an evaporation
[as
if picked off by aired kisses] –
sour afterward
[off breaths
our common complaint] –
A
clock face will never crease
in pursuit of constant truth
& visits of time enquiries –
I
know how this works these
days –
my depression fades
[but never utterly etiolates]

I stand in my vacant citadel
[few held weapons] – Sheer
faces as greasy ramparts [a
vertical slide of rainwater &
clinging lichens] – below us
a fetid moat – a sweat-pool
added to by strung tears [&
filled fast] – Our sick master
commands from his tower –
his auld voice has softened
over time – less bellowings –
less said aloud – We’ll whet
our blades with oil & stone
to a finite edge – enough to
cut into armour & flesh – in
my grip a killer’s quick tool
of swinging & thrusts – Kill –
or be – beyond these walls

As twisters of certainties –
liars do not live well [by a
haunting of such trouble-
lived souls] – Architects of
our pasts ink in amends &
distortions without a care
for others’ lives – A beam –
a steel – a wire – None will
bear true weights – none –
A sum of misdirections on
unfolded sheets [a bridge
will never hold if loadings
overrun] – Mathematician
& engineer rub at beards –
A collapse was always set
to play out – lined by that
architect’s fabricating eye
& pen – ink dries quick on
that mendacious scheme

Here a blankness you will
never witness – my dart &
challenge [my starting off
confirms my being here &
yours too] – word visitors –
we are watching my stabs
drive into fictional backs –
flesh-markets pay less – In
my hand lies my device – I
peck at scattered feeds of
auld remnants – dried out
crumbs – stale complaints
off overnight breath – Fills
mount bare-pocked arses
with dead off-loadings – A
slow wakening takes me –
a night’s entertainment of
ill dreams needs clearing –
a cache deleted [my word-
spill will need a mopping]

Profligate –
unkempt
[like
bent trackside buddleias]
see how thin beauty wilts
[an age thing they all say]
& out-of-reach of washes –
of any weed-killing spray –
See a blackened branch &
gauge how close that was
[& lucky you were] to grip
to life –
his bent bouquets
offered up –
no labels –
no
love from said –
A planted
place sat from sick kisses
& similar creep of poison

In Kent & Sussex I play Count
Pill Boxes [those squat cobbly
containers of Brexit elixirs] – A
Madam Sosostris on Brighton
Pier had told me all of this [of
living alone] – Her urgent eye –
warning of hags & gatherings –
triumvirate of hates – of lust &
fucking off [of travelling alone
on humming trains] – of sober
nights in a narrower bed [with
less tuggings] – My train is line
& length specific [on time] as
we sway through still suburbs
into cool London’s underbelly
of brick archways [& Victorian
girder excess] – Near Ken High
Street I drink coffee outside a
two-seater café – here is a city
comfortable with rich spoils &
that irregular scent of laundry
& cash – Barkers is still there –
a redundant white ghost – My
coffee cools with my waiting –
Rich young things parade their
pampered dogs & kids from A
to Z [no one uses actual maps
these days – Googling instead]
& my date sits on this day met

This is a plough’s line eyed
on chalk downland
[all tilts
of erosion & flint-set stone]
& a moment mine –
alone –
with mis-fired mind –
silty –
We have sucked on dry soil
[enough is enough] –
I’ll tire
of groundwork & retire to a
house with wide sea views
of turned back migrants –
a
furrow formed by a swell is
filled-in by scattered selves
[& failing buoyancy aids] –
I
align an ill thought
[sowing
slower drownings] –
My age
will be fixed in noble stone
in a worm-thick churchyard
[travellers lie in scant loam]

Less inhaling caliginous thoughts
& breathe out to a count to drape
darker urges – numbering numbs
& gifts brief remedy to loneliness
& her cold grip – [to live: embrace
a rich narrative – drive in a circle –
read less non-fiction – find a lover
without love’s weights] – No drug
or talking treatment prescribed &
life’s rattling on a helter-skelter is
that reminder of being here [now
in this line] – No rich chemicals to
wield – instead we are met letting
go [offload flit thought as shelter]

A tool to induce replacement
of anyone –

& humiliation will
welt
[as red-bloodied marks
on a playing flesh] –

Benedetta’s
sins visited three times under
interrogations
[Tuscany’s cries
for truth left a scarring] –

Time
was not her friend under love
& amends –

A gelid cell –

stone-
burn on skin –

repentance left
to be reported
[by dear others
& often men] –

scapular taken
to punish foul women
[Carlini
removed under her sentence]

What of my things will
my kids keep?
I have a
photo of my father
[&
others stacked away] –

I rub on waft of recalls –

creosote & fuel whiffs –

him all elbow-deep at
engines & stirred pots
& his policing work of
rota & shift lined up
[&
no loud regretting of a
life of quiet marriage &
father to broiled boys –

nothing e’er said] –
I’m
not as noble as he was
[I feel my sin] –

What’ll
be stacked by my kids
from my piling things?

A fabulous artist [I was assured
as we toured his collection] – A
craftsman first & then artistry &
higher work – my neck aches as
I gawk at canvas-hung walls – in
portraits ugliness is captured &
kept fresh in time-dried strokes
of heavy brushes – Clip-clops of
heels & shoes – squeaking soles
on this gallery’s parquet floors –
that echo of death – reverence’s
dance between rooms takes me
to a last act – his tenebrous view
of how we die – I am stung-eyed

We keep company with
stone-marked bones in
a tricksy churchyard – a
mason’s art pleasured –
fonts aligned by tools &
eye – all care-worn bios
& brief lives in lines – In
a yew tree [rooted hard
before Christ’s Nativity
it says on a sign] rooks
exchange complaints &
calls – We will move on
[it is ever assured] – see
each beloved left alone

Never an ingénue –
never such
a person –
& always suspicious
of being untrusted –
lie-maker
[another appraisal by another
lover] –
How life is confused
[&
distorted] by sly misdirections
off a splitting tongue –
a loosu
ponnu way with men
[it could
be said] –
far too close to know
her boundaries –
to know how
to find honest work
[loosened
gossips love fucked-up stories]

I have slowed – desire eroded
by a distrust of others – I shall
be a singleton until time’s OFF
switch has dropped – clicking
no connections [I’ve stopped]

Bruce Springsteen echoes low
below taught tensile stretches
overhead as familial variations
step shop-to-shop-to-shop in a
circle of consumption – we are
on our merry-go-round – work –
rest – & pay – as coffee & cakes
are imbibed in familiar spaces –
Ticker-tape fill of till receipts &
bank notifications prompt our
counting up of all we spend [a
brief pleasure in such acts] – &
my gripped fingers stiffen as if
in complaint – over-spending –
such trips take more over time

Summon enough interest
to make any day bearable
[tactics – speak with Gods
a volunteer offers] – I love
my kids – my dog [a few of
my relatives] – Time slays –
we remain too attached to
auld proffers in our pasts –
these days of counting out
what is [possibly] left is no
easy act for a thin-hearted
soul & fifty-eight is figured
as a reset middle age [fuck
‘em all] – Find purpose & a
crusade yet undertaken – I
will set off to Israel’s walls
& wails to re-connect to all
my dead brother’s souls in
his home – I will be a ghost
at his empty dining table –
each day there is bearable

Become who you are – such as you
are [having learned what that is &
given in to fate’s rule] – But do not
step from your slick rollercoaster –
stay buckled – feel it shudder with
that dragging clank as it climbs [in
time each quick curve slows as all
those corners are met as repeats –
familiarity dulls threats of death] –
Toss in a skip torn up lover letters
& one card tricks – We will ride our
ghost trains alone [fear is less with
a vacant seat alongside] – screams
less sweet when auld love has quit

Between demands of clients
my coffee cools [by design &
distractions my hours pass] –
I charge for my being me – a
clock-ticker [no desires now
for auld past hours – my lost
days eye-logged in factories
& workshops] – I should feel
blessed – no rush of winging
carts – this quiet work – from
home – is my last calling & all
I have known for twenty-odd
years – a cottage industry set
on un-fixed hours – no surety
of payment or employment –
& this afternoon I am striking

My ironing board takes each
press as if unsteadiness was
designed into its stance – as
heated linen & steam merge
as a history [constantly] – air
weighted by recall – Sunday
hung out with blue uniform
shirts – school & police – five
men to flatten with her iron
[steam-piss & complaint] as
my mother took our creases
from her line-filled basket &
summoned as-new-collars –
her re-shape of all coverings
& costumes – that week-end
re-set of male-worn shames

No words will compensate
for this erosion of trust – no
fixing of limits I reached – &
no way to return to such as
it was – no reversal [it won’t
turn by my hand] – I know a
man – he will compensate &
pay for his misdirection – As
time cheats we’ll finagle too
[until unable to bear its cost
& weight] – no words will do

I see her sour-countenance
[all beak-nose pecking] – in
half an hour she’ll be out of
my sight – off to haranguing
her auld man – back to that
sad preen – it does her little
good – you can’t magic ugly
turds shiny – Her rear was a
brace of lunar faces – pitted
& white – hint of age’s greys
on them – She rode on him –
on top at midday – a flabby
sight so disturbing [an arse
at it] – I presume it was him
under that flesh-pot of love
& fucking – It’s what I see [if
I see ‘em] – all wobbly recall
of an off-putting quick visit

I caught my mother in my
bathroom mirror –
I rarely
eye my dead father
[brow
& hairline matches] –
As a
youngster I avoided each
correspondence
[of them
in reflections] –
I don’t see
anyone much –
glancings
in window glass –
a catch
& look I recognise –
Now I
age & accelerate from my
past to merge with them –
[I will adjoin my parents]

A tricksy oasis –
a halted shade
under parasols
dotted outside
a wee café run
by a couple – in
time its charms
will be worn – a
profit reducing
by overheads &
expenses – staff
can’t be found –
& little England
will shrink unto
its smaller state

My own gold reserves are held
as a barometer of sentiments –
an investment in variations – a
long game of nerves [marriage
can be so] – a few Victorias & a
hoard of Georges – in addition
to Elizabeths – my sovereigns –
my gallery of rogues – Perhaps
I should invest in Krugerrands
to broaden my portfolio – Over
time they’ll be absolved – sold
off – a backstop [hid in an auld
bread bin] – After my hit-&-run
death they will never be found
[palmed-off as a job lot of auld
kitchenware or set on a charity
shop’s steps] – a value sat there

Those invigorating infections
off ancient Weald woodlands
dig into rot of thrills
[stumble
with words not heels] –
I walk
my dog enough on that route
to steer my soles off dangers –
roots & muddy crossings –
All
my steps count
[stride length
too] –
I hover above mulches –
I levitate as if a sprung ghost –
as if an unencrypted soul –
I’ll
not
[yet] quit
[but one day I’ll
give in] –
I greet those people –
auld neighbours from before
my divorce –
I unload –
excess
of words
[in these woodlands
I am less Green Man –
burying
my deaths in my forest] –
Shh
their instruction –
but un-said
by either –
that awkwardness
is our cross-infection –
a virus
spread by gossiping intrigues
without a jab –
jabs of glum sex
in any woman’s too sad story

Rictus grin –
after sardonic herbs
have been imbibed –
tang on lips
taken as a quick solution –
left as
a fixed smile after scalding –
that
shortcut to shy any ageing’s auld
ways –
a choice of it –
fleet poison
to summon shortcuts –
These are
my countdown daily rituals
[with
ill-practice & time] –
a smile on my face after supping

Alone on my driveway I bid a
form of entertainment for an
aged neighbour
[she shuffles
her walking trolley alongside
her parked-up car] –
we swap
our cul-de-sac-chats above a
mash-up of gravel & tarmac –
tricky in worn socks –
As if at
a Tory revue a peal of bells &
rude exhausts rip
[classic car
stuff] –
their offered-up roars
greet my Sunday morning of
idle talk & fears of loneliness
in my ongoing shoeless state

On hot days Kemptown’s
decay is briefly burnt off
[weed-full paths less of a
council concern] – Locals
have daubed anti-car art –
double decker buses rule
each road [lumbering on
fixed routes] – Sea source
of invidious salt drags on
auld iron works to smear
bare walls with its rufous
washes of rust – Chalking
by an absent beggar asks
for cash for lunch – A café
does a brisk trade in cake
& three quid lattes – In an
hour we have circled that
Brighton fringe – it hasn’t
improved how it appears
in all my observer’s years

A squared-off eighteen metres
of filtered sand framed by level
railway sleepers – shovelling in
buckets a squat kid cries – Over
this shingled seaside town – no
resort [as such] – a gull & a kite
avoid entanglements – My cup
of hot tea almost tip-able [that
depth of less anchorage versus
an onshore wind] – Our futures
scuttle – on a stick we’ll toddle
into tired rest homes [with sea
views] – No pets – strangers sat
with us instead – & my cup flips

An Italian-bastard coffee served
alongside a mattress-thick slice
of cake –
& opposite us a village
store offering nearly everything
needed to live well in Sussex –
a
range of unpriced veg –
Country
Life –
French bread –
Locals walk
dogs –
pups take turns to piss on
an A-sign for a visiting pizza van
[Every Thursday At 7PM] –
Drunk –
my coffee done –
Rain blows in –
we return to my car & retreat as
houses darken in an early dusk
[& a late shift attends to pumps
in their –
only –
remaining pub]