Friday, 30 October 2015

Until The Cats Come Home


During the green season
she sticks to the shadows
melds with the darkness
blends with the foliage.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse
a patch of snow, a smudge of ear
the snake of an eye
that fades if I go near.


The stairs creak
and the frame shifts
with little explosions 
in the wood

thoughts turn 
to fires and ghosts.


The honeycomb of jade mirrors
combine to glow, the gold reflectors
wait in a soft shape:
stares a hole through my door.

She swims in her mackerel coat
across the graveyard slates, 
the shipshape planks.
Her transparent claws 
hook, grapple 
the armchair sides
as she glides 
into the lap of the fire.

Makes a nest of a shoulder
the fine antenna 
of down twitch whiskers, 
the pig pink nose 
nuzzles the nib of this pen, 
scrawls her hooligan motion
onto the page of this blank ocean. 

Thursday, 29 October 2015

Let Sleeping Cats Lie

This is the season 
to curl up in comic places and doze. 
Two choose a sack of garden clippings. 
Another makes a bivouac 
of a broken fence panel. 
The marmalade sets himself 
in the membrane of a trampoline. 
One more makes a nest 
in the bedroom curtain 
making it impossible to open. 

I fall asleep on the train.

Friday, 23 October 2015

Eyes In The Back Of Your Head

Grit in the wind, cigarette stubs in an elevator 
where parallel full-length mirrors 
allow you to see the yourself:
see inside the back of your own head 
forever and ever.

Saturday, 17 October 2015

Jim Rockford

This must be what it’s like to be a detective. 
I sit in my car watching, listening. 
I see the action in the bar 
as if relayed on a TV screen. 
A lean man with a comb-over 
drinks yellow beer 
and I think that I recognise 
this late night drinker from a previous case. 
The peroxide blonde barmaid comes into view: 
the femme fatale who dreams of another life 
wealth and fame, the usual cliches 
that will one day 
lead her into dramatic trouble 
or just boredom 
and disappointment 
as age finally catches up with her. 
A movement in the carpark distracts. 
A young man with a lean body, agile as a monkey 
swings through the shadows of the stables 
from the old coach and horses days. 
He wears a white feather in a felt trilby hat. 
The door to the barroom opens 
and two men walk out and light cigarettes. 
One of the men is a tragedy of wasted talent. 
Every night he drowns some unknown sorrow 
in pints of ale and you don’t need to be Jim Rockford 
to work out how his story will end.

Thursday, 15 October 2015

And Maybe You Do

False hope sun. The leaves turn in on themselves. 
Fields of pumpkins get ready to grin. 
Optimistic mystic windows close. 

It doesn’t take long to straighten out the dust. 
Find a job to do: something that you have been putting off -
Treat the task as if you were approaching the one grand defining 
Moment of your life. Trick yourself: imagine that you have forever. 

A bird on the wrong side of the glass panics her wings 
When the way out is straight before her. 

Collect thoughts, their residues 
Like oils in the palms of your hands. 

When you move to a place of warmth others 
Spell out what it’s all about.

Monday, 12 October 2015

The Glass Forgets

The glass forgets. 
Fields close in. 
Birds sing 
in black and white.

Sunday, 11 October 2015

Don't Forget The Stub Of Black Crystal

Start by opening the door 
let in a little night. 

Step back, think before 
opening your mouth - 
maybe don’t speak a sound at all. 

Let an acoustic guitar 
fill the white room. 
Sleep like there’s no tomorrow. 
Don’t forget the stub of black crystal.

Wednesday, 7 October 2015

Myopic Fly In The World's Smallest Inn

The world’s smallest inn has an outhouse.
An oval mirror, a lake of cloud
broken by ropes of cobwebs
too thick to catch even the most myopic fly.
The day is a glass half-full of bronze beer.
The barman talks of gods. The laughter
confirms them. 

Monday, 5 October 2015

The Fields Before Me

Hooked in to headphones tapes of dialogue segued together so that it seems that you are here again to tell the well known well worn story and even though we all know how it all ends the final intake of breath is still shocking. Later, I sleep in the windswept hills and the pictures linger into the morning grainy landscapes superimposed upon the fields before me.

Image: Su Joy

Saturday, 3 October 2015

To Bring Down The Rain In The Indian Summer

Somehow you have achieved the opposite. 
Unexpected sunlight 
spreads a sane, warm light 
onto the mellow wood 
of the portly belly chest 
of drawers under the window sill of my room. 
Dust from the farm still settles on the top in which I write your name. 
And yesterday I passed the old house 
and your Dad’s music 
that never gets played on the radio 
plays on the radio.

Friday, 2 October 2015

You're In Badger Beer Country

Smudging at the edging, fringes
of pewter clouds
where the brow
meets sky

a sepia photograph
adjusted on a computer
bark browns, black oils
sheen of silver

one season
joins another

you could see
a futuristic pod, capsule
the doors like a fly’s wings

vertical struts
horizontal beams
above, beneath
moon discs
jaws of grinding teeth

two centuries of distillations
brewed from  presumably the same rain
that fell from similar clouds

the road tilts, lifts
yellow/ash fields
spied thru concentric circles
and too fast to wonder
incrementals, notches
on ruler straight lines.

That said,
when you step back
what you might get
is an easily identifiable
bolted together contraption
an ordinary car
following a documented road
plotted on a red line
inside the folding of a map.

Half a moon
brass lamps
burnish windows
in the oiled latch
of the valley


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