Sunday, 21 December 2008
A Ya Du poem
shines so soon on
quiet poon where life
ends by knife slice
for a passing sacrifice.
Soon wails will rise
as Levis once
a prize are found
as rags bound to
limbs dancing for bunraku.
Police will come
but play dumb as
they numb justice
with bribe’s kiss so
next moon you dance death’s tango.
Saturday, 20 December 2008
'When he gets to the South American sales figures throw in the question about the Sans Marie metals deal, it will stop him dead.’
Anne’s business dealings matched what she was in bed - dirty, slow and then a hot finish.
Today was going to her finest hour and her last.
Growing up too soon
of times gone by.
Beaches, stately homes,
wet museum days out.
Lay-by pop and cake picnics
when bees chased jam. Was mum ill then?
Did her dancing mask the rotting decay?
My childhood packed away before it’s time.
car-boot sales stuff
A Clarity Pyramid
strangers met by chance,
the ones who stopped, stood by
became fellow travellers
“a medicine for what life throws”
obligating, praising, warming
steadfast, open, false, fair-weather
judging, betraying, warring
all day shadows dance around
words rest on tongues
The warmth of the body leaves slowly.
He had spent 50 years next to her. They had laughed in that bed, heard the first and last cries of children, forgiven and let lie.
In the morning, the questions, the cries but tonight was their last embrace. His tears could wait.
‘Get you own dinner then’ The door slammed and footsteps stumped away.
‘I will then and don’t think I can’t,’ muttered Sam.
Finding the chops he followed his vague memory of how mum grilled them..
As he explained later on the phone, ‘the firemen were really cool with the fire.’
The teenagers stood in the cave of the ancestors. This day they become men.
The tribal elders came in quietly and stood in a row and then started the ancient chant, ‘when this bunker opens between sunrise and sunset to which the teenagers responded, ‘the war on terror is won.’
Thursday, 4 December 2008
They were shocked. He had talked to them using words, like they were primitives who couldn’t telepath. Telling them to talk among themselves: it was dirty, crude and so physical. But as original as you would expect from an artist who wrote books with words.
They voted him the winner.
Floods stopped the train.George heard the announcer explain that buses would now complete the journey. At the station he was one of three-hundred people in monsoon like rain. When buses did arrive George became part of the mob leaving the weak and loaded to struggle.
His descent shocked him.
‘Man why are you always putting me up against these empty cans.’
'You know the score; the quickest way to get to the slam final is to have zero losses,’ said Pete. The sap, we are building the odds to make millions when he gets ass kicked in the final.
A boy got stung by nettles and ran crying to his mum. She was one of these hippy types bleating whatever you do, do with all your might.
‘Hold them tight.’ she advised ‘and you won’t be hurt.’
He did and died of Anaphylactic shock.
Sometimes if you can’t, don’t.
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
The soft tick-tock of the wall clock counters the intermittent click of the typewriter as outside ambulances wail and fade. As I pause for a bite of shortcrust mince-pie, its spices kiss my nose; the rough texture contrasting with the keyboard smooth. And the white paper fills with black words.
It was always the grey November sky with their dank mists, rotting leaves and the caws of birds unseen that makes the memories scratch and scrabble back. I am running and falling; they are screaming, yelling and getting nearer. My heart shakes. A hand looms and my childhood is over.