A pint of Harvey’s
& my whining dog
[polish off my day]
Savings supped at
my local pub – not
working – if anyone
asks – still – beer &
sport remove all of
my quieter doubts
Other hobbies arise
in these lonely days
of mild coronavirus
Tag: lockdown
As A Freelancer
As a freelancer I understand that there will be quiet days – there will be occasional periods of not billing – on those days I will work at finding work/ It is a simple & honest agreement set by old rules of supply & demand/ But micro economic rules no longer apply/ An inexplicable macro economic factor is at work/ Such is its nature that I have no billable skills – or ability – to work my way out of these current difficulties/ I am 56 years old – living alone – ‘working’ with Parkinson’s Disease/ I have no pension or future assurance after a failed marriage [dumped on]/ I claim no benefits – because any savings I have are in cash/ This was to make my home future-proof for my illness – but such [carefully] managed provisions are now my only income/ I do not benefit from any local grants because I do not pay business rates/ I get minimal furlough because I pay myself dividends/ My income is recognised by lenders who push mortgages on me – but not by our state to whom I pay Corporation Tax – VAT – & personal tax – on time & without qualms/ People wonder why I’m not smiling
A pint of Harvey’s
A pint of Harvey’s
& my whining dog
[polish off my day]
Savings supped at
my local pub – not
working – if anyone
asks – still – beer &
sport remove all of
my quieter doubts
Other hobbies arise
in these lonely days
of mild coronavirus
Coffee Mornings
We will be abandoned each day
[fear-pinned by sponging orders
in bolt-homes] – we hide behind
doors [prised wide by a delivery
driver]/ We do not recognize our
posties [you will not see smiles –
not like you used to]/ He sipped
his coffee/ He sat at his window
[it would not open] & looked up
[for an additional day] at his tree
[it soaked all direct summer light
just beyond his unwashed panes]
Inheritances
Christ – have you seen Mum’s arse?
Her lockdown cakes have gathered
round her lower half – Imagine that
hung on us? Dad’ll have a ball/He’s
got more bits to grab! He’ll be like a
pig in.. Is mine that big? Ha! not yet!
Yet? Bitch!/ I feel sorry for our girls –
I’m hoping it skips a generation/Ah!
Ours – or theirs?/Ours of course – &
you agree/You eatin’ those biscuits?
Show Calls
Gather those remnants of your strength – we will stand longer than any others –
more than those who may expect less of us – & bring back – again – to yourself –
stolen powers that others frame as broken
This is a call to you – those robbed – to recover each fragment [ours were quickly lost]
Pull in to your own – families & friends – that latent energy in these long days/
You are surrounded by equals in reduction – you are lifted by sisters & brothers –
of this frail – but ever-extending – family/
This is a call to you – those beaten – our lives demand to now be sweetened/
Please find in this inconvenience a greater sense – on every level –
which is there – I tell you – it is enough to lift each one of us
above our rage of thoughts
This is a call to you – those pained – your dignity can be reclaimed/
I may be too loud in my ineloquent verse – but I wish for you – too – such a place of words –
to revel in that delight of your voice – removed from speech? We are still here to rejoice –
in any format that connects/
This is a call to you – those ignored – I’ll not meet again such people who I’ll always applaud/
Threads
I’ll pass my ageing neighbours
contained by solidified returns
off pensions & ISAs [all edging
away from brisk punts on stock
market wagers or gold’s allure]
What they hold will keep them
well off until slips & ‘quakes in
alien places cut those tenuous
connections [no more mirages]
Threads will quick-to dissevers
as traders hedge & new viruses
death-rattle their five bar gates
Another day without doors
Another day without doors
[or chats-over-pints] – wait!
No last-minute unexpected
visitors – we creep from our
shelters of friendless rooms
[as neighbours mutter ‘bout
recycling indiscretions]/ We
will not meet [no coffee this
week because no one dares
to cross locked thresholds]/
Do you recall easier weeks?
& one day there’ll be normal
We will cut back – to avoid a
second certain drag on time
as time becomes a burden –
we’ll not lose it in lockdown/
Two hundred yards away
Two hundred yards away
a teenager tries to stand
upright on a rolling bale/
My right-hand dares on
your inner thigh – you are
loosened straw alongside
me – a fat man in running
attire walks past [sex pest
threats are laughed off] – I
want to [but we have only
just met]/ Tinder dates for
ill-coupled counsels haste
& only my imagination has
you naked & rolled tight – I
put my thoughts into you/
It is raining
It is raining –
& my tipped
up skylights
lean mottled
[2 set skies
framed unto
larger views]
Spat rain falls
through gaps
left by tilts &
remind me of
those outside
discomforts/
Hill Walking in Lockdown
We roll in an encyclopaedia of grasses –
flicked by a wind/ Your off-white blouse
is ripped open to burns [but not a hand
or eye] – enough has been imbibed – by
both of us – we filled before we left for a
walk over Firle/ No social distancing – or
other protective measures were taken in
our day’s exploration/ Idiots toss reams
of litter – they strew word of McDonalds
across a seen-it-all tumuli/ I bend – help
you up/ My eyes ache from map reading
& staring at you/ We revert to hill walking
Loneliness is not tolerable
Loneliness is not tolerable
for any family man loosed
from spokes & tensions to
limp [forlorn] along uneven
roads/ Laws of motion will
be left unread [if nothing is
left opened]/ Seizures fill a
vacuum & clotted love will
stick between sore valves/
Care – a four-lettered word
blunts by anger’s revenge/
Asks for consciousness of
locked rooms – lost if keys
aren’t slid into blind doors
[& turn! – unfasten a lonely
soul bent under by reverb]
I have stiffened – sat alone
& so unaware/ Shut down
[I’ll ignore egotistical calls
left gelid in my empty hall]
A Quart
A quart of my conscious day
is online [not with nudes but
a plethora of word] – @ news
& searches/ I probe & review
dubious sources [there is no
one real book with adequate
indexing]/I sniff that whiff of
algorithms [as my CPU hums]
Streaming
This locked-in-ness takes
getting used to [it has to]
My excess remote talents
feed on lurking/ I forlese
& let a stream of services
play – endless loops keep
me low [it’s easy to fall in
line if lines of drugs don’t
do it] I cry at Episode 4 of
Normal People & I Google
Kanagawa’s waves & miss
a plot twist as they buss –
a-page-a-minute storyline
[until my remote is aimed
& isolation re-established]
How I Am Doing
A red heart beats in my tall bin
it trots out subtle thud-a-thuds
[no one will die tonight]/ It is a
struggle to talk about ‘how I’m
doing‘ – I attend a playground-
bait of held-back & brave boys
don’t cry – hold it off – greeted
endings won’t happen – as that
[round battery] raps descants/
I had plucked it from my pup’s
toy & left it to wither [& expire]
20,000 Less
We sit immune
to 20,000 dead
it would seem –
20,000 less & no
regrets/ We can
be led off a cliff
[science says] –
new routes via
guidance given
& follow advice
& clean [twice]
both hands with
puffs & flourish
[with picks from
God Save HMQ
or Fuck U Boris]
Len & Me in Lockdown
I fell out of love
with myself – its
easy to do – will
erodes [laziness
rages to sighs &
sleep is my task
in waking hours]
I have not done –
others have – I’ve
lost weeks to it/
My weak poems
are thrown [drink
has been my old
whore & partner]
& Leonard’s lilt –
love songs to me
[I’ll whine in time
to his sick notes]
cool my latte – to
add to my chores
as I wash up after
old Lennie Cohen
[& spectres of his
lovers – they leave
sweated bedding]
& he’ll hit a chord
as my sink drains
in northern ways –
[see vinyl spins to
gravity’s old hand]
Mr C is locked up
with me – he says
No one likes poets
as he sips a coffee
[long-cold to syrup]
& hums along with
his own voice – L P
sent – come healing
of the limb – he has
forgotten his song/
Late Walk Home
My final walk is chalk-marked
[primary colours & a bruise of
pinks] & above here rainbows
[bled in felt tips] are tacked to
innards of smudged glazing &
then rattles on pans & healing
of stale unneighbourly tiffs – a
gift on Acacia Drive/ I listen to
hisses as a small kid cries out
[overtired] disagreeable wails –
ask her for cuddles & whines’ll
fade & a conversation at 10pm
will drain into sleep’s quietuide
[I should know – being trained –
a father never dies – he wanes]
Here – not alleys – but twittens/
Old sodium lamps [spilling out
light pollution] guide me up my
hill – on a path between hedges
.& into two ghosts – of glow & a
shadow-friend – rust on a slope
home – always slow-ascending
as if embrace of sleep will cure
us virus-luggers/ I’ll recuperate
once I return from my saunter?
Boris et Domics
Now fewer [less] unstructured
conversations – with fortuitous
visitors/ A spin-bawled belamy
of gagging orders & infections
Desires have fallen away [as if
his blood doesn’t crave a love]
& his hammock is still without
pushes/ His spine curves with
his hanging bend of canvas &
ropes – sunburn is a flush [kiss
of death] set to rules [lies?] by
missing ministers [a disorder –
difficulty with truth]/ Common
colds [odd at this time of year]
will catch out travelled fools &
[unforeseen] anxieties of dying
will steer bald plots to Durham
& back to other low strategies –
an actual plan to sell-off gems
& other erst national treasures
Dominic sat at a [pathetic] table
& cut a disposition [not a rose] –
as his script [of facts] scattered
to breezed sighs [by dismissals
of media complaints] – a re-spin
& no apology given/ One Nation
in lock-down is his one-line joke
on us blind-sided [stupid] voters
as curtains twitch [comparable
breezes locate a sash window –
held open by counter-weights] –
a flitted gust [in #10]/ A TV sits
alive to Sky News – a baby cries
next door & Boris yawns with a
tiredness – it wasn’t meant to be
this bloody difficult [fatherhood]
They’ll re-tie his comfy swinging
bed once those media [we don’t
anoint them as Press any more]
leave – remain – take back .. Zzz
Pleasure Demolished
They’ll solicit obliteration of
our old theatre [not heeding
complaints from preservers
& old-way-fixers with books
referencing how long those
stall & circle dream pits sat
in our gist]/ Homer was not
one for such revery/ I lost a
phone in Paris – among 200
tipped-up seats – it rang as I
searched – unusual acoustic
tricks did me/ Acts spooled
on my Walkman – fast fwd &
that mechanicalness [we no
longer degust]/ Our mobiles
rewind our playlist of screw-
ups & messages from those
whom we kicked back – that
ruinate of old performances
with no awards [or encores]/
Bingo halls serve less balls –
those so-monotone tenants
of unwanted playhouses are
on a list – to be ever-emptied
with a similar blow by C-19’s
twistings [best played online]
Thursday Clap Trap
I duck your politic-clap
[an evening’s clatter of
pots with old utensils]/
I hide from malt-horses
who plan to sell off our
free-to-pleb perquisites
I hole-up from crossers
who put slack fuck-wits
at jack-flagged lecterns
[political-sops applaud
in staged photo opp’s &
spit a fatigated plaudit –
so many regrettably lost
lives – not jobs curtailed
by Mr George Osborne
& his austerity planners
under strikes of dogma]
I will hide my face in my
hands when they appear
& vie [aloud] for my vote
[my box crossed] – never
applaud Tory marauders
Gardening
For S.L.
Here flesh-plantings [for our afternoon]
but delayed fig tree endeavours – ’til my
sighs followed yours/ You face away – I
see celestial-stencilled stars [a skin tale
in that window’s impartial grin] charting
you – in sorts – to guide my clasps – your
moles & scars relate one’s past – lovers’
visits of buryings & closings? Outside a
dog howls in a neighbour’s garden/ We
recovered – with my thigh dripped dry &
your hair ruffled [smiles in sperm hours
until sleep returns]/ I’ll ride off – I’ll ache
Devices & Desires
.. we fail to realise how unnecessary
many things are
Seneca – Letters from a Stoic
I may forbear fingering magalogs
of wants-not-needs – buying hope
on our poking ‘phones of popping
offerings/ Mutterings are greedily
overheard by AI [I’m replacing our
barbecue – a B&Q ad appears – its
pop-up perturbs us whilst we view
Love Island’s insta-brigues]/ I can
navel-gaze all day/ I am a shoddy
commodity [mine not so desirable
unless re-figured by an airbrush in
Photoshop’s too-mendacious bag]
My weight drops off when I bezzle
less – mathematics of fact – Money
don’t grow on trees – Mum’s mantra
from 1982 – Use of public transport
a sign of failure – Margaret’s lie/ My
first kiss was so cheap [still – it sits
on my tongue – that sort a’ buss – it
was false] Cash was a way to sex –
porn – not free-to-use [shame rarely
fell away] & kisses ad-libbed – atop
bus #72 – impurity among us teens
[on snogged trips to better shops –
one after another] & invigorated by
a weekend of expectation – parties
& bars – fingerings & fumbles – fags
& drugs – waking up numbed & lost
in off-girl sweat in unknown rooms/
Street signs guided me back home
with my thirst – but not desiring my
night’s before/ Shops locked up for
one day of rest – unless you craved
tobacco or red top headlines – such
days – could we survive them now –
in this miniaturised world of want?
Parcels fall through front doors & a
momentary high of fresh unboxing –
an art for product-placed vloggers/
Hopes are unwrapped & set buzzin’
[a buy-it-now drug]/ China will fulfil
endless shite – ’til we gripe – sucked
off & broke/ Kick me back to ’86 – to
those top decks of tongues & tits – I
lived a simple life without Byzantine
choices to tug my eye/ My return to
nothing much to do would follow my
shutting off purchasing in my palm/
It draws on us – until we are drained/
Perfect knowledge? Let it discharge
Jump Rod Guides
Our gold mine tour of shifts
& tales in [bellowing] Welsh
tones – chopsing – blown by
dynamite’s effect [& all that
glitters – etcs] & that rugged
bugger dug at fools’ stories
under his tourist-flowing pit
of cuttings & blastings – our
jump rod conducted us to a
pitch-black – lit-black [dense
once turned off] & someone
touched me up – afterwards
she said she was scared/ A
kid was less than a candle’s
expense [no more – now we
have tidy days & Hue lights]/
But Jones is furloughed by a
Tory chancer & slumps – dull
hours without his scripts for
ears – he recites them up top
in a double-glazed bungalow
for none to hear – lechyd da!
Decree Absolute
His email [almost] dripped relief
with sudden news – Your decree
absolute is in view – All solicitors
love files & billing [such thrilling
times in lawyers’ quiet offices] &
your ill words [err your mother’s]
will soon be mum & my muckers
were right [they hated your guts]
Home-breaker/ We men’ll swank
[in that cock-sured way] – but will
fall & only then succumb to auld
thrown advices/ We’ll fossick for
others sown words – thus we will
disabuse ourselves/ I’ve lost too
much of my life – bound to you &
your mother/ Your lies & cellulite
thighs are closed [filed absolute]
Study the Torah
“Rabbi Kanievsky says cancelling
Torah study is more dangerous
than corona,” Shmulik Woolf [JTA]
[A true story]
Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky aroused
sentiments of a divine immunity
as my family [abutting suburban
cryptic crosswords of meanings
& Israeli misinterpretations] met
together – in peace – to eat under
lockdown’s eye/ No Torah to add
light relief or blind belief in Rabbi
Edelstein to put things right/ Still
no flights into Tel Aviv to sit with
my relatives – Facebook is a tatty
plan B/ Study the Torah – just text
appeared fixed [here] across this
lit screen – mid-poem – this poem
on this screen – across every app
that instruction floated – no scroll
fix – dead seen text – a phantasm/
Some would cry God’s instruction
in such odd data behaviour – but I
still type heresy/ A ‘phone reboot
corrects it all & my poem finishes
under UK lockdown/ No miracle/
Study [of] the Torah won’t cure me
On Hills
I’ll lie with a sun at my feet
& a moon above my head
[flit birds intone] – at blind
north you are nine-ish km
from my swoon where we
had undressed [stretching
& bathed – but not in rain]
Your unchecked meadow
is a rule-broken hill – slips
of grass & breakfast hens
[an incline of nature-sent
breaths] – I’ll cycle to you –
my captured heart rate is
safe [no concerns for now]
Old ways – a basket arced
from skinned brambles &
other wonders – hands-on
matters too – honesty rips
thornish – you pull my tear
of thin skin & usher me to
your own [here deer graze]
Nine-ish thousand stroams
of to-be-discusseds wait on
our auld Bartholomew Map
of Lost Empires – our times
are not to be contained [we
were made in empire days –
you a flesh map of marks &
I am yet to read yours] Slip
me time – before collisions
& cataclysms [not knowns]
to untie my tied-down body
from moon-sun alignments –
then I’m free – laid out – your
rule-broken hill to astrict us
as lovers – no pulley-weight
or worn-gearing of recalls –
not enough to re-route each
of us – there’s a path that is
marked by green dashes on
my OS map – spitting north –
we will walk on it – it calls
without clumsy 3D heights –
best seen from at your feet –
travelled naked – backpacks
left at our bedroom door – I
will allay my afear of heights
to climb with you & so belay
your choice of rope & routes
Isolation
I shift in my coffin – to allay stiffenings
without complaint – they did a fair job –
although boxed air thins – that miasma
of parlour hasn’t paled/ Laid out 6 feet
under [all tidied] wasn’t high on my list
[no before-I-die tick of once-in-your-life
thing] & then my killing ache – heated &
immovable/ Leave me here? At least til
I’ve had enough/ I’ll long [my paradise’ll
not reduce for now] under broods of sin
[of taste & memory] Then sex & ale call
out to my stuck lips/ My burial now not
for me/ Dig me from my pit [& be quick]
After Lockdown
My walking stick whistles
[but I cannot]/ We are met
by ire-blue clouds – hefted
& sullen in gestation – sick
of their sour discomfort &
weight – brushwork inks &
greets hard from her stain
above us & hail hits us – it
stings skin on Firle Beacon
finding ice-stoned sinners –
a sheep pen & spiky patch
of brambles is a salvation/
A battered cyclist wobbles
past [his lycra-skin too thin
to shield him]/ Dog owners
bend as their pets lag [This
squall was never forecast!]
We forget God is covetous
& not one to bow to orders
from torpid meteorologists
droning in air-less studios/
My walking stick whistles –
a note blown across height
adjustment holes – but I do
not/ Frore-misery urges us
to a warm pub’s profanities
[where ice is better served]
& here I’ll warm your hands
& we will plan our re-routed
way – furores’ll not stop us –
we walk on [& to anywhere]
Vermeer’s Colours
Experts decode his hue sources
via hoof-trod dales in England &
by rare [thrutched] pebbles from
Eurasia & in a crushing of South
American insects making his red
[whilst scarf blues & pearl whites
demand other world discoveries –
projected back in his eyed graft]/
A virgin trade & commerce in art
supply before his work/ Of worth
even before his canvas was born
bare – such craft upon his palette
before sleight of hand & brush to
capture God’s own daubs – of life
& death – such fine stuff by both –
[but man ground it down to dust]
VE Day 1975
No family clues to Gran’s
husband’s death – his life
was not a part of us/ Dad
took his ever-old mother-
in-law off to Runnymede/
We were dragged without
any explanation – a rub of
three boys [as she looked
for her husband’s rank &
recall on marble]/ A slight
woman – with her Geordie
beat – flagged by Player’s
fags sucked on scant lips –
not tall enough to read all
those dead – Dad helped –
his rozzer-height one lofty
ambition for his sons [our
desires were to be as high
as him – to descry in ease]
I now aid old-aged people
[in need of my set height]
I reach for tins in Waitrose
reading out those names –
Heinz Beans [low in sugar]
sat far up like her wor lad
who met her last on stone
below a war memorial flag
Larkin is Disturbed
In Hull they landed fish & Larkin
& he sipped champagne [after a
fuck up by a parent – Let’s watch
Nazis parading – his father’s first
choice of destination]/ Poetry &
rhythm came early & easily/ On
to higher education & Oxford – a
failure only at military medicals
[& others not expressed – not ’til
he died – then his covert life was
dug at – sordid stuff – thrown up
in a glasshouse – set to shatter]
Ancient Ways
Our ashen marriages
are trace-cartography
on our drunken maps
of tolls – drips of wine
circle our old haunts/
Merlots are our ink in
marking our routes/ I
track my tired footfall
on gradients – we see
tumuli – each labelled
in gothic font – a man
stood there – a digger
with flints to scrape &
form his remembered
monument/ No recall
of this evening will be
left – so I vomit hasty
poetry – I traduce fact
& delineate spillages –
trippers can sidestep
our cists/ We’re not a
sober triumvirate – my
sips enervated [but for
for gritted sediments]/
My tap spits as red ink
circulates & remnants
are washed off/ Come
morning & three stains
will have dried [rubbed
at drips to scour clean]
& our maps will be set
aside [out-of-date] – no
worth left – lost routes
to diggings in Wessex
& nothing more to see
Football – Nil
Primal tempos of match day routines
are missing – tension between games
have slacked [to monotony] as soccer
offers nothing – a doldrum – no crucial
ties & needed points to pray for [every
89th minute of watching] – no Bovrils
or beers in our rumble-guts to absorb
on top of other football match results
& tabled machinations [can we dodge
relegation?]/ & Falmer has reverted to
fields of bird song – no stadium ones –
no trudge of sopped trainers on paths
back home [quick pint – eh?]/ No result
Vermeer
Some of his colours were valorized
[vastly higher [then] than pure gold]
When Vermeer lit – beyond grisaille –
by halation? – layered line strokings
in his replications of God’s working
[before rest]/ Old artists’ rules were
brushed out/ His irises widened [as
if exposed to yet-invented spotlight
& revelations] – his arts flummoxed
God by likening his girl too much/ &
one swirled curve of maker remains
tethered [some say tin – not a pearl]
Swimming Lessons
For S. L.
There is a countervail in my days
[as if] as if I can’t connect to now
& now piles hours amidst sunrise
& sunset & expands & inflates & I
am washed out to a history-wide
delta of fingered rivers/ Time is a
tardy channel of tidal watchings –
compounded to have me drown’d
[imbibed from normal & known]/
You stood [naked] in that rivulet –
my hours now engorged by it all
& streams became fluvial giants –
but your fingers – in that channel –
on me – redefined my clocking on
& off – lifted me up – no drowning/
Teach me how to reach with you/
Let me walk a chattered ford & so
embrace your so denuded beauty/
My luxury is in your space – other
options will be excluded – let me –
[let me] be in your running stream
& teach me to swim [without fear
of shape-shifters swum below us]
Not Panoptes
A raindrop broods on my lens
[caught earlier] – a simple wet
speck of confusion – now set
across my sight [almost a cell
as light refracts] not cleaving –
not shivered – an inert microbe
placed upon my fingered slide
for my eye-tight microscope/ I
hold off from wiping it away –
my unhoped rain-jewel [turbid]
alters my way of seeing things
as if I am Argus Panoptes with
[up to] 100 eyes – instructed by
Heras/ My glasses quickly mist
& blind me [a peacock’s fan of
eyes once petrified my first son]
& I wipe at my rain-made keeker
to see as others see – corrected
Captain Colonel
They promoted Captain Tom
[Colonel of Hope] & wheeled
out war tropes whilst setting
fire to a sacrificial scientist –
a hazardous risk when alight
& likely to cause suffering in
wringing hands/ Our PM has
added another kid to his list –
sequestered alongside rabid
Rees-Mogg [who offers zilch
words of comfort to us plebs
of lower class] Save our NHS
is a fight-’em-on-the-beaches
refrain on clappy Thursday
as plans are made to offload
some too-expensive niceties
when war is won [NHS gone]
St. George’s Day 2020
He landed [dondurucu]
under a northern star
on Kent’s stones/ Glib
shingle hindered him –
a slow-toddled walk on
this ever-algae’d land –
[his arrival was met by
many ill-faste lanyards]
He will aim to win grith
by his time-kept faith –
& until then be bedded
‘neath a low flight path
into LHR in a box room
[three-in-a-bed etcetera –
& narrowed bandwidth
of internet connections]
He cannot sleep easily
on his smarting wings
[sprouted after battles
against parochial sins]
& too soon he is re-set
[his crown to his chest]
& beseeches for return
to his disposed mess –
before England called –
Georgius finds warmth
bled under his donated
Red Cross coat – armed
with prayers to one God
& truth to himself [Beni
eve götür] Tran/ Take me
home? Let Georgius loose
to save his own – let this
stolen Saint return to his
land – still unassimilated/
Efface him – not a tattoo
Tree Climber
For S. L.
Call me if you fall from a tree
& I will ride to your woodland
to find you fallen – unsprung –
& I will kiss you [I am obliged
to] & folkore directs me to lay
you in honeysuckle to fix you
[lent by your generosity under
this free-to-lovers arboretum]
I will pull at loose ivy to effect
a bed for us [sheets as leaves –
from fern & bluebells]/ Ripped
old wives’ tales will offer ways
& means to your soft recovery
across books & time [my stock
of both is endless] so assay me
Divorced Dad
I will not sense those rising sibling tensions
with me far from home routines/ My chronic
status has me this side of Falmer’s twists of
roads & visits – my connection as your father
will knot me up – our living distances will not
be fixed by [or fall to] any sterilized contacts/
Remove my anchor of liabilities & seek in me
my lineal way/ I am ever your living presence
still available as a parent – albeit one stuck by
old choices [forgive me for my disconnection]
Better Alone
For S. L.
Besser allein als in schlechter
gesellschaft
Better alone than ill? Not quite –
we cannot [so fluently] interpret
our words [Dachshund!] instead
we explore with our minds & so
find better rationales – Your dog
chases ducks – pull ‘er back from
those moorhens! [Not one of my
finest lines of English poesy] On
arse-rubbed-at-sandstone there
is time to climb from walkers &
threats of cross-infection [but –
we don’t adhere to 6ft distance –
no judging others] Hold me – so
I can smell your hair & neck just
long enough to have something
to take to my bed – let me speak
& use my words to encheer you
[plain English does not suit you]
Sunset in Sussex
For S. L.
Almost African – I meant our outlook
as we took a dust path – burnished &
other out of reach words – our sun in
its last role – such an unsolid player –
typecast & somewhat unreliable/ As
you burnish – still not a verb to speak
aloud – embered? Rules & right ways
are to be ignored in these days of flu
& concerns? Possibly? We cavort by
text & voice on our propped mobiles
in games of chance – but we both do
admit to tugs & pulls towards full sex
would be more agreeable – after all it
is allowable in wonted times/ There’s
no normal [not now] we’ll wait to set
Box Sex
There is a betrothal [between us]
to open – to enter – to engage in
filthy [but loving] less-than-aged
sex – once our freedom to travel
returns to us [just don’t let it slip
that we have already performed
some acts of fleshed abandon –
Wallander was ignored] & wait it
out for three more weeks [& add
a few extra to be heedy] for their
exit plans to ruminate – ours are
ready [they’ll be easily embraced]
Coppicing
See – a cut stump is a record
of age [in concentric rings] &
a blade has altered readings
My limbs ache – by disease’s
ill-conduct [new desire to lop
off my legs crawls into me] –
in better times I’m fine – not a
raspberry ripple ready for PIP
or to give up/ My daily mood
dithers from life-is-good to a
fuck-off-you – excuse my foul
language a malady sours me
when pain is engaged by my
body to remind me to delay –
Do not listen to that bastard!
& other encouragements – a
word to our well readers – no
illness is reversed by prayers
& I count its rings but am led
astray by a chainsaw’s scars
& resign to guessing games –
of age & time & late histories
written of in coppiced woods
[where I set my walking stick]
Sunset & Rozzers
I’m stood trapping a sunset
on my phone – I will tell any
rozzer that – I have stopped –
Officer – ‘cos my limbs ache –
Yes – My Parkinson’s can be
confused with drunks’ ways
but you’d need a drink too if
you had this kind of ailment!
Our laughter lightens his ire
& that kind sergeant’ll leave
me to take a photo of God’s
beauty [I’ll stick him a finger
as he strolls back to his car]
Your Buried Splinter
My clothes smell of bonfire smoke
& my sweat drips garlic/ My throat
readies to burn/ What a perfect day
You are a splinter under my flesh –
without pain [none lodged in me] I’ll
not pull you from me/ Burrow more
& infect me & stir a candied poison
[by presence] mixing honey & blood
to be bled/ I now slake on my skin’s
wound – but no removal – no tugging
of your sliver/ You’ll now corrupt us
with your kiss of sepsis in my veins/
Pull me to your pit & let me abrooke
love’s malaise [& bear more lesions]
but – still – I am undistressed by your
infection of me – we will sudate sex –
to mix with other tasted sweats/ No
nails struck in your plaster Jesus of
Nazareth [none]/He is more bruckle
than me/ I absorb you – a cut stick –
out of sight & so avoid worrying our
younger kinds [those we fostered to
minded ways]/ This flinder fuses as
my defences melt [an exquisite scar
will be left from days of burning-ups
& digging-at]/ I will bemuffle you – in
a tight gauze if it means you’re kept
safe from your under-skin qualms –
& visit your garden – we can work as
a pair – pulling out burnables & roots
to find never-touched loams under a
hospital blanket – Burn those witches
& dripping memories with a fire stick
to poke – we absorb more splinters &
scars off choking smoke & we gyrate
with that Lizard King & call on ghosts
of Red Indians with your rude embers
& I have found a piece of Heaven – on
your sofa we lean in – relaxing another
rule [my wound bleeds easily into you]
Too Early for Philosophy
Over time I may come to like myself
& Aristotle will be re-read & sales of
Stoicism accelerated to re-set every
thought of every thinking soul under
lock & key as we wash wrung hands
[ones brushing on outdoor surfaces]
A churchgoer lifts her arm to buckle
her face – masked – & a heated rising
in me cannot be tempered by Plato –
perhaps Marx offers propitious ways
for my mind as I stray into disdain of
God’s double spoken way – Amens etc
My dog pulls me from my thoughts &
I cannot catch that churchgoer’s eye
[as she has turned her head from my
stare] so I return to social distancing
as instructed/ Without Gods to guide
my retorts I’ll stay polite [of course!]
The Last Man in Europe
They’ve renewed lockdown edicts
for us shuffling half-wits [but I will
fly in my mind’s self-isolation cell]
No rattled keys & no one lingers in
filmed exercise yards/ Big Brother
is resplendent on my widescreen –
congratulating us – more mastery
in endless wars – Minitrue speaks
truth to all on Twitter feeds/ Take
us to Jura [to a thought distillery]
& let us sup on literature & porn –
awed by Geo. Orwell & Jade Kush
& their prodigious outputs! Spied
favourites are reduced – they slim
down to less choices [PornHub &
TikTok] to laments off inmates/ It
will be good to hear no complaint
[Quiet now – our children will sleep
in air-fed bunks & no longer weep]
& my rooms expand to exclude all
those narrow channels/ I grew up
with three choices [an abundance
of voices – not many mattered – so
we absconded from cells to fields]
When we can enter a cinema & sit
in rows – to be bugged by others –
who distract – then normal is back
but ’til then return from your one
trip [for essential avocados & fags]
& tune in to 10,000 choices of crap
Numbered Days
There is no science in daily tariffs
of death-by-country – our morbid
fascination pulls such in to dinnle
& talk [still kids die of preventable
pneumonia – that remedy’s rate is
is set too high] & auld statistics sit
in our yet-raged throats/ We’ll not
give a fuck until it is us – or closer
relatives – then we’ll read degrees
of temperature & sweat it out – no
herd immunity talk will suffice for
us – not with infected lungs to lug
from our bed & back in lost hours
& then we won’t care for numbers
of others read out in PM briefings
Attenborough and the Giant Egg
An island’s evidence [pitted – rimrose]
lies strewed between deserts & roads –
as if scattered wide by petulant thugs/
They infer hellacious avians feeding on
everything! – held in scythe-sized talons
& other such asinine stories trolled to
travellers waving tourist-green dollars/
Their eggs – hacked to shards [almost
aged vases] now a cracked paradox of
parts – too widely cast to dig up quick
answers for Sir David Attenborough or
others with questions [& audiences to
thrill]/ Madagascar remains a blast for
khaki-shorteds & battered Landrovers
whilst fady fables unsettle local heads
who will whisper elephant bird stories
on & on [Fear was man’s earliest mace
but giant eggs filled his ravenous face]
Takeaway in Uckfield
There were lights & sounds
late last night in our funeral
home – busy on newly dead
[quick-quick] as subfusk inks
wet let awry on diary pages
& penned onto calendars &
thumbed into ‘phones – Tick
to remind me [alarms set for
his not-attended ceremony]
& has anyone told Uncle Jon
& other missives texted out
to those who knew our Jim/
Facebook reverberates with
grief – Jim had locked them
out – Try CFC1964? – Yes! Of
course – his words [in posts]
say nothing of worth – they’d
been liked fifty times before
& are left alone – revelations
have been read/ Timeline off
And So It Goes
I read that a 13-year-old boy died alone
& aged souls will be let go [if there’s no
hope] to free machines & carers restrict
access even to medics & death is not a
sweetened ride for so many & songbird
rips loud beyond unfastened windows &
governments put stocks & shares afore
people & all footballers are capricious &
PPE & ICT & ITU are wings of Mercury &
lies travel wide via internet ties & nature
may not be to blame & China now plans
billions in gains & kids go hungry here &
women are hurt & not by this sickness &
our nurses fear illness & prayers are one
way our hedge-priests comfort us & it is
a pensioner who circles his lawn to raise
NHS cash & men in suits have plundered
by betting against hope & we will wonder
when & how & what & can & ifs & whys &
more questions than answers rotate & in
what year will our egregiousness return &
kill again & when will we learn our lesson
& not repeat old mistakes & settle for life?
Phone Only
My braiding-to-shuddering swirls
off your words – my reddened eyes
rub to wetness – sweat – squeezing
& grabs – your scuttled sofa inches
across your tenebrous room – mine
scrapes to make underlinings/ Our
roles – story writer & finer artist – in
spoken minutes of type & hatching
[by my swift stylus & your staining]
So we couple [no apparent contact
sitting x-miles asunder – forming a
coupled hollow mould by whisking
our word-dipped tongues across a
twin heave of breath – ’til we come]
& then to morning’s reunion in light
when my recall sharpens – not soft
markings but laid words & artwork
heavy enough to leave love’s scars
Our Cure
For S.L.
Foolishness had us locking fingers
into grips & crooks [urgent stuff of
other times when sex was not that
covetous act ] My mouth forms on
your name to recall our illicit graze
[perhaps too many times we found
our lips on bared skin – a corruption
of advised distances] but time riles
both of us – no brakes – no restraint
against vantages – not unless other
voices scold to disappointments [&
telling-off] Yearning smites us – but
this is an exoneration against more
dead-end lives – humdrum times of
panic in pandemic & other vile stuff
[so let us tussle & let us fall to love]
Perfect Isolation
Coupling bees are falling [Thut!]
Over-wrangled & humping – as if
there’s no tomorrow – they know
how things are & how things will
be – now our lives are set by rays
outside/ I am not clocking on [or
off] – I am welcoming primordial
rhythms & sleep’s brenne of fat/
I am back to my Neolithic ways –
food is sparse – a scattering – by
dusk none – then rest under dark
until more calls of birds/ We are
slimming & dying/ I have plans –
my lover & I will leg it to an isle &
walk naked – uncloaked to loose
ways ’til sunset aligns our return
to a bunk – there we will fuck [for
hours] then a night [torn covers]
& all that time our children sigh –
Mother – Father – What? & Why?? –
but outside Shiants will whisper –
by tides & gust – Yird yer watches
& bury yer clocks! – as we gyrate –
to eye each other’s wanting face
& lips – then less timorous in kiss
& contact [in our perfect isolation]
Hero & Leander
I want to lose my face [connections –
as you exalt – as you inhale]/ Imbibe
for four seconds – let your lungs rub
& keep you alive without new gasps
[hold it ’til you burn] – as your oxygen
thins – as my tongue paddles across
& down [I am not moving from here]
Your mouth is clamped by one hand
to bind/ My tongue probes – educing
fluids below/ We suck on your aches
[from that which is left]/ I fill on your
residues – I am not moving from you
[from our euphony]/ You issue air to
a count of eight – as my mouth rests
& we rest – still deep – greed – in love
[both robb’d of air.. one water drown’d
Donne’s epigram will not be applied]
After Covid
An aspen curse & other malices
grew among our fearful Easters
& sod all alters – we live effraide
since a plague is [again] among
us [under lockdown’s new rules]
Inserted tubes keep some alive –
ministers sit apart & upright – all
that distance between them & us
is to Save Our NHS [they claim it
as prized] but post-C19 it divides
into smaller bounties [& insurable
quotas] After such zilch is cushty
[there’ll be a hike in future prices –
because our pound is weaker – but
our fighting leader has won a war!]
Bring Attlee back [fuck Churcillian]
& find better ways – no feudal sale
of state & society – no Tory boys in
suits of Armani to praise/Fill each
bare shelf/Veto war-won dividends
Tear up plans for Austerity Again –
it will be our pain [assuming Covid
hasn’t taken everyone]/ We will eat
our words [Only flu virus] – it will be
our last meal – they’ll serve it to us
Good Friday
Number 8 Upper Uckfield Road
have laid a cross on their lawn –
it is cobbled from fence panels
I mistook it for a plague symbol
but they are a God-fearing pair –
Mr & Mrs Riverdoom at # eight
A miracle if their grass regrows is
what my godless voice says – no
one hears – excepting their Lord/
One day Mr Bell you will feel His
sword – until then Mr B will laugh
’til His blade cuts B by edge or PD
I own a sixth
I own a sixth of this beech tree
but do not have deeds or titles
to prove which parts are mine/
My claim is now on its shifting
shadow – April is in overdrive –
& I will move as a minute hand
around our shared garden/ Sit
with me [but be prepared] – my
view turns more conservative
with passing days [now willing
to profit well off nature’s ways]
Please pass me a Daily Telegraph
Mole Traps
You almost trip on another
tipped mound of grey sand
Turned soil reverts to fulvid
shades as our strides drop
us down to a black expanse
of foul-water ditches – thick
as if cooled off tarmacadam
& stinking [once kicked up]
A retreat to my childhood &
set aside meadows [framed
by dead streams – ore-stain
& pollutant slicks – no fish]
as July sun seared a stench
without equal – we could be
smelt at 100 yards [told off
we stood peeling outdoors
to shake off boots & scabs
into pleshes of dirt & blood]
There would follow bickers
of hungry voices – boys at it
with daytime treaties forgot
when hauled from outdoors
[our at-the-end-of-my-tether
mother cannot stomach us
Why four boys – Jonathan –
not a girl – me #3 a mishap]
Best left buried – eh – Mike?
Stay keen – about molehills
Her Mules
She’s tallying paces to renovate
her revenge body – now she is a
blithe thing – it implies she lied –
lies [she had screwed so many]
& disquiet is rising in her family
& for those near-to – ones stuck
by her sugared tricks – for fools
who breathed her sour spoor [&
who savoured her nasty spittle]
They can start to see she loved
herself [her sweaty selfishness]
& you [blinkered] hauled her cart
until turned – to see her offer out
to quicker mules [her payment in
favours – a sorbitol-coated listing]
& her chubby cousin [in her head
for thirty-ish years] on hotel beds
with men she took in confidence
& propped up in her sore head as
shafted fiction [mere echoes now]
A low cowbell pells on her loose
neck/ Running will never heal her
cellulite & other time born scars –
Good luck with repairs – you said
as lost years of hauling fell away
By My Hand on Three Sheets
1.
Our line [slightest sand] was crossed
& it was my transgression – my steps
to you & my selfish need to kiss – so I
broke Rule One – foolishness isn’t my
way [but we don’t live in normal times
because normal is only a selection on
white goods] So – our modest tasting
of intimacy [shameful stuff!] – what if
they walked in? You my metrical clue
Two Down: Tryst keepers (6) – Answer
LOVERS
2.
This is mine – momentarily – a puzzle
of parts to understand by eye & lips –
decode – I want to pull you loose – all
your buckles & buttons to read aloud
your marks – scars – curves & then to
learn from you – how to? How to grin
& be so serious but not too much – it
comes with love & practice & time – I
have rushed these affections – crime
continues now – normality is omitted
& calendars erased – we should kiss –
again?
Our Last Songbird
What day is it? Does it matter
to anyone - perhaps for those
itemizing them now? I dunno’
I’m a chancy man [chav & liar]
among low canopies of song
Envy is mine – their names are
half-known – all descants new
even though I have listened to
them [countless times] before
in other coppices – other ways
We freewheel blind & armed –
so forsaking archaic relations
to & with & of – as if moments
no more matter & we are not a
scientific fact – we are an ugly
creature keeping to First Laws
of Motion [we become forces]
& having writ such rules shiver
them apart – with no remorse –
no hang of head – unless dead
& then we count those missing
souls & breeds – no songs left –
& we howl had-I-wist as if it did
really matter – as if we cared &
felt – but we are liars – perjurers
A Sudden Girl
For S.L.
I can see your open mouth – then
your aspect – curling hair turning
in a breeze – blackbird songs are
now your words [amid saplings] –
long strides quit – you study your
land – & I take a look at your arse
in your jeans – figuring how I can
slip a finger between your skin &
waistband of machine stitchings
in order to lear [more!] about you –
a sudden being [my chainsaw girl]
I am feeling your blind skin under
my pressing – it gives – it returns –
as blood rushes – you are laid flat/
Your hands direct my nod of head
[our worn minutes bear no weight –
no bedim of lights – deadlines lost]
We meet with mouths & breath of
shots from sex – oozed into youth
of timings – but with a [brief] rusty
fumble – then we come to concur/
I find myself [with my sudden girl]
You can hammer glass [& ascend]
– my problems fall away – knocks
& beatings lift as my bruises fade
from sight – there is a rope – a drop
within reach – no loop or noose – it
was my one necktie [for too long] –
& shall we stop? Can we pause for
my fingers – rough fingers – to rest?
A Poem For You
If you can read this poem
you should heed my advice,
give me some distance,
not Coronavirus.
Andrà tutto bene
Everything will be alright – hope sits
between us – at nearly two metres/
Their rules demand flouting – as my
tea cools & your laughter rolls from
you – we deny all fears – no contrails
above – now – only our recalls taigle/
Nothing but curious deer will query
our behaviour – foolishness is such
affective stuff – we flirt by looks but
do not reach – this foreplay is yet to
involve skin & lips – that first joining
of limbs is a faraway thing – so we’ll
sit under sunlight & stay – patience
& other virtues settle in this space –
your toenails are purple – you finger
your necklace – you have made fun
of yourself – these are so attractive
to me – we browbeaten men melt in
your presence [we embreathe your
beauty]/ Deer are disturbed on that
land beyond your posts & low wires
[once enough to stave their closing
out & foraging]/ Here less distance
is a thing of value – you guide me in
Sex In Isolation
For S.L.
Here were colours in sex [flesh-tones
first & then white clues of bone under
blonde hairs] – bent wheat – then curls
on skin – lisps of subtle fur – no whims
bristled – not yet thickened by years &
years of age & concerns [woven greys
of every hair turns]/ Gloss by vowels/
Taste that lit blood under your eyelids
as visions percolate [red] between our
advances – off-white emissions curdle
on my bare thighs with my submission
to your words [colours you’ve spoken]
All Fools’ Day
Our clear sky’s brightness
is less reflected in frosted
glass – get back to locked
down beds & keep warm/
Grind against your other’s
offered hind [be she lover
hound or hand] & create a
frigged mess of sex/ Don’t
spare your rare toilet rolls
Still Reeling
An Adler typewriter centre on a desk –
in a remote mountain resort [actually
Elstree – London ] – tricks by chippies
& gaffers – a fake Apollo landing too?
Eagles & minotaurs vex up on walls/
Locations by a second film crew/ Off
white to grey to haemorrhaged hues –
to a scene of clues – or red herrings –
or subliminal lies – no commentaries –
no sense by floors or corridor routes –
just a tracking shot following a small
child on his trike – pedalled & steered
as if another level of plots – carpets &
wall coverings set to confuse with all
eyes on another viewing/ Metaphors –
intents – a room examined every time
by film buffs & message seekers/ RIP
Stanley Kubrick – dead but still reeling
Also on Medium
Plots
Gavin reads an enamel plaque
on a concrete birdbath below
four blue clocks – true north is
implied by one of those faces/
God is too far to register every
minute marked over lead paint
& see countenances [his angle
set by our old misdemeanours]
In this churchyard [alongside a
stone set to recall a long-dead
missionary] my pain redounds
on a thought-chiselled bench –
In memory of.. a soul loved too
much to forget/ A yew denies
seeing anything as it watches
every headstone tilt over time –
witnesses to a wearing away of
names & dates & rarer refills of
flower pots by bent mourners &
then observed left alone – bereft
in this acre of dearly departeds –
I wait on time to halt – four faces
to stop & squeeze on my breath –
to take my life [my full measure]
but it passes – hour-kept treaties
of scribed plans keep me alive &
a cog in God’s plays [impromptu]
one stage for us indigent actors/
Perhaps Gavin fed birds here – on
this bench he would sit & scatter
crumbs to [now rare] sparrows/ In
time we’ll be him – a worm feeder
Also on Medium
Rey Muerto
Your Queen is dead –
Long live your King
until you shove him
on your guillotine’s
carved collar where
he’ll nod off – upon
love’s scythed arm –
it will be his dreamt
moment of demise –
not quite enough to
still torments [but it
was built to behead
without a quagmire
of blood & plaining –
a quite polite death]
Charles coughs into
his plucked ‘kerchief
as his butler exhales
to stall Covid’s creep
Also on Medium
Going Native
For S.L.
I can see you on that island/
You’ve no eyed connections
to newscasts or family ires/
Besort as a neolithic settler/
Greater lightness in solitude
will mark your return to auld
ways – to pull you to undress
[& be stripped away]/ Let me
find you under lordly clouds/
It would be so worth crossing
crested water with grumbled
descants off a [breeze-burnt]
ferry-man… I see she’s gone a
wee bit odd.. Aye it’s isle-fever
& it’ll only go by frostbite’s nip
..Is she a close friend?.. You’ll
get close.. as a bawhair.. Aye!
[& other lewd remarks about
your naked ways are so cast]
as his rusted craft stammers
into slamming waves – I’ll not
respond – I’ll hold to my word
[borne in my light backpack]/
There’ll be only one question –
Is there enough space [in your
borrowed bothy] for me to set
out my now-removed clothes?
Also on Medium
Obviated
RB: I didn’t fancy much staying alive
MP: Really.. you contemplated suicide?
RB: No.. you can drink yourself to death…
I had a go…
Parkinson – Interview with Richard Burton, 1974
Richard in his beige rollneck
tossing off impersonations –
playing at thy compleat fool
for Mr Parkinson’s audience
of pre-pub gathered viewers
[under bared studio lamps]/
Chat turns to drinks & death
& rotten innards – digging at
Burton’s slag heap of failure
sat so high – ready to slip as
any of us could – mortalized
by Michael’s polite enquiries
about public love affairs – no
stones left unturned & noted
as bottles are numbered & to
entertain & enthral he has to
talk of longings for Elizabeth
& hoves [to his worthier self]
I urge for Burton’s love affairs
The Few
Shall we embrace military ways
of fighting & furloughs – of a war
vying unknowns? Rhetoric wins
when we have battles to be won
[& rulers plump before their gilt
mirrors & spun doctors – Should
I sport khakis today? Honey! Do I
look grand in green?] As leaders
preen & try to mask their smiles
from us as our medics sudate &
have their dripped brows wiped
by twice-gloved hands [we’ll not
see a shortage of any politicos!]
They put padlocks on our doors
to save us from ourselves [such
Maoist thoughts surely reserved
for communists – not dear Boris
who bends to scientific advisors
for seismic shifts of old canons]
His Tory party is stuck at prayer
as funeral homes see profits up
What’d Mrs Thatcher have done?
He wonders – Shown some balls?
This phoney war will bloom unto
bodies in bags [of which we don’t
have enough] Honey! Do I look OK
in grey – a single zipper – done up?
It’s a trendy thing in NY & Lon-don
When emptied high streets return
to trades – to lattes – to crowds of
grazers – when our herd re-settles
what will we have learnt from our
months of one tiny pandemic? Will
we regress to pack mentalities – a
need to fly & travel at any cost – to
tarry & forget? In war there is less
[but more is embraced once those
words of speechmakers & priests
have been fired off & we look at all
their echoed shells] & few are sure
Also on Medium
Last Orders
I perched – waiting – at The Crow & Gate
No beer or trucked food today – CLOSED
It may be another end to our world [who
cares?] or a glitch – a hard reset request
by Nature – it may be Far East iniquities/
We live in fear of failures – but not major
fuck-ups – they aren’t Western dilemmas
[only in movies & games]/ Her hell-black
crow sits immobile/ Mother will succour
rich pickings once morgues see queues/
Nature knows best/ We are a mere virus
with a lifespan determined by conditions
beyond our reach [we perch on surfaces]
A Prayer
You’ll have to get
use to these every day
adjustments of feelings –
now unequal & unnamed –
no numbering of sequences –
except dead or infected totals –
more or less – your view is framed
by your windows & your bright screens
Solitude is a rehearsal for death – practice
is good – as days run out into that fact of life
& you then fail to recall decent & dull normalities
[you’ll fall out of love with your locked-in companions]
MIKE BELL | 10,000 Poems 