HEADLINES

newapapers!

the garish row of shouts and screams 
and demands and blame and bloated breasts
line the shop shelves

i'm only in here for bread and eggs
not
detailed
moral
apocalypse/the reckoning and porn

well, 

i feel an anxiety when i look at them
a troubled
unwell surge
that threatens dizziness
and . . . what?  ACTION?

anyway, 
out on the street the low sun catches a white house
high on the hill
and makes it shine like fairytales

i feel simple when i call it ANTIDOTE 
but . . . well, it is

YOU

It’s after eleven.  You go in the first dark bar you see.  The wooden stool scrapes on the floor as you sit down and order.  You hope it will settle the shake in your hands and the white noise in your head.  You sip quickly and order another.  You slump forward as the tension eases away in the flood.  You look around and taking off your coat you fold it carefully.  You scoop some nuts from a bowl into your hand and tip them into your mouth.

     The TV on the wall shows rolling news.  Reporters wear body armour over pastel shirts and dusty soldiers wear sunglasses.  You’re jealous of how far away they are.  You check your phone.  Eighteen missed calls.  You order again.  You pick up the bar menu but don’t read it.  It’s nice in here you decide, quiet.  You want to stay longer.  Stay here all day.  Your wedding is at one.

YELLOW CHIP DINNER

dont know what to say
to the world today

except maybe; 
i wish it was a nicer place, globally, you know?
with the emphasis more on its people
that its trade
and 
i wish my chip shop didnt shut on mondays
cos
i could go for a paper wrapped yellow dinner tonight

PARTY, PART 14

and later on

before she leaves 

she makes her goodbye rounds

smiles and hugs and promises and waves

and

i take her picture which could have been great

a talking point/an intimcy/a last grasp

had 

she 

only 

kept still for me

AUTUMN!

autumn blue
like dialled in from photoshop

the crispy litter gathers round
the weedy borders and the red brick edges
of
quiet domestic morning toast calm

in the cafe the waitress women wear floppy halloween hats
and
i
sit
reading Bunker cos Foyles had no Goodis

graveyard; natures ragged gold coins pile and clot
under
the burnt amber hues
a woman bends over 
wiping down her parents shining black headstone
and 
a mother chases a football kid in the park
he stops his little running and picks up a big leaf
and
turns
to
hand
it too her
same mother and child i saw singing together when i left the 
warm cosy heating of the drying washing house

i buy milk in the shop - all perfect
all autumn - dialled in from photoshop
cold air
cleans 
that Silent Hill fog away

and - what is that?  in the brown drift hiding the kerb?  
a leaf, lots of leafs, but
they
are 
WHITE!
albino leaves in the torn gold stacks!

what Windows glitch is this?

SMALL GESTURES

small gestures

like

in the bar

where we both indicated the seat in the corner

in the park

where i failed to recognise a goose and you frowned your eyes

on the sofa bed

in that living room where you moved your foot on me

 

small gestures punctuate and decorate and anchor and skewer 

my life

and

its

only

small gestures that are big enough

to 

haunt 

me

for 

years and years

WRITE NOTES

write notes

all day

tuck them in zipped trouser pockets

     safe

scribbled in stairwells

and

scrawled in storerooms

before

the

nurses

burst

in looking urgently for this and that

i wonder

will i have the energy to type them up when i get in?

this is one

PARTY, PART 13

and we hurtle on brakeless greased sliding

but its fine

its fine

my sweat is only a thin itching coat invisible in the dark

i think we should slow down . . .

i think we should . . .

but

whats to say?

whats to say?

whats to say?

- I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO TELL YOU . . . 

all the stuff and gypsies

my uber muse

uber muse

with your flat that STINKS of design

with a frosted glass wall

so cool

and the wood so good

the wood so good

and the view like Rear Window

(i never touched her at all)

and

as soon as she daintily and strategically and tactfully could

she 

was 

off

into the dark of bar and party

JIM MORRISON THE CAT

the kitten purred awake before dawn
he put his paws on
he took some whiskers from the ancient gallery 
and he walked on down the hall
he went into the room where his scratch post lived
and...then he
paid a visit to his empty bowl
and then he
he walked on down the hall
and he came to a door...and he looked inside
master? 
yes son
i want you to FEEEEEED me
master...
i want to...
MIAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!

MONDAY HAIKU

bad monday, damn, hell,
bring me a better weekday
tomorrow, for sure

PARTY, PART 12

so eventually after some mingling

and some drinking and some laughing

with only talking to her

on my whisky mind

on my tired mind

on my lonely mind

after so long

(she found someone else and i stopped my hungry emails

and drank

and drank

and drank

cos i never touched her at all)

i

come in from smoking another cigarette

alone on

the drizzle market street

where

i'd

deep into the puddle world/where things seem both

clearer and murkier at once

and

I SAID HELLO

and she shot up like a bolt of

curly lightening

and we talk over each other

our tongues like thick drunk thumbs

hurtling into

conversations and tangents

and

like she used to

she

filled my gaps

and

i had to smile because

I LOVE THE WAY SHE PUTS THINGS

I LOVE THE WAY SHE PUTS THINGS

i love the way she puts things

so clear

my uber muse 

i 

never never

touched

at all

TURTLE HAIKU

the turtle looks sad
he lights my nights with blue stars
birthday present '12

CARBOLOAD

i don’t EAT these days

but

CARBOLOAD and PROTEINPACK

in vacuum gobble jags 

of hot sauces and crisp black edges

cos

there is no time

not really

there is

an

infinitely

higher chance

of 

WRITING

something

good

if you are there

WRITING 

in the dark

alone

with your chin and hands and Chet Baker

and

a whirling alien

pan-fried

mind that just

MIGHT

lock onto to a wispy gem

given half a chance

PARTY, PART 11

so

so

GIRL - of course/etc, and hmmmmmm

anyway

theres her hair/like a trade mark

she

has

a

NICE top on

deeply cut down her slim chest

and i see a small sweet pimple

like a street sign

over her

left boob

the NICE top

has pirate cuffs and a glamorous flouncy neck

its a party top/for a party

its glamorous like

her 

hair

like 

in 

the

pome

i wrote and sent to her

i wrote and sent to her

i wrote and sent to her

so, GIRL - of course/etc, and hmmmmm

TRUMAN WITH NO SHOW

ANY activities
seem abstract now

to tap these keys/prepare that meal

like an experiment
the scientists
lost funding for or interest in 
long long ago

i am Truman with no show

i partake from habit
and
the mildest smidge of curiousity

but one day i must stop
and
climb behind the walls

PARTY, PART 10

so, party; despite the odds i did arrive

in a numb bag of ignored stress

buried

deep

to

make

DIAMONDS!

and

i did arrive

and

i did arrive

and

the first thing i see is HER

was HER

profile of big hair like some sea creature

long nose of ideas

her smile twists for another man

and

i had to hide/piss out the big whiskeys

of the afternoon

and let the

street sweat dry off

with the rain drops/clings dirty to my skin

forehead

livid 

with

the mark of cain; the big red canyon groove

where i’d dragged a torn crushed beer can across my head

that

drunk garden

yesterday

seems

such a

long science ago

(and digression and Midnight Run make this pome an unintentional epic; an ode to DODGING)

SHOES

my shadow on the bridge is suit shaped
silhouette with a Heisenberg hat

my satchel is Finnish/made in the 80s
and
my mind; a very present day Scream

bright shoe shop window on the north shore 
yells irrelevance at me

the
shiny
shoes
on
stands
are the MOST trivial things ever 

i am angered by it - FUCKING SHOES/JESUS!
and
i
stomp
and
limp
thru the building site City of dug holes and new swelling towers
to
escape on a train
with four seconds to spare

all the long journey home 
(the train fills and empties and fills and empties)
i think about shoes

and how 
of all the evils of consumer capatalism
the
ready
availability of such a base essential is actually commendable

not so long ago
everybody
had just one pair of shoes/if that

and
i
got unworn trainers in the bottom of the wardrobe
waiting for their moment

whatever that means

anyway

NIGHT APPLE

the moonlit apples
black and white, wild, soft and sharp
rot on silver lawn

PARTY, PART 9

so, 

mount the steps by toking smokers into the long dark bar

of gold and black wood

my

shirt

is

too tight/too brown

and there is a long lurid red cut on my forehead 

where i crushed a beer can last night

drinking out on the dew wet lawn

and

there SHE was

back to me/talking

her man tall by her side

so, 

i hurtle by calling out 

where's the toilet? 

to some vague acquaintance

i wipe the street sweat from my head/i cant go in cold!

not street fresh!  dazzled blind by traffic and humanities holes!

hot steam 

clogs my arm pits

and

itches the corners of my face

no,

yes,

i hide in the toilet to regroup

(dazzled! dazzled? yes)

i not seen her since before LAST XMAS when my optimism was at its

blind valium height

and 

NOW

i'm fresh from the rain on the street - DAZZLED 

and shaky early drunk

been hassled by a lost couple misunderstanding an A–Z

looking for some closed meat market

and i'd asked them directions

to this bar

to this bar/to this bar

where i see HER

my uber muse 

i never ever touched

ENGLAND

hospitals moody

its break time, coffee and fags

england is raining

PARTY, PART 8

all of it!

blows my baby-heart away -

i must think on -

and the drills rattle london teeth

i must think back

and DO the party again in this baby-head

i MUST write it down

cos

i must

i must

cos this towns too small and ripped of mind and hope

and my tiny heart pumps only cheap soft toys

but i’m not keen . . .

(i need a cat in here/a cuddle bag of purrs

or 

a silent woman of curves to decorate

the 

cheap

bedspread in delight)

so,

i’m not keen to but

but

but

OK

i will

for my torn insides and for my baby-heart

i 

WILL write

it down . . .

i take a long drink of course

and 

the night and the window and the blue tv

will

watch

THE SMELLS!

the empty air stinks of 1000 memories

wig-wam weddings
and the new dark school terms
huddled dusk streets
and thick mists
of
other older time

nature blooms a red death on the hills burst palette

and the heatings on!
clicking and clopping
and rattling like tiny hooves escaping home

and 
stinking
of crumpets and dr who
and of the silence of early nights
intimate
with
memories of her and him and this and that

everywhere and of everything

but
so
little
can be nailed down

PARTY, PART 7

so,

i force myself to force myself

to

think on the dark party that happened

to

think back/rerun and rewind

to

confront the thing . . . with open armour

all the Things!

to

to

to

write intelligently about the Girl

who 

has 

lived

on these pages more than her street reality

and i never touched her at all

to

confront like therapy/like a crystal moment drunk

the last blown happiness-

late summer/jumpers at dawn

-when i suddenly flew on brief wings

lighter 

than

anything 

i

felt

since

since

since

i was too young to spell the days 

PARTY, PART 6

and these heart-drain drills rattle on

a staccato mash on city skin

pummel out a new architect picture

of 

transport

and

orange brick canal

drills been rattling in Kings Cross

since the dole years

when 

i lay on a sofa bed fried and died awake in dawns stare

and

hungover

beyond

sane reason/beyond puke and mending

to

rise

and shop without shoes

and laugh hilarious at the wooden pub revelation

rolling 

whiskey

bottles

across the wobbly floor

- i’m thinking back/thinking far away

sipping and smoking at the secret midnight window

rather 

than 

the 

fresh branded memories

that 

tonight

shoved up my boozy brain

inside the dark heart of 

party. . .