War
His knucles are pink raw and leather tough,
they leave her face as quickly as they touch it,
temporarily molding it the way a shell is molded for a snail,
but the skin sneezes back into place, and reddens so that it is the colour of his tie.
Her gut reaction is to hold her skin, stop it from moving away from her
and cry tears as heavy as the gut he pushes into her.
She is spun as if a coin, and lands, heads up.
Her daughter brings her wine and nestles in her arms as the door swings closed behind him.
She is composed before the child has a chance to blink,
steadies herself off the ground as her skin swells as if blistered.
Xmas Mistletoe
Her wrinkles rise on her forehead,
her arms clamber up to her head where she scratches an itch.
She looks up at the angels perched on the tree,
and wonders if they were always there
teasing her short arms that barely scrape their wings.
The chapels were the place to see them,
not trees, where they seemed more like a joke.
She fondles the tips of their wings, tries to pull them down,
but only displaces the mistletoe that hovers above her.
She tries again to reach them, break their grip on the branches
but cannot and will not reach any higher.
She takes her left shoe off and grapples with it,
only for mistletoe to fall.
He comes in, as fast as it falls, grabs her round the waist,
will not wait for her to turn around before kissing her.
They stand there interlocked, as passionate as new lovers and wait for christmas, the new year and more mistletoe to fall.
Visiting Her
The air smelt of burnt sugar, but she wasn’t sweet to me when the door opened
But instead tapped her heels on the stairs and shoved soft, crunchy fragments of crushed
Butterflies into my hands before turning and walking away. I followed her through
Corridors and came to a purple plastic door.
Dressed in flesh nettles she sat on the couch in the middle of the room, pursing her lips.
The air was lighter now and reminded me of springtime even though it snowed outside.
She was holding a Martini, while strumming her fingers on her lap.
I thought you wouldn’t come on your own, thought you would have brought Her. Of
Course I’m glad that you didn’t but then making me happy has never been your concern
Has it? You’re here at least, so tell me why did you come? Is it because you’re sorry or has
She thrown you out?
I took a seat, watched her as she sipped her drink and played with her hair,
She was pleased that I was watching her, pleased that I had gone to see her
And pleased that I grabbed her from behind and picked her up.
To Watch
We sit and stare ahead,
eyes locked on her plaits as she dives through the traffic.
She listens to the radio, bobs her head, so we speak through it.
We withstand the noise only because it is not white,
not obviously there the way smoke is, but grey.
The sound is milk thick and cola soft,
so we dip our toes in gently, so gently that we don’t realise
what we do.
She puts the music up, takes her sunglasses off, and turns to us,
to the back and to the speakers. She steers us into a tree.
Later we laugh at our startled eyes, hands that wave wildly, but only later,
now we scream as we crash into an apple tree,
laden with fruit which taps the car’s hood as it falls as if rain.
carnage
Painted faces,
black and white, red smeared on their faces,
depicting large lips,
faces contoured, hands waving frantically,
they jump as if onto a trampoline.
Underneath, the charred ground collects their bodies,
like a bottle collecting grapes to make wine.
We look down to see
a pink carnage blossoming
like poppies out of milk.
Feeling Him Go
She feels his pulse against her cheek,
feels it throb, the way she imagines clocks would
were you to inhabit them.
They are slow, lethargic, cumbersome tick tocks.
His skin, no longer sandy and rigid but milky, and
supple as if made up from rubber bands sewn together.
His veins, hills like blue elephants
break the surface of his skin,
remind her that the time has come for byes.
She measures his pulse against her watch,
can not decipher anything other than that his beat is much slower,
painful.
She would wait for him to wake up,
wait for him to sleep again
but knows that this time it won’t help
and it will only be her that sleeps again tonight.
Freedom
Blue lips held firmly open,
red and white tablets sit on the tongue.
The throat opens up, swallows
and within the pink damp walls the race to freedom begins.
The blood pushes itself around thinned walls
that feel like wet tissues,
moist from the blood that beats against the flesh walls,
moaning to be let out.
She lies down in her cell,
waits for the pumping to stop,
the walls to open, but they don’t.
The walls thicken like glue, and
push her left and right,
squeeze her throat
between razor sharp nails.
Her heart stops for just one second,
stops then starts again
and in that moment the blood does not pump,
the walls don’t beat to the heart’s rhythmn,
but humm like birds.
The Genie
The night she died in her arms
the sky bled stars -
the clouds had an aneurism
that echoed her heart’s last beat.
The night she died,
the air stopped moving
and became so solid
it chocked passersby.
The night she died
water in the taps became wiry
plant stems that choked those who drank it.
She came to her later,
as a spirit,
not in her dreams but in the day
as clear and brightly dressed as the sun.
The spirit cried blood in her arms,
tried to climb into her body,
stay intwined with life,
but couldn’t stop the light.
The light struck her,
knocked her off balance,
collected her like genie in a jug.
She never returned.
A Found Poem Taken from the Execution of Gary Glitter
monster, monster
monster, monster
monster, monster
fair enough I am no angel
but I am not a monster-
do you wanna, wanna be
do you wanna, wanna be-
you’ll be taken from this place-
do you wanna, wanna be
they’ll fuck you up the arse-
you have the right to remain silent-
I’m vain, got the drugs got the booze-
I’m no angel
and I hold up my hands and say
I am no angel
1972, 73,74-
in this country-
am no angel-
in this country
you have the right to remain
got the drugs, got the booze-
in this country-
and I hold up my hands-
in this country-
woof, woof, woof-
in this country-
got the drugs, got the booze-
in this country,
in this country-
you will be taken from this place-
do you wanna, wanna be-
monster, monster
I’m no angel
up the arse, up the arse
I’m no angel-
in this country-
got the drugs, got the booze-
monster, monster.