and the poem that follows October 30, 2007

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not hollow love, but a multistranded maypole of ribbons
                            garlanded spinning-head                          cloudbound and windwhipped

not letters on fingers, not gouged graffiti
                            not a calculation of one-and-one

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                                                     1

you are perfectly polite; your white top and your nervousness worn
in soothing contrast
your eyes

                                                                                  Dart
to my green eyeshadow
and in you eyes, a shadow of memory clenches my intestines in a fistgrip

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~

                                                     2

this love heaves tides
fidgety smudger of workbook worries
strawberry haired interloper

                                                                  your scissor-glue struggles
                                                                  rubber rumours           and

                                                                  dirtyfingered    daydreams

hurl my days foward, hand over hand
fields reflected- long and thin- in blunt blades, tempt us both

a snipping-itch for pedals and puddles

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~

                                                   3

yes I do dream about you     :     you also dream of me

slenderboned and  taut-coiled like a shiny brass spring -
             that
             eyelock
             meeting
you: tidy tie’d and tired  

all this but speech remains pro  fess  ion  al

your embers singe the days to ash in perfect timing
                                                       of my own quiet fire

i would consider it love if i did not know the reasons

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                                                 4

the horror of complete ease is a terrible love
a rot-garden of soiltopped roots
spring tide, then neap; days seep sleepily   -    tide tired

the weight of an arm

seeing matthew on a return visit to October 28, 2007

you are heavy these days
                          muttering and basket-armed in the wall shadows

your hotchpotch selection of trinkets, strung from the fir branches, 
are added to less and less frequently

i do not believe that the waves no longer offer treasure
:the pregnant belly of a pink dinted bouye
a new blue shoe
spinnakers – those alluring lures

you see them less

                                                                a little further downhill
                                                                waveward,
                                                                they still dress the crab for you,

shove it back in the shell cavity, all mushy-pushed and
                                                                looking like it never scrabbled in shingle tides

.

.

craggy blackrock spines; bladderwrack bound, show at neap tide             

time is rushing for you now

the very last ripple of mister most important October 27, 2007

you are important in an office far away
                                                            lanyard noosed  –  a four cornered
                                                            copy of yourself  .laminated to last.
you can wipe this version of yourself clean, lucky boy lucky boy

in your apartment of jarred pasta sauces and video games
                                                            a timemachine bides time without whining -
                                                            your buttonfaced creation: watching
                                                            as you capture kingdoms with overused thumbs

you are so very clever with your knowledge of mathematical things
                                                            you have a mind full up of complicated equations
                                                            and a niggling worry about the globs of solder on your
                                                            beige stained carpet

.

.

.

To me, darkrunning th ink ing, these
 globs are all stars – lluminated
by kisSes and the
smooothness of
      cobbles.       
solderbeads turn
to silver gypsy charms
mingling to tinkle a secret
solder-glob sonata. 
they slyly pinch nail-crescents up your soft-spine,
sparkling sopranos spurning lazy lovers in the eggfaced dark.

this is what i see

.

.

 

you see solder on your carpet which may or
                                                                may not
                                                                be covered by your comprehensive insurance cover

                                                                and i
dryeyed

file you with a mild-smile
                                                                under L

 a timemachine can not work by numbers alone

yellowdress October 27, 2007

 Inana, you have the power to destroy that which can not be destroyed, and to set up that which can not be set up  said Enki, his list of Gods before him.  Young Inana what more could we add for you?

                                           ***********************************

there were whispers once in the ceilinghigh taught-glass entrancehalls
of this place

one day she wipes tables
the next,
wrapped in yellow silks of tumblenotes and egged on by a jaunty-angled hat in shadows
she dances

bottle-heavy, Enki missed bricks, lulled by the jazz and the sweet
wordflirts
glass [cast askew] reflects back slightly off-kilter, twice.

we twitter in a flurry of octaves and an evening breeze curacao-coloured
pecking at minutes in the sky high rafters
hoppity waiting, calling to flock, to sweep shadows with tiny wings
and things

she preens flat her rufflefeathers, eating the bug she finds creaking under one quill in a quicksnap      soon forgotten. 

she polishes lead crystal ashtrays
watched by herself, reflected

in the shadows, honeylike movements within glass               
 
 

bitt er blocking October 18, 2007

jangleboned beside crowds
a-part of me
hippedy-hop don’t stop running jiggling through them
smallhanded, jumping jumping

my tacky tactic sulk
                            sinks in sunshine and a note-tumble
(plastic cupof beer) they wrap me in their -hopsy- smiles

on sunday when I swam the bay: chalk cobbles shining
                                                          whitey-grey blotches on my blacksuit swimsuit
                                                          

                                                           then              then the traducement of                      (where the bloody hell were you?)                   last thursday sank,

                                                                                                                plash

                                                                                                                plop  .  .

towelbound with saltwater coffee and yay-mummy hugs
it didn’tmatter

it doesn’t matter now with the beat of the swing band
the beat of my tear-gland unmanned.

king penguins October 16, 2007

look, he said
look mum there are ten million king penguins
the man took a picture and they all put their smart feathers on
cos, cos                ummm                      he sent a letter
                                          before he came so they had time to put their smart feathers on.

-well sweetheart, they wear those feathers every day, they are fixed on.

no they aren’t

                               

what is it ralph, what you got there?

some letter, from some bloke about an article in the Observer, he wants to take photographs

Cool, that’s great, we need the publicity

Publicity is all very well, but you know what it means, don’t you

What?

We’ll only have to put our best feathers on, and you know what a hulabaloo that creates in the masses

the house nextdoor has a flagstoned yard October 11, 2007

.

.

and on again counting flagstones
watched a little by fatty from the gable end, his feathers which yesterday were 
smo OOth, seamless sea mist grey, today
ruffle in the wind

                                                     yeslook (shhh, gently now)

one-a-penny these paces
one of many bruised f                                                      

a bowler hat for my fatpigeon and a tiny brass topped cane
companion in pacing

[this game
an exciting wristcast roll of the dice
                                     (little bitty too much non possumus movement)
                                                              and 'tell me about your mother'

they really say that, you know  (tiss-you bound) in white rooms]

will you flap down when i am gone, peck at the gaps, the mossysoft borders of
step-on-step,                            smarten yourself out of the wind   
.
.

pivot October 11, 2007

i did not realise that anything was wrong he said
and a friend wrote about the magic of pivotal words hidden in the string
with two meanings and more outcomes
and all of a sudden with the liberating fun of a lost poem    and    as well as all that
this day has the lingering of bonfire tendrilwhisps
                                                  copperdozing lazy leaves
                                                  the last warmth of the year coaxing the scent from the squashflowers

there is a place where a man with old bones

it really doesn’t matter that there is no absolut(e)   for this is the proof
perhaps those heavyheaded bullocks will nod-a-low until their very heads fall off