BUILDING THE SPHINX

He builds her
the Sphinx

using only his voice &
a few scattered gestures.

Every now & then
he tweaks the tone

& lo the Sphinx
stands before her

ready to bite her head off
with a question.

Her belief
does the rest

and now he watches
the cat being terrified

out of one of its
9 lives all a bristle

as she tells the tabby
the story I told her.

The Sphinx now
living in her voice.

Her dolls too
too terrified

to even run
petrified with fright

as my little minx
becomes the Sphinx.

Or a mop as a prop
becomes a Medusa

and so the myth
becomes realer than real

as the storm
by Jove

throws down
a thunderbolt

and a little girl Medusa
and a little girl Sphinx

prowl about
the living room.

BUILDING THE SPHINX

He builds her
the Sphinx

using only his voice &
a few scattered gestures.

Every now & then
he tweaks the tone

& lo the Sphinx
stands before her

ready to bite her head off
with a question.

Her belief
does the rest

and now he watches
the cat being terrified

out of one of its
9 lives all a bristle

as she tells the tabby
the story I told her.

The Sphinx now
living in her voice.

Her dolls too
too terrified

to even run
petrified with fright

as my little minx
becomes the Sphinx.

Or a mop as a prop
becomes a Medusa

and so the myth
becomes realer than real

as the storm
by Jove

throws down
a thunderbolt

and a little girl Medusa
and a little girl Sphinx

prowl about
the living room.

BUILDING THE SPHINX

He builds her
the Sphinx

using only his voice &
a few scattered gestures.

Every now & then
he tweaks the tone

& lo the Sphinx
stands before her

ready to bite her head off
with a question.

Her belief
does the rest

and now he watches
the cat being terrified

out of one of its
9 lives all a bristle

as she tells the tabby
the story I told her.

The Sphinx now
living in her voice.

Her dolls too
too terrified

to even run
petrified with fright

as my little minx
becomes the Sphinx.

Or a mop as a prop
becomes a Medusa

and so the myth
becomes realer than real

as the storm
by Jove

throws down
a thunderbolt

and a little girl Medusa
and a little girl Sphinx

prowl about
the living room.

BUILDING THE SPHINX

He builds her
the Sphinx

using only his voice &
a few scattered gestures.

Every now & then
he tweaks the tone

& lo the Sphinx
stands before her

ready to bit her head off
with a question.

Her belief
does the rest

and now he watches
the cat being terrified

out of one of its
9 lives all a bristle

as she tells the tabby
the story I told her.

The Sphinx now
living in her voice.

Her dolls too
too terrified

to even run
petrified with fright

as my little minx
becomes the Sphinx.

Or a mop as a prop
becomes a Medusa

and so the myth
becomes realer than real

as the storm
by Jove

throws down
a thunderbolt


and a little girl Medusa
and a little girl Sphinx

prowl about
the living room.

BUILDING THE SPHINX

He builds her
the Sphinx

using only his voice &
a few scattered gestures.

Every now & then
he tweaks the tone

& lo the Sphinx
stands before her

ready to bite her head off
with a question.

Her belief
does the rest

and now he watches
the cat being terrified

out of one of its
9 lives all a bristle

as she tells the tabby
the story I told her.

The Sphinx now
living in her voice.

Her dolls too
too terrified

to even run
petrified with fright

as my little minx
becomes the Sphinx.

Or a mop as a prop
becomes a Medusa

and so the myth
becomes realer than real

as the storm
by Jove

throws down
a thunderbolt

and a little girl Medusa
and a little girl Sphinx

prowl about
the living room.

BULLETS AND BUTTONS

Nature reclaims
the battlefield.

Spring dresses it
in green.

The dead refuse
to remain dead.

Ploughshares turn up
bullets and buttons.

The ghosts come out
of the woods.

Stare at the tourists
accusingly.

BULLETS AND BUTTONS

Nature reclaims
the battlefield.

Spring dresses it
in green.

The dead refuse
to remain dead.

Ploughshares turn up
bullets and buttons.

The ghosts come out
of the woods.

Stare at the tourists
accusingly.

BUT THAT’S...ANOTHER STORY!

Her mother died
giving birth

so from that day to
this

we considered her OURS
one of the family.

Ok, so...she was
a pig

but oh such
a pretty pig

and we kept her
in the caravan

reared her as one
of our own

almost considered her as
human.

Oh the squeals of
children &...pig.

Well, she grew & grew
until the day came for her

to be serviced.

Our maiden pig
a fine Welsh White gilt.

Now, being English
amongst the Welsh

I knew you needed
a license

to move a pig
from area to area

so, I presented my self
to our two man police force.

Well, of course
they had licenses

for the this of that
or the that of this

but alas
no license

for the moving of
a pig.

They had somehow
run out.

The licenses not the pigs.

So, they gave me
a license for a crane

& crossed out the bit
not pertaining to a pig.

I thought they might
ask me

how many wheels
on your pig or

what type of machinery
is your pig?

But when it was done
it was done

a kind of
Frankenstein form

half crane/half pig.

And I was free now
to move my pig

where so ever I wished.

And so I brought her
to the boar.

And then there was the time
there was a pig born

without an *******

( not an uncommon
occurrence they told me ).

And so I set off for the vets
on my motorcycle and sidecar

but
that’s

. . .another story.

BUT THAT’S...ANOTHER STORY!

Her mother died
giving birth

so from that day to
this

we considered her OURS
one of the family.

Ok, so...she was
a pig

but oh such
a pretty pig

and we kept her
in the caravan

reared her as one
of our own

almost considered her as
human.

Oh the squeals of
children &...pig.

Well, she grew & grew
until the day came for her

to be serviced.

Our maiden pig
a fine Welsh White gilt.

Now, being English
amongst the Welsh

I knew you needed
a license

to move a pig
from area to area

so, I presented my self
to our two man police force.

Well, of course
they had licenses

for the this of that
or the that of this

but alas
no license

for the moving of
a pig.

They had somehow
run out.

The licenses not the pigs.

So, they gave me
a license for a crane

& crossed out the bit
not pertaining to a pig.

I thought they might
ask me

how many wheels
on your pig or

what type of machinery
is your pig?

But when it was done
it was done

a kind of
Frankenstein form

half crane/half pig.

And I was free now
to move my pig

where so ever I wished.

And so I brought her
to the boar.

And then there was the time
there was a pig born

without an *******

( not an uncommon
occurrence they told me ).

And so I set off for the vets
on my motorcycle and sidecar

but
that’s

. . .another story.

BUT THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE



"Are there
really
monsters under the bed?"



"No, no.!" .I
attempt to
comfort her



"Good!" she sighs
" 'cos if they were
they'd get cold!"  



"Right!" I say
seeing her coming at it
from a different way



later I find her
cuddleed up beside
a scary plastic T-Rex



"See..?" she scolds me
"I told you he'd be cold
but he's alright now!"  



the T-Rex looking sheepish
its neck sticking out of
the top of a pink pyjamas




so every night I leave
her with another monster
under her bed she always checks



even a green Frankenstein
gets the cuddle treatment
almost crying to be loved



by the end of the week
she has seven monsters fast
asleep beside her



all feeling ridiculous
in different coloured pyjamas
but loving it



next week she had fallen
in love with a stick...a leaf...a twig
as they become



the new beloveds
to be brought to bed
to be loved as only she can

BUT THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE

"Are there
really
monsters under the bed?"

"No, no.!" .I
attempt to
comfort her

"Good!" she sighs
" 'cos if they were
they'd get cold!"  

"Right!" I say
seeing her coming at it
from a different way

later I find her
cuddleed up beside
a scary plastic T-Rex

"See..?" she scolds me
"I told you he'd be cold
but he's alright now!"  

the T-Rex looking sheepish
its neck sticking out of
the top of a pink pyjamas

so every night I leave
her with another monster
under her bed she always checks

even a green Frankenstein
gets the cuddle treatment
almost crying to be loved

by the end of the week
she has seven monsters fast
asleep beside her
all feeling ridiculous
in different coloured pyjamas

but loving it

next week she had fallen
in love with a stick...a leaf...a twig
as they become

the new beloveds
to be brought to bed
to be loved as only she can

BY ANY OTHER NAME
( for the miracle that a Brian Ings is)

The kestrel hovers high
over the Devil's Mother.

It knows nothing
of the names

that humans
give to things.

Such as mountains.
Or indeed its good self.

It only knows the heights
that it can fly to

and how glorious a thing
the wind beneath a wing.

If it's gaze could penetrate
the gift of language

it would perceive
how time changes

mountains
and name-ings.

It watches words
mutate back into

the original
Irish.

So that the Devil's Mother
that it flies over today

was once
the Demon's Testicles.

"Magairlí an Deamhain!"
it screeches the name

through the dense fog
of  Anglicisation or Bastardisation.

Or God forgive us!
The virus of Religion.

And it would croak
with laughter

at its own nomenclature
"*** Dearg" or Red *****.

It is thankful for this moment
of human sentience

so that it can laugh
at itself

as a Red ***** flying
over the Demon's Testicles.

But in an instant
the instant is gone.

And it is only this
miracle of being

the beauty of its flight
in the midst of a gale.

"*** dearg ag eitilt thall
magairlí an deamhan!"

it chuckles in Kestrel
before translating itself

back into
the English

"A kestrel flying over
the Demon's Testicles!"

BY ANY OTHER NAME
( for the miracle that a Brian Ings is)

The kestrel hovers high
over the Devil's Mother.

It knows nothing
of the names

that humans
give to things.

Such as mountains.
Or indeed its good self.

It only knows the heights
that it can fly to

and how glorious a thing
the wind beneath a wing.

If it's gaze could penetrate
the gift of language

it would perceive
how time changes

mountains
and name-ings.

It watches words
mutate back into

the original
Irish.

So that the Devil's Mother
that it flies over today

was once
the Demon's Testicles.

"Magairlí an Deamhain!"
it screeches the name

through the dense fog
of  Anglicisation or Bastardisation.

Or God forgive us!
The virus of Religion.

And it would croak
with laughter

at its own nomenclature
"*** Dearg" or Red *****.

It is thankful for this moment
of human sentience

so that it can laugh
at itself

as a Red ***** flying
over the Demon's Testicles.

But in an instant
the instant is gone.

And it is only this
miracle of being

the beauty of its flight
in the midst of a gale.

"*** dearg ag eitilt thall
magairlí an deamhan!"

it chuckles in Kestrel
before translating itself

back into
the English

"A kestrel flying over
the Demon's Testicles!"

BY ANY OTHER NAME
( for the miracle that a Brian Ings is)

the kestrel
hovers high
over the Devil's Mother

it knows nothing
of the names
that humans give to things

such as mountains
or indeed
its good self

it only knows
the heights
that it can fly to

and how
glorious a thing
the wind beneath a wing

if it's gaze could
penetrate
the gift of language

it would perceive
how time changes
mountains and name-ings

it watches words
mutate back into
the original Irish

so that the Devil's Mother
that it flies over today
was once the Demon's Testicles

"Magairlí an Deamhain!"
it screeches
the name

through the dense fog
of  Anglicisation
or Bastardisation.

or God forgive us
the virus of
Religion

and it would croak
with laughter
at its own

nomenclature
"*** Dearg" or
Red *****

it is thankful for this moment
of human sentience
so that it can laugh at itself

as a Red *****
flying over
the Demon's Testicles

but in an instant
the instant
is gone

and it is only this
miracle
of being

the beauty
of its flight
in the midst of a gale

"*** dearg
ag eitilt thall
magairlí an deamhan!"

it chuckles in Kestrel
before translating itself
back into the English

"A kestrel
flying over
the Demon's Testicles!"

*

Ballypitmave in County Antrim would be known in Irish as Phite Méabha ‘townland of Maeve’s *****’. Or as the good old Revn Cupples would have it ‘town land of the pit of shame’
We are talking of a Goddess here or a figure of mighty myth so the Irish would not be afraid to call a ***** a ***** and all hail the Goddess.

CAILLTE(LOST)


what I miss most
(I know its ridiculous)
but


the biting into
an apple...its crunch
the sudden spurt of juice


rain on my face
snow on the tip
of my tongue


the little curl
that always tucked itself
in behind her ear


the sound of her
footsteps
getting near


God I hate
being a ghost
it's no life


thought death
would be the end
of it


but here I am
in this
whatever....this...is


I am
haunted
by the living

CALLING YOUR NAME

How, strange...you were
and now...you're not.

How, unbelievable I had
a brother...and now I've not.

The world turned and somehow
you got off.

Death, that
great Exit door.

I have seen you dead
and still - believe it not.

I follow in the footsteps
of your dying

speak your name
making you

come alive again
if only in sound

living upon my lips.

You forever my brother
despite what...Death says.

Come...live in my mind.
It's yours!

See with my eyes!
I'll share with you

what you can never
see.

Be me!
Every now and then.

I've got life
enough for two.

Carry you through
all the world.

Carry you through
all the days that remain.

The price of this
great love.

This ...
great pain.

CALLING YOUR NAME

How, strange...you were
and now...you're not.

How, unbelievable I had
a brother...and now I've not.

The world turned and somehow
you got off.

Death, that
great Exit door.

I have seen you dead
and still - believe it not.

I follow in the footsteps
of your dying

speak your name
making you

come alive again
if only in sound

living upon my lips.

You forever my brother
despite what...Death says.

Come...live in my mind.
It's yours!

See with my eyes!
I'll share with you

what you can never
see.

Be me!
Every now and then.

I've got life
enough for two.

Carry you through
all the world.

Carry you through
all the days that remain.

The price of this
great love.

This ...
great pain.

CALLING YOUR NAME

How, strange...you were
and now...you're not.

How, unbelievable I had
a brother...and now I've not.

The world turned and somehow
you got off.

Death, that
great Exit door.

I have seen you dead
and still - believe it not.

I follow in the footsteps
of your dying

speak your name
making you

come alive again
if only in sound

living upon my lips.

You forever my brother
despite what...Death says.

Come...live in my mind.
It's yours!

See with my eyes!
I'll share with you

what you can never
see.

Be me!
Every now and then.

I've go life
enough for two.


Carry you through
all the world.

Carry you through
all the days that remain.

The price of this
great love.

This ...
great pain.

CALLING YOUR NAME
( for Brian )

How, strange...you were
and now...you're not.

How, unbelievable I had
a brother...and now I've not.

The world turned and somehow
you got off.

Death, that
great Exit door.

I have seen you dead
and still - believe it not.

I follow in the footsteps
of your dying

speak your name
making you

come alive again
if only in sound

living upon my lips.

You forever my brother
despite what...Death says.

Come...live in my mind.
It's yours!

See with my eyes!
I'll share with you

what you can never
see.

Be me!
Every now and then.

I've got life
enough for two.

Carry you through
all the world.

Carry you through
all the days that remain.

The price of this
great love.

This ...
great pain.

CALLING YOUR NAME
( for Brian )


“Love is space and time measured by the heart.”
― Marcel Proust



how, strange you were
and now
you're not

how, unbelievable I had
a brother
and now I've not

the world turned and somehow
you got off
Death -  that great Exit door

I have seen you dead
and still
believe it not

I follow in the footsteps
of your dying
speak your name

making you
come alive again
if only in sound

living
upon
my lips

you forever my brother
despite what
Death says

come
live in my mind
it's yours

see with my eyes
I'll share with you
what you can never see

be me
every now
and then

I've got life
enough
for two

carry you
through
all the world

carry you
through
all the days that remain

the price of this
great love
this great pain

She said: “Hi...
I‘m from a different
planet! ”

I said: “******...
...so am I! ”

It’s so hard to
meet genuine
Earthlings

...these days! ”

"ÇA  PLANE POUR MOI!

You
all that Paris is!

The myth...the magic
the music of being.

Sunlight sifting
through summer leaves.

The dazzled waters
of a morning.

A forgotten orange
on a cobbled street.

Chitter-chatter of
passing Parisians.

A flock of
human birds.

A look-alike Plastic Bertrand
busks Ça Plane Pour Moi!

A crumbling wall shouts
in a strong graffiti voice

"Laisse tomber
c'est pas grave!"

Et dans
Jardin les Tuileries

Madame's tone
scolds and cajoles

"Flick-flac...flick-flac
en dedans en dehors!

Suzanne..sous-sus
sous-sus Suzanne!"

Little children
the puppets of her voice

balance on
their too spindly legs.

Old man lost
in his Tai Chi

grasps sparrow's tail
smiles to his secret self.

These and so much more
grace notes to our loving.

We the present lovers
of lovers gone before

stretching back into time
the ghosts of kisses.

We embody all
that love has been.

I kiss you
in best Bogey style

"At least
we'ill always have

'Ça plane pour moi,
moi, moi, moi, moi,

ça plane pour moi
(Hou-hou-oou-oou!)'

. . .Paris!"

*

The title comes of course from the Plastic Bertrand faux punk hit back in the days of '77 and full of crazy lyrics and mad energy. it is a French idiomatic expression which is best translated as "everything's going well for me" (literally: "it is gliding/sliding for me") or indeed " I like it!".

"That's fine by me "/"Ça plane pour moi"

"ÇA  PLANE POUR MOI!

You
all that Paris is!

The myth..the magic
the music of being.

Sunlight sifting
through summer leaves.

The dazzled waters
of a morning.

A forgotten orange
on a cobbled street.

Chitter-chatter of
passing Parisians.

A flock of
human birds.

A look-alike Plastic Bertrand
busks Ça Plane Pour Moi!

A crumbling wall shouts
in a strong graffiti voice

"Laisse tomber
c'est pas grave!"

Et dans
Jardin les Tuileries

Madame's tone
scolds and cajoles

"Flick-flac...flick-flac
en dedans en dehors!

Suzanne..sous-sus
sous-sus Suzanne!"

Little children
the puppets of her voice

balance on
their too spindly legs.

Old man lost
in his Tai Chi

grasps sparrow's tail
smiles to his secret self.

These and so much more
grace notes to our loving.

We the present lovers
of lovers gone before

stretching back into time
the ghosts of kisses.

We embody all
that love has been.

I kiss you
in best Bogey style

"At least
we'ill always have

'Ça plane pour moi,
moi, moi, moi, moi,

ça plane pour moi
(Hou-hou-oou-oou!)'


. . .Paris!"

CAPTURED CLOUDS

clouds catch
a glimpse of themselves

in a meander
of a river

before shape shifting
yet again

into a pod of whales
migrating across the vast

ocean
of time

that are trapped
in oils

as the painter
holds them

firmly in place
and they hang

on the living room
wall admired by all

who come
across them

except the artist
who is constantly annoyed

they she didn't
quite get them right.

CAPTURED CLOUDS

clouds catch
a glimpse of themselves
in a meander of a river

before shape shifting
yet again
into a pod of whales

migrating across the vast
ocean
of time

that are trapped
in oils
as the painter holds them

firmly in place
and they hang
on the living room

wall admired by all
who come
across them

except the artist
who is constantly
annoyed

they she didn't
quite get them
quite right

CAPTURED CLOUDS


clouds catch
a glimpse of themselves
in a meander of a river


before shape shifting
yet again
into a pod of whales


migrating across the vast
ocean
of time


that are trapped
in oils
as the painter holds them


firmly in place
and they hang
on the living room



wall admired by all
who come
across them


except the artist
who is constantly
annoyed


they she didn't
quite get them
quite right

CARASSIUS AURATUS

somewhere behind her bottlethick glasses
her eyes like fish swam
in an aquarium

she talked and talked
as if she were on a merry-go-round she
couldn't get off

her thoughts
goldfish
swimming 'round'round a bowl

she on the other hand had
the annoying habit of drifting
off to sleep if someone else dare speak

asleep now and snoring
her eyes dead gold fish
floating on the water's surface

CARASSIUS AURATUS

somewhere behind her bottlethick glasses
her eyes like fish swam
in an aquarium

she talked and talked
as if she were on a merry-go-round she
couldn't get off

her thoughts
goldfish
swimming 'round'round a bowl

she on the other hand had
the annoying habit of drifting
off to sleep if someone else dare speak

asleep now and snoring
her eyes dead gold fish
floating on the water's surface

CARDINAL BALUE'S CAGE

I have fallen out of myself
like a naked soul embarrassed to be seen
without a body

I seem to no longer exist
just thoughts flying about
without a human to nest in

I don't know if I mean
anything anymore
the world is losing its grip on me

I am down
to the dregs of myself
half a human being if you know what I mean

the world has become so
2-D to me
& I a one-dimensional being

oh how I long for to be
3-D
when the world was in love with me

I feel like Cardinal Balue
imprisoned in a cage for 6 years
by Louis the something or other

CARDINAL BALUE'S CAGE

I have fallen out of myself
like a naked soul embarrassed to be seen
without a body

I seem to no longer exist
just thoughts flying about
without a human to nest in

I don't know if I mean
anything anymore
the world is losing its grip on me

I am down
to the dregs of myself
half a human being if you know what I mean

the world has become so
2-D to me
& I a one-dimensional being

oh how I long for to be
3-D
when the world was in love with me

I feel like Cardinal Balue
imprisoned in a cage for 6 years
by Louis the something or other

*

Ahhh grief...that invisible unseen woe that no man may know unless he also in the depths of it. I am not talking about the suit and trappings of it but as to how it manifests itself behind the eyes of the person enduring it. Grief is the presence of absence or the absence of a presence. It is like living under a bell jar with the oxygen running out. Only when one throws one's thoughts against the glass and sees them slither down the glass in words or just hang there does grief achieve a brief visibility. Or throwing thought against some invisible force field that has entrapped one's being and see the such thoughts spark into words and fry against this unseen. This only holds for the once that one tries this and is at once different yet again when words are brought to bear...these pathetic words illuminate my father's death and yet fail to grasp the nature of the pain

Louis XI (3 July 1423 – 30 August 1483), called the Prudent (French: le Prudent) His taste for intrigue and his intense diplomatic activity earned him the nicknames the Cunning (Middle French: le rusé) and the Universal Spider (Middle French: l'universelle aragne ), as his enemies accused him of spinning webs of plots and conspiracies.

The great wooden cage in which Cardinal La Balue expiated his treason to Louis XI. The Bishop of Lerdun, who was the inventor of the horrible contrivance, suffered a like fate, and the people, who had but little sympathy with either of these worthies, used to sing:

" Monsieur La Balue A perdu la vile, De ses evesches;

Monsieur de Verdun N'en a plus pas un, Tous sont despesches."

For three years he remained caged, unable to stand, sit, or lie. Louis XI. used to visit him occasionally, and with his favourite, Olivier, would stand and jeer at the prisoner through a hole in the door.

Considered as a State prison of the period, the Castle of Loches was quite a model establishment. Just within the entrance was an even more terrible cage, where Philippe de Comines, the great historian of Louis XI., spent eight months, unable to turn round, but contriving, nevertheless, to write a great deal of the wonderful Memoirs which have rendered him so famous.

The baseless story of his detention in an iron cage originated in Italy in the sixteenth century apparently but I used the story of it as shorthand for "fallen out of the world."

He was supposed to not to be able to stand up or turn around and Louis would come and mock him. Gone into myth and legend now but apparently he was kept in luxury but the horrible story is too good/bad to resist.

CARDINAL BALUE'S CAGE

I have fallen out of myself
like a naked soul embarrassed to be seen
without a body

I seem to no longer exist
just thoughts flying about
without a human to nest in

I don't know if I mean
anything anymore
the world is losing its grip on me

I am down
to the dregs of myself
half a human being if you know what I mean

the world has become so
2-D to me
& I a one-dimensional being

oh how I long for to be
3-D
when the world was in love with me

I feel like Cardinal Balue
imprisoned in a cage for 6 years
by Louis the something or other

CARDINAL BALUE'S CAGE

I have fallen out of myself
like a naked soul embarrassed to be seen
without a body

I seem to no longer exist
just thoughts flying about
without a human to nest in

I don't know if I mean
anything anymore
the world is losing its grip on me

I am down
to the dregs of myself
half a human being if you know what I mean

the world has become so
2-D to me
& I a one-dimensional being

oh how I long for to be
3-D
when the world was in love with me

I feel like Cardinal Balue
imprisoned in a cage for 6 years
by Louis the something or other

CARELESS LOVE SEQUENCE

* * * 1

HE CAN DO HIS OWN ****** IRONING

She sits feet up
(at last)

with a strong cup of tea
(the way she likes it)

he and his weak tea
( pisswater she’d call it )

she’s ignoring him
because he’s ignoring her

(he can’t say she didn’t
call him)

she’ll be annoyed if
he’s forgotten to bring

her washing in
now it’s raining

(he can do his own ****** ironing)

always tinkering with something
in that old shed of his

(just like his father)

probably never even saw
the sunset she wanted him to see

how many times
did she have to call him

always a puncture to be repaired
or a neighbour’s radio

that needed to be
mended

“Give it to Jim...”
people’d say
“...he’ll fix it! ”

as if he were an old adage
or proverb or whatchmacallit

too vain to wear
his glasses

his eyes almost closed
her laughing at him…watching him struggle

half way
through the ads

she falls asleep
mouth open snoring.

Jim only looks like
he’s sleeping

a neighbour’s dog
finding him

in the early hours of
the morning

his hackles
rising.

* * 2

YOUR NAME UPON MY LIPS…YOUR NAME UPON MY LIPS.

The heart attack
a moon

pierced
by the silhouette of the hill

pain a wolf
howling your name

as each heartbeat
a naked fleeting footstep

running through wet grass
frantic to reach

the lovely lady who laughs

at the stupidness of
your question:

“My name is Death
...why do you ask? ”

Your own name
in a slightly foreign accent
lingers about her lips

vanishes
in a kiss.

* * 3

HE GOT THE OLD GRAMOPHONE TO WORK AFTER ALL

The heart attack
carelessly yawns

unimpressed with
the beautiful sunset

an automatic sprinkler
watering the lawn

the grass wet against his face
as he clutches the earth

trying to hang on

as if the Laws of Gravity
have been reversed

the tic-tic-tic
of the automatic system

lost every now & then
in a dog’s bark

water droplets
staining his skin

like washing on a line
that somebody’s forgotten

to bring in
out of the rain

blue and yellow pegs
lie scattered on the ground

a favourite blouse
that horrid lurid Mexican shirt

run around
together

before deciding to elope
with the breeze

an old fashioned
gramophone

playing: “Careless love
...oh careless love! ”

the glisten of the shellac

the music stuck
in a groove

repeats itself
repeats itself

until it
winds down

his wife’s voice
searching for him

room by room

“Oh, where’s that man
when you want him? ”

“Jim...Jim! ”

her voice echoing
at the end of Summer

a skein of birds
moving as one

wheel across the sky
first one way and then the other

taking her breath away

Jim’s favourite programme
is about to come on

the night listens
to her calling him.

CARELESS LOVE SEQUENCE

* * *

HE CAN DO HIS OWN ****** IRONING

She sits feet up
(at last)

with a strong cup of tea
(the way she likes it)

he and his weak tea
( pisswater she’d call it )

she’s ignoring him
because he’s ignoring her

(he can’t say she didn’t
call him)

she’ll be annoyed if
he’s forgotten to bring

her washing in
now it’s raining

(he can do his own ****** ironing)

always tinkering with something
in that old shed of his

(just like his father)

probably never even saw
the sunset she wanted him to see

how many times
did she have to call him

always a puncture to be repaired
or a neighbour’s radio

that needed to be
mended

“Give it to Jim...”
people’d say
“...he’ll fix it! ”

as if he were an old adage
or proverb or whatchmacallit

too vain to wear
his glasses

his eyes almost closed
her laughing at him…watching him struggle

half way
through the ads

she falls asleep
mouth open snoring.

Jim only looks like
he’s sleeping

a neighbour’s dog
finding him

in the early hours of
the morning

his hackles
rising.

* * 2

YOUR NAME UPON MY LIPS…YOUR NAME UPON MY LIPS.

The heart attack
a moon

pierced
by the silhouette of the hill

pain a wolf
howling your name

as each heartbeat
a naked fleeting footstep

running through wet grass
frantic to reach

the lovely lady who laughs

at the stupidness of
your question:

“My name is Death
...why do you ask? ”

Your own name
in a slightly foreign accent
lingers about her lips

vanishes
in a kiss.

* * 3

HE GOT THE OLD GRAMOPHONE TO WORK AFTER ALL

The heart attack
carelessly yawns

unimpressed with
the beautiful sunset

an automatic sprinkler
watering the lawn

the grass wet against his face
as he clutches the earth

trying to hang on

as if the Laws of Gravity
have been reversed

the tic-tic-tic
of the automatic system

lost every now & then
in a dog’s bark

water droplets
staining his skin

like washing on a line
that somebody’s forgotten

to bring in
out of the rain

blue and yellow pegs
lie scattered on the ground

a favourite blouse
that horrid lurid Mexican shirt

run around
together

before deciding to elope
with the breeze

an old fashioned
gramophone

playing: “Careless love
...oh careless love! ”

the glisten of the shellac

the music stuck
in a groove

repeats itself
repeats itself

until it
winds down

his wife’s voice
searching for him

room by room

“Oh, where’s that man
when you want him? ”

“Jim...Jim! ”

her voice echoing
at the end of Summer

a skein of birds
moving as one

wheel across the sky
first one way and then the other

taking her breath away

Jim’s favourite programme
is about to come on

the night listens
to her calling him.

CARELESS LOVE SEQUENCE

* * * 1

HE CAN DO HIS OWN ****** IRONING

She sits feet up
(at last)

with a strong cup of tea
(the way she likes it)

he and his weak tea
( pisswater she’d call it )

she’s ignoring him
because he’s ignoring her

(he can’t say she didn’t
call him)

she’ll be annoyed if
he’s forgotten to bring

her washing in
now it’s raining

(he can do his own ****** ironing)

always tinkering with something
in that old shed of his

(just like his father)

probably never even saw
the sunset she wanted him to see

how many times
did she have to call him

always a puncture to be repaired
or a neighbour’s radio

that needed to be
mended

“Give it to Jim...”
people’d say
“...he’ll fix it! ”

as if he were an old adage
or proverb or whatchmacallit

too vain to wear
his glasses

his eyes almost closed
her laughing at him…watching him struggle

half way
through the ads

she falls asleep
mouth open snoring.

Jim only looks like
he’s sleeping

a neighbour’s dog
finding him

in the early hours of
the morning

his hackles
rising.

* * 2

YOUR NAME UPON MY LIPS…YOUR NAME UPON MY LIPS.

The heart attack
a moon

pierced
by the silhouette of the hill

pain a wolf
howling your name

as each heartbeat
a naked fleeting footstep

running through wet grass
frantic to reach

the lovely lady who laughs

at the stupidness of
your question:

“My name is Death
...why do you ask? ”

Your own name
in a slightly foreign accent
lingers about her lips

vanishes
in a kiss.

* * 3

HE GOT THE OLD GRAMOPHONE TO WORK AFTER ALL

The heart attack
carelessly yawns

unimpressed with
the beautiful sunset

an automatic sprinkler
watering the lawn

the grass wet against his face
as he clutches the earth

trying to hang on

as if the Laws of Gravity
have been reversed

the tic-tic-tic
of the automatic system

lost every now & then
in a dog’s bark

water droplets
staining his skin

like washing on a line
that somebody’s forgotten

to bring in
out of the rain

blue and yellow pegs
lie scattered on the ground

a favourite blouse
that horrid lurid Mexican shirt

run around
together

before deciding to elope
with the breeze

an old fashioned
gramophone

playing: “Careless love
...oh careless love! ”

the glisten of the shellac

the music stuck
in a groove

repeats itself
repeats itself

until it
winds down

his wife’s voice
searching for him

room by room

“Oh, where’s that man
when you want him? ”

“Jim...Jim! ”

her voice echoing
at the end of Summer

a skein of birds
moving as one

wheel across the sky
first one way and then the other

taking her breath away

Jim’s favourite programme
is about to come on

the night listens
to her calling him.

CARELESS LOVE SEQUENCE

* * * 1

HE CAN DO HIS OWN ****** IRONING

She sits feet up
(at last)

with a strong cup of tea
(the way she likes it)

he and his weak tea
( pisswater she’d call it )

she’s ignoring him
because he’s ignoring her

(he can’t say she didn’t
call him)

she’ll be annoyed if
he’s forgotten to bring

her washing in
now it’s raining

(he can do his own ****** ironing)

always tinkering with something
in that old shed of his

(just like his father)

probably never even saw
the sunset she wanted him to see

how many times
did she have to call him

always a puncture to be repaired
or a neighbour’s radio

that needed to be
mended

“Give it to Jim...”
people’d say
“...he’ll fix it! ”

as if he were an old adage
or proverb or whatchmacallit

too vain to wear
his glasses

his eyes almost closed
her laughing at him…watching him struggle

half way
through the ads

she falls asleep
mouth open snoring.

Jim only looks like
he’s sleeping

a neighbour’s dog
finding him

in the early hours of
the morning

his hackles
rising.

* * 2

YOUR NAME UPON MY LIPS…YOUR NAME UPON MY LIPS.

The heart attack
a moon

pierced
by the silhouette of the hill

pain a wolf
howling your name

as each heartbeat
a naked fleeting footstep

running through wet grass
frantic to reach

the lovely lady who laughs

at the stupidness of
your question:

“My name is Death
...why do you ask? ”

Your own name
in a slightly foreign accent
lingers about her lips

vanishes
in a kiss.

* * 3

HE GOT THE OLD GRAMOPHONE TO WORK AFTER ALL

The heart attack
carelessly yawns

unimpressed with
the beautiful sunset

an automatic sprinkler
watering the lawn

the grass wet against his face
as he clutches the earth

trying to hang on

as if the Laws of Gravity
have been reversed

the tic-tic-tic
of the automatic system

lost every now & then
in a dog’s bark

water droplets
staining his skin

like washing on a line
that somebody’s forgotten

to bring in
out of the rain

blue and yellow pegs
lie scattered on the ground

a favourite blouse
that horrid lurid Mexican shirt

run around
together

before deciding to elope
with the breeze

an old fashioned
gramophone

playing: “Careless love
...oh careless love! ”

the glisten of the shellac

the music stuck
in a groove

repeats itself
repeats itself

until it
winds down

his wife’s voice
searching for him

room by room

“Oh, where’s that man
when you want him? ”

“Jim...Jim! ”

her voice echoing
at the end of Summer

a skein of birds
moving as one

wheel across the sky
first one way and then the other

taking her breath away

Jim’s favourite programme
is about to come on

the night listens
to her calling him.

CARNIVAL OF TEARS



I am
that wonky carousel music
that makes you feel

you have opened a door
in your mind
and stepped into

THE TWILIGHT ZONE
only for real
I am a Hall of Mirrors

throwing the many mes I am
into my face
each one a mask

within a mask within a mask
( don't laugh )
I am the Haunted House

( scream if you like )
I am the Tunnel of Love
being kissed by a skeleton

running running
helter skelter
"Welcome, my dear

to all
the aghhhhhhhh
fun of the fear.

CARNIVAL OF TEARS


I am
that wonky carousel music
that makes you feel

you have opened a door
in your mind
and stepped into

THE TWILIGHT ZONE
only for real
I am a Hall of Mirrors

throwing the many mes I am
into my face
each one a mask

within a mask
within a mask
( don't laugh )

I am
the Haunted House
( scream if you like )

I am the Tunnel of Love
being kissed
by a skeleton

running
running
helter skelter

"Welcome, my dear
to all
the fun of the fear!"

CARRIER


I carry her
piggyback
through leaves & laughter


splashed with sunlight
across fields
of summer


as if we were
the one
creature


Dad & daughter
or I her
St. Christopher


her riding high
on my shoulders
over stream  after stream


she clasping my curls
to steer
her noble steed


always seeing
the world
from atop of me


she my
little bird
I her perch


crawling now
into bed
cuddled into my back


her words
sleepy
on my shoulders


where I carry
her still
. . .into my dreams

Cat! ! Astroph! ! ! E

the cat
peed in
my Dad's hat

my Dad wasn't
particularly pleased
with that

he shouted: 'Oi! No! Oh! '
'Stop! '
'****...cat! '

the cat
answered back.
'Me? How? '

'Spittttttt! Hissssssss! '
my Dad said:
'That's that! '

'That cat...
...has got
to go! '

we said:
' Noooooooooooo! '
' Noooooooooooo! '

the cat said:
'Exactly......when ya gotta go
ya gotta go! '

my Dad said:
'It's either that
cat...or me! '


we still have
the cat
now that Dad's gone

we still miss
Daddy
...sometimes

but mostly
we laugh
with the cat

Cat! ! Astroph! ! ! E

The cat
peed in
my Dad's hat.

My Dad wasn't
particularly pleased
with that.

He shouted: 'Oi! No! Oh! '
'Stop! '
'****...cat! '

The cat answered back.
'Me? How? '

'Spittttttt! Hissssssss! '

My Dad said:
'That's that! '

'That cat...
...has got
to go! '

We said: ' Noooooooooooo! '

The cat said:
'Exactly......when ya gotta go ya gotta go! '

My Dad said:

'It's either that cat...or me! '

*

We still have
the cat

now that

Dad's gone.

We still miss
Daddy
...sometimes.

But mostly
we laugh
with the cat!

Cat! ! Astroph! ! ! E

the cat
peed in
my Dad's hat

my Dad wasn't
particularly pleased
with that

he shouted: 'Oi! No! Oh! '
'Stop! '
'****...cat! '

the cat answered back
'Me? How?. . .
Spittttttt! Hissssssss! '

my Dad said:
'That's that!
that cat...

...has got
to go! '
we said: ' Noooooooooooo! '

the cat said:
'Exactly......
when ya gotta go ya gotta go! '

My Dad said:
'It's either that cat...
or me! '

*

we still have
the cat
now that Dad's gone

we still miss
Daddy
...sometimes

but mostly
we laugh
with the cat!

CECI N’EST PAS UNE FENÊTRE

She looks out
the window.

It contains a day
more perfect than any day

has a right
to be.

That...sky.
That...sea.

As if it had been
directly decanted

from her lost
childhood.

A summer that stretched
far beyond infinity.

Birds dancing upon the air
in an awkward ballet.

And so it should be
she an artist to her fingertips

she had painted it
herself

on to the wall
of her bedroom.

Or to be more precise
the room she had come to

. . .die in.

The cancer had taken over
her life

leaving her
with only a little

of who she
used to be.

She kept making new
editions of herself

to get her through
this difficult time.

Hiding inside
the person she really was.

But she is losing the battle
losing her self.

Now she was...what was
the word?

Fissiparous!

Breaking into factions of her self
fractions of her self...fictions of her self.

She gazes at the window
on the wall

like a little God
creating her own world.

"What a great view?"
Death admires her

handiwork
he a bit of an expert.

"Isn't it just?"
she smiles.

"Isn't...it. . .just!"
she sighs

escaping from her pain
through the painted window.

CECI N'EST PAS UNE ORANGE

A Parisian orange
lay bang in the middle of the street.

I couldn't have avoided it
this orange of all oranges

lost & stranded

but still as
big & bold & bright

as a new found sun
in an unknown solar system.

It invisible to all
bicycles cars and feet.

A cat gave it
a cursory glance.

The soundtrack of Paris
happening just off stage.

Now everyone had vanished
except me & this orange.

Somehow it found
its way to my head

& unraveled itself
in a concentric spiral

a swirl of orange peel
& white pith

like a Can-Can
dancer's skirt.

I ate it.

Oblivious
to everything else

my first
French

orange.

A Parisian orange
lay bang in the middle of the street.

I couldn't have avoided it
this orange of all oranges

lost & stranded

but still as
big & bold & bright

as a new found sun
in an unknown solar system.

It invisible to all
bicycles cars and feet.

A cat gave it
a cursory glance.

The soundtrack of Paris
happening just off stage.

Now everyone had vanished
except me & this orange.

Somehow it found
its way to my head

& unraveled itself
in a concentric spiral

a swirl of orange peel
& white pith

like a Can-Can
dancer's skirt.

I ate it.

Oblivious
to everything else

my first
French

orange.

CECI N'EST PAS UNE ORANGE!

A Parisian orange
lay bang in the middle of the street.

I couldn't have avoided it
this orange of all oranges

lost & stranded

but still as
big & bold & bright

as a new found sun
in an unknown solar system.

It invisible to all
bicycles cars and feet.

A cat gave it
a cursory glance.

The soundtrack of Paris
happening just off stage.

Now everyone had vanished
except me & this orange.

Somehow it found
its way to my head

& unraveled itself
in a concentric spiral

a swirl of orange peel
& white pith

like a Can-Can
dancer's skirt.

I ate it.

Oblivious
to everything else

my first
French

orange

CECI N'EST PAS UN... poème!

It's always
the same

the adverbs
blame the adjectives

the adjectives
the nouns

and the nouns
the verbs

for the imminent
collapse of this poem

The images declaim
we're not to blame.

The rhyme just
buggers off.

The figurative language
can't be bothered to get

up of their ar..

A senile simile smiles
wistfully

in a to be or not
to be voice.

The metaphors
have gone on strike.

Oh for Gawd's sake
doesn't anybody know

wot de !%&
they're !%& doing

I ask
using the demotic.

There is a sudden silence...

all that is to be
heard outside

a weeping willow
weeps for me.

How pathetic can one poem
get?

No...don't answer that
it was a rhetorical question!

The words all
look to me

to pass
sentence. . .

I tell them
that's it

( there is a collective
moan )

I'm calling this poem
- off!

CENTAUR

Hiding in the hay
me a terrified little boy
& my uncle like a terrified little boy

the voices in his head telling him to be afraid
of all strangers...changes.

He’s been like this
since the day his Dad(my unknown grandfather)
died.

My Aunt’s voice
searching for us...searching us out.

Her shouts like bloodhounds
hunting us down

her words angry & cruel.

Her angry voice slurring us into:
“DonallSeanie! ”

as if we had fused into one being
a metamorphosis of us.

The hay cooks us
and we swelter in our hidey hole

A chicken sits on top
of my uncle’s cap

as if his mind had
materialised into this shape.

He rocks himself
and rocks me.

“Shhhh...boy...shhhh! ”
comforting both him & me.

“Don’t leave me! ”
he clucks

the words scattered around him
like newly laid eggs.

I settle into his silence.

My Aunt’s threats freezing us
in this terrible heat.

His chest hair
tickles my nose.

The cut on my left big toe
throbs through the open sandal.

My uncle cries in fear.

I wipe away the tear
with the ***** edge of my sleeve.

We escape to
the West field

me riding his shoulders

transformed into
a legendary creature

that only exists in myths
fleeing from the realness

...of reality.

CENTAUR

Hiding in the hay
me a terrified little boy
& my uncle like a terrified little boy

the voices in his head telling him to be afraid
of all strangers...changes.

He’s been like this
since the day his Dad

(my unknown grandfather)
died.

My Aunt’s voice
searching for us...searching us out.

Her shouts like bloodhounds
hunting us down

her words angry & cruel.

Her angry voice slurring us into:
“DonallSeanie! ”

as if we had fused into one being
a metamorphosis of us.

The hay cooks us
and we swelter in our hidey hole

A chicken sits on top
of my uncle’s cap

as if his mind had
materialised into this shape.

He rocks himself
and rocks me.

“Shhhh...boy...shhhh! ”
comforting both him & me.

“Don’t leave me! ”
he clucks

the words scattered around him
like newly laid eggs.

I settle into his silence.

My Aunt’s threats freezing us
in this terrible heat.

His chest hair
tickles my nose.

The cut on my left big toe
throbs through the open sandal.

My uncle cries in fear.

I wipe away the tear
with the ***** edge of my sleeve.

We escape to
the West field

me riding his shoulders

transformed into
a legendary creature

that only exists in myths
fleeing from the realness

...of reality.

CENTAUR

Hiding in the hay
me a terrified little boy
& my uncle like a terrified little boy

the voices in his head telling him to be afraid
of all strangers...changes.

He’s been like this
since the day his Dad(my unknown grandfather)
died.

My Aunt’s voice
searching for us...searching us out.

Her shouts like bloodhounds
hunting us down

her words angry & cruel.

Her angry voice slurring us into:
“DonallSeanie! ”

as if we had fused into one being
a metamorphosis of us.

The hay cooks us
and we swelter in our hidey hole

A chicken sits on top
of my uncle’s cap

as if his mind had
materialised into this shape.

He rocks himself
and rocks me.

“Shhhh...boy...shhhh! ”
comforting both him & me.

“Don’t leave me! ”
he clucks

the words scattered around him
like newly laid eggs.

I settle into his silence.

My Aunt’s threats freezing us
in this terrible heat.

His chest hair
tickles my nose.

The cut on my left big toe
throbs through the open sandal.

My uncle cries in fear.

I wipe away the tear
with the ***** edge of my sleeve.

We escape to
the West field

me riding his shoulders

transformed into
a legendary creature

that only exists in myths
fleeing from the realness

...of reality.

CENTAUR

hiding in the hay
me a terrified little boy
& my uncle like a terrified little boy

the voices in his head
telling him to be afraid
of all strangers...changes

he’s been like this
since the day his Dad(my unknown grandfather)
died

my Aunt’s voice
searching for us...
searching us out

her shouts like bloodhounds
hunting us down
her words angry & cruel

her angry voice
slurring us into:
“DonallSeanie! ”

as if we had fused
into one being
a metamorphosis of us

the hay cooks us
and we swelter
in our hidey hole

a chicken sits
on top
of my uncle’s cap

as if his mind had
materialised
into this shape

he rocks
himself
and rocks me

“Shhhh...boy...shhhh! ”
comforting
both him & me

“Don’t leave me! ” he clucks
words scattered around him
like newly laid eggs

I settle
into
his silence

my Aunt’s threats
freezing us
in this terrible heat

his chest hair
tickles
my nose

the cut on my left big toe
throbs through
the open sandal

my uncle cries in fear
I wipe away the tear
with the ***** edge of my sleeve

we escape to
the West field
me riding his shoulders

transformed into
a legendary creature
that only exists in myths

fleeing from
the realness
...of reality