Stupefaction Faction

Stupefaction Faction

Rowan berries are strewn in saturated lanes
their Mohican central grass reservations
wheels splash puddles in an ironic return
the search for fords to cross for the sake of crossing fords
for the alchemy of creation begets the pain of production
the notebook that walked remembering fundamental things

my father’s strength
the changing faces of the population
a cat curled up in the lap
long claws clinging to the hug
the triumph of capitalism over romanticism
the confidence of a practiced killer
an abasement of victims
the worms sperm

hail the shining eyes of sheep at night
at the door of the collapsed pre-Christ cathedral
an exclamation of drums
stumbling 360 degrees in unseen reeds
everything looking the same
know it like the back of my gloved hand
it’s tough at my top
not pandering to the ridge
navigating by recalled vegetation
the feet rather than the stars
as a viper recoils sensually from my stamp

driving through the neglected night-time hamlets of our pasts
the ancient faces looking out from ancient rocks
with tails between their legs
introduced animals gone wrong
investigation of a travesty
the timetable the times
my name as corporate image

he kissed my hand outside the bookies
his stabbed someone when he was young
handshake autumn hum animal husband animism
now wash your hands
me formal and strange in low nougat sunshine
I never knew
her dancing face steals your life
the shadow of a bird darting past a narrow window

I Never Do What I Say I’m Going to Do

I Never Do What I Say I’m Going to Do

Can I talk to you about how to cope with the end of the world?
It is a brilliant exercise in formal design
with subtle and appropriate historical allusions.
It has been the subject of partial bans in France and Germany.

I used to do shows in the Midwest of America for gas money.
Instant evening.
It would be no worse than my doctor.
He seems tired. “Four out of ten”, he says when asked how he’s doing.

Speculation about her disappearance has turned into an industry,
fuelled by many conspiracy theories.
From the nose up they looked normal.
I don’t think the head had been there for long.

Tasers should be available to everyone
to give them an opportunity to protect themselves.
Twice as striking, twice as fatal!
The good news is they’re not actually for doing sport in.

How often do you have sex?
This term refers to reducing the number of species
where possible by accepting variations within a species.
I play with my two Chihuahuas.

Weekend With a Ghost

Weekend With a Ghost

It began, like so many adventures, with a smile over a table.
I didn’t know the girl was Italian.
No drooping jaws, double takes
or pointed fingers from assorted bar flies.
A glass of wine’s not grapes, is it?
Most days I’ll manage the five.
It’s a cabbage tour de force, its leaves finely shredded,
in an oriental soy-based dressing,
garnished with deep-fried matchsticks
of celeriac and leek, chervil, chives
and oven-fried cabbage leaves with the texture of poppadoms.
It’s so arresting that the barmaid stops serving and stares.

He knows a lot about potatoes.
As he looks disconsolately from his plate,
to the rain-lashed window, to the engineers,
there can only be one unspoken question on his mind:
how can any of you live in this country?

Jules was keen to meet as soon as possible
and asked me to bring some sexy dresses and underwear
so she could take pictures of me.
I loved being able to wear a different outfit every Saturday night,
and my wardrobe started to become the envy of my friends.
When Louise looked down at her burning, red, peeling skin,
she couldn’t stop herself from crying.
It was only eight weeks before her wedding.
Why we had to put sex on ice.
Considering breast enlargement.
Talk to an expert.
The more confident you are, the less vulnerable you are to accidents.
When I woke up the next morning, Anna was gone.

Imagine a small, picturesque icicle on a Christmas card
and multiply its size until it’s 30 m long.
Something that would let me point me at something and know what I meant.
Lick it. Suck it. Bite it.
The whole process may resemble
a particularly deviant sexual perversion
but it is undeniably effective.
I’ve got no idea what that actually means.
And I was rapidly becoming another animal.
Or at least someone else.

One of his wives said that when he was with her
he spoke in a different voice.
I always heard the little boy voice.
He was my hero growing up, and now he’s a mate,
which is a bit strange.
He always seemed very much like a beekeeper
who’d found himself at the top of the world
and was just enjoying the view.
No obvious destruction.

The Lanes

The Lanes

The young fox in my headlights
seems unable to move beyond the beams
in the high-hedged, languid lanes.

Running, he looks over his shoulder at me,
one to one,
perhaps recognising a truth
then he is gone,
disappeared into cow parsley,
the spell broken,
my foot down again.

Tails

Tails

He was born in a queue,
raised, schooled and loved in one,
fought a war in another
and was buried in one too.

Published in The Rialto number 54

How To Look Good Mad

How To Look Good Mad

You’ve gone
a tall glass takes your place
whoever you were
a long weekend
of decorative Victorian truncheons
sail on the giving and receiving
of invitations
steak knife stake
former lovers and their lovers
some of she
some battle of the Somme
I write instructions on my left forearm
and wish my sperm was coconut flavour
for the hell of it and marketing purposes
as I travel by envelope from hole to hole
my blood up
reality dawning or not
shredded by teddies
had for breakfast

Slippage

Slippage

A watch slows,
the minutes, the ticks piling up
adding to the hours lost
in abstinence of electricity
as on the prow of your imaginary longboat
you drift along your bloodstream
and the tributaries of others,
scouring the banks for enchantment,
slipping in, slipping out
of a sleep that eludes you.

New Boots

New Boots

They carry in their soles seeds and small stones,
shards of fractured glass,
the sediment of streams,
of the gnawed-down coast,
the wetness from trampled grass,
from spit,
the dust of drought,
of the crossroads and meeting places
of the great migrations,
the memory of gradients,
maps and moving and not moving,
the droppings of covert creatures,
the dregs of Saturday night,
the vomit and blood street paintings,
ashes of condemned pages of obsolete love letters
or goodbye notes,
chewed gum,
abandoned jelly babies,
used-up insects,
a wren’s feather,
the curt tail of a vole,
the dead eye of an eel.

Published in Poetry Wales volume 41, number 2

Martello Tower

Martello Tower

Meet me on the casemate,
at the carfax of all my edges,
the killing ground,
the redoubt,
or on a level playing field, please.

There, in borrowed armour,
I will surrender all those hours
I have squandered in thrall
to your silence,
your distance,
resistance.

When the ink is dry on this declaration,
I will be free from the futility
of my obsession,
sailing away from the treachery
of your skin’s coast
in a boat made of fists.

Tonight, young men must be dancing
all along Brick Street,
fighting duels over you
which I am prevented from joining
by the terms of my capitulation.

Forty miles south of your mouth
I’m reduced to being a road sign,
mutely directing my admiration
in your direction.

Published in Poetry Wales volume 39 number 2

The Curvaceous

The Curvaceous

 

I only like things which can

be defined by a curve:

alcohol containers,

steering wheels,

dancing girls,

baby heads,

the moon,

pebbles,

apples,

seeds,

eyes.

 

Published in The Slab of Fun