The night sky is wrapped in curls of black
and the air purrs, fizzes with the sound of hot
fluorescent lights, choking the air with vacation colour,
blinking fast like there’s something in their eyes.
Gulls guffaw in circles over 174,
where inside old wallpaper is torn
and dated lampshades dangle from above.
Two pegs on a line outside my box,
the bed is rickety and isn’t as fit anymore.
The novices, the returnees
seek silver and gold in the oasis
before their feet sting in scorching sand.
Win what you lose, lose what you win,
hold onto it before it tumbles back onto white cushions.
Money hiccups out of ugly machines
when they have a session of indigestion.
Young girls, carefree and cute walk around in a daze
as chubby men waddle along the pavement
thinking of that next pint.
Lined up at the bar with peanuts and bottles,
the large screen projects to all.
A clink of glasses and a click of snooker *****
past nine, past ten, past eleven as well.
And then the plug is pulled out,
everybody settles down to sleep,
but we all know they’ll do it again
when tomorrow’s summer evening calls.

Legs on show down an aisle of fridges and freezers
and I am taken in by the red of your top.
A swift sight of a face, nothing much,
father nearby I presume, a brother too
but minutes later gone.
As the evening is reeled in,
I see the same flash dash into the palace
before I am certain it’s you once more.
I didn’t see you or the shorts again
but plenty of others were decked out in denim,
all aliens beneath the neon lights.

She walks through the congested room,
small smile on her immaculate face.
Battenberg pink lips in a place packed chaotically
with men in dark shirts, skin coated in shiny sweat.

But our girl is dressed in a see-through white,
clutching a toffee bag, she moves further into the pit.
Her eyelids flicker enigmatic ebony,
waves of bronze hair roll down past the shoulders.

We’ve never met, we may never meet at all
but my days she is dazzling, a rush of fresh air.
In a different place in a different time,
who knows? Would I be pricked by such profound beauty?

I don’t know how I came across your name,
found your photos and was taken aback.
Nevertheless glad my eyes have seen your brilliance,
but let’s get back to real life now shall we?

We walked back to hers the other night
from the bar, not drunk, not at all,
laughing a lot though, so easy
to make each other smile.
She leapt in all the puddles,
maize coloured swirls in the ***** water,
full of vigour, lips a kiss-me red
and she did this until we got to her door.
Made two herbal teas, stuck on a Fighters song,
mouthed the words into a pretend microphone,
thrashed her Irish orange hair in time
with the guitars, pretty beat by the final strum.
Flopped onto the sofa, hint of mint on her breath
as she cuddled up closer to my grey cardigan,
a furious fire before my eyes
at 10pm but the flames don’t seem to burn.

The guitar is out of tune
and the pillow frowns at him
on this cold February morning.
Books lined along the walls,
Spanish poetry, lonesome travellers
wait to be read on halcyon nights,
have their spines cracked by weary hands.
Solemn Jazz filters out from somewhere,
blue in a room where blond light
pours onto the floor.
Asparagus eyes struggle to stay open,
so much to do but no zest to get up,
crispy buttered toast lies half-eaten on a plate,
ochre tea still needs to be drunk.
He has plenty to say but does not know how,
his intellect cloudier than any lemonade,
track two begins and there are still no words.

X - The Aftershock. (June 2011 - June 2012).

Understandably dismayed.
Calmed down, got on with things.
Had to.
Went on holiday.
Up north.
Weather wasn’t wonderful, but OK.
Heard from you a few times.
Got into university.
Creative writing.
We arranged a cinema trip.
That never happened.
Why not?
Said you’d get me out the house thanks to your car.
Then that was it.
Erratic contact.
Not a word until New Year’s Eve.
I wrote poetry.
Fellow students read them.
No new substitute.
Only you, still.
You changed.
Redder hair.
Out in town more.
New guys in all the images.
You didn’t care much before.
You really didn’t care now.
Slow to reply.
Fine, you were busy.
What, drinking?
Couldn’t you let me know how you were?
Nine months became ten.
Became eleven.
Told I should move on.
Ridiculous.
Ought to have hated you.
Didn’t.
You were ignorant.
Different.
But I kept sending messages.
I wanted to see you.
You had copious chances.
Why didn’t you take them?

XI - The Ending. (23rd June 2012).

Could call this the beginning of the end
because soon you won’t be around anymore
unless there’s a unlikely turn of events.
I won’t say it, what’s the point, you already know,
but it doesn’t mean anything to you,
just some person you used to chat to,
laugh with, learn with.
A year ago since the last time.
When I think about it, we’re both different.
I just write while you go out and play.
Maybe you’ll want to see me sometime.
That’d be nice.
Of course it would.
Just let me know.
Don’t terminate it now,
what am I supposed to say
when people ask ‘who’s that girl in your work?’
Will I have to call you by your real name?
We hardly speak
and then conversation is short.
Whatever comes next,
wherever you are,
don’t disdain the times gone by.
Those other men won’t care as much as I do.
This is not the end.
Just don’t forget.

VII - The Event. (23rd June 2011).

It started off normal,
wispy clouds
on an unexceptional morning,
that’s what it looked like,

but no, was not a normal day.
Calm, unruffled, no fear in my head.
The exam started, albeit a little later than planned,
it went OK I thought, but the rain, the rain,

nearly messed it up for us.
But it stopped - an omen perhaps?
P was there
and into the unfamiliar we went.

Can’t thank him enough
for his help that Thursday afternoon.
He bought something to eat first,
this is what, not long after twelve.

Later, two bouquets, as I said, red and pink.
Delicate petals wrapped up in my hands.
Sat in this small park area, oh man,
people are going to see this, I was adamant.

My watch kept smirking
each time I glanced at my wrist.
When we got back
K and M

almost found out,
however fast thinking
saw the package stashed
behind a tree.

J was upset,
it’d be me later I guessed,
we spoke fleetingly
before the earwax bus arrived.

You were on it,
thank heavens for that.
I jumped high like a kid
who’d scoffed too many Skittles.

Pretty of course.
Part of me knew I wouldn’t see
anything so striking again
for a long time after.

Brown cake, brown tea,
brown hair,
I look at the pictures
every now and then,

I looked an idiot
in my cobalt cardigan.
Then as expected,
you ruined it.

VIII - The Non-Fiction. (22nd/23rd June 2011).

The boy and the girl are in love.
Urgh, *****.
The girl has to leave for the big city.
Not good.
She departs and the boy is distraught.
Oh dear.
He meets up with a friend.
OK then.
They choose to go and see her.
Excellent news.
They get to where she is.
How exciting.
The three have fun that evening.
Quite nice.
The boy whispers in the girl’s ear.
Say what?
The story ends unfinished.
**** it.

IX - The Event (Part 2). (23rd June 2012).

Why’d you have to get a lift?
Why’d you have to change it?
At the end of the class,
I fetched them

and you hugged me.
Didn’t want to I bet.
Everybody saw,
H, C, L and J (all three),

you with roses and part four
of the story.
Then gone.
Everybody gone.

On my way home
I saw S on his bike.
Said well done.
Thanks, but the icy actuality was there.

You were gone.
You haven’t come back.

IV - The Lost Trumpet. (April 2011).

A girl loses her trumpet
and she’s ever so sad.
She can’t find it
but a young boy does.
He searched high and low,
to and fro,
before spotting it
and giving it back.
The girl is delighted,
falls in love straight away.
They marry.
The boy stops a tormenter
from hurting his girl.
Ears bleed.
Then the girl says she is moving on.
The boy doesn’t like this
so tries to win her back;
he locates her and they sleep under stars.
They wake up together.
To be continued?

V - The Moment. (May 2011).

Bus.
Way back to school.
Can’t remember the day.
Talking as usual about the upcoming end.
P says how about doing a simple thing, not too big.
Something like chocolates or flowers, why go over the top?
Flowers, doesn’t everyone do that?
But it’s May, only a month to go.
Flowers it will have to be.
Red and pink.
Great.

VI - The Discussions. (21st/22nd June 2011).

So, are you ready? Here’s how it will go…
I’ll sit the exam, you turn up towards the end.
We’ll meet up in the common room and walk back to my town,
down to the florists, then somehow go back to school
without anybody seeing them all before quarter past one.
No, wait...

Later…

Change of plan, I’ll sit the exam still,
two and a half hours, I know, but anyway, you meet me
in the common room once it’s over, then we’ll go into town
because there’s actually a florists there, didn’t know that earlier,
buy them, make sure no one sees us,
head back to school, all before quarter past one right?
Wait for her to arrive, then you dash off with them,
I relax with a nice brew in class, and right at the end
when she’s getting on the bus I come up to you,
take them, run to her,
give them to her before she goes, mutter what needs to be said
and then it’s over. Maybe a hug, who knows?
This has to work. If it all goes wrong
there’s the envelope from the other month to hand over in its place.
Got that? Good.
She’s bound to ruin it though ain’t she?

I - The Proxy. (September 2010 - February 2011).

I don’t know how it began
and I don’t know how it will close.
All I recall is that of us together
in the dull rooms

with your male equivalent
and the girl who’d soon depart.
The first year is inmaterial,
the second is where

you came ablaze
like a torch in the obscurity,
intense and alive.
From blonde to brown,

unforeseen
but it arose.
You enticed me in,
as did the serpent to Eve.

So started more interaction,
regular, controlled,
guess I was foolhardy,
strained my luck too much,

ambiguous jargon
got me nowhere.
Blasé, shrugged them off
(but you knew didn’t you?)

and they soon stopped,
but the talking did not.
It became apparent,
she was sadly gone.

You were the substitute,
as foul as that sounds.

II - The Design. (March 2011).

Over again I thought, once more I attempt to ease into this world,
a world still hazy to me but I’d seen how it worked,
people happy, joyful, walking around with a little more happiness
on the soles of their shoes, or sad,
sad at the expiration of what before had seemed great
only to invisibly split like the skin of a bruised banana.
Me and P spoke for ages about what could be done.
What would she like? Should anything go ahead?
Three years in a row, but this one felt righter,
a genuine chance to get my feet over the threshold.
This couldn’t go the same way as the past.
Ideas were puny, rash, almost stupid,
it needed to be powerful, effective, simple instead,
I said all the time, stick to those rules, a plan will come up,
though days disappeared, notebook remained a vacant space.
But just like the first time, a night by myself in my room
an idea came.

III - The Envelope. (5th April 2011).

*You must understand that what you are reading could not be truer.

You know that I like you. A lot. I have felt this way about you for several months.

You know that I hate it when you (and I) have to leave, and that I miss you as soon as you are gone.

You know that you make me feel happier just by turning up to lessons.

You know that I think you are an amazing individual.

I know that you may not care, I know that I cannot stop you from doing what you will, and I know that I cannot force you to change. All I want is to be around you all the time, but that cannot happen.

Quite simply, if I do not tell you this now, I doubt I ever will. Even though you sometimes make me feel depressed, and sometimes make me annoyed…

The man decked in blue
     sits quite content
          on a sofa
               and observes wealthy offspring

               waltz in flashing their brilliant teeth
          glossed with potent peppermint.
     These teens
don't know love,

lust is all it is.
     While the Jazz bops away,
          more whisky is poured
               and they zip out to get jammy.

               The man, mid-twenties,
          kind of blue, dapper apparel,
     has one on the rocks.
Sees them

walk in most evenings,
     cute blondes with flawless skin,
          guys in suits, bow ties, the works,
               gaze into each other's pupils.

               There are regulars,
          Robert, the chap from Yale,
     Quentin, sly guy at Harvard
and Carly, still at school the man believes,

who's coquettish, fresh,
     these two want to have her
          but she's astute,
               knows just what she wants.

               They're all after her in fact.
          Every male in the room
     turns their head,
can't blame them,

she's like Candyfloss,
     all the men want a taste
          but there's not enough for everyone
               and they don't look like the sharing kind.

               The man in blue
          just grins to himself
     thinking how grand it is
that he's single, sensible, secure.

I. (The Real Poetry).

All these notions but nothing on the page.
Haven't we heard it all before?
Impetus from departed greats
wash ashore in our brains
but when confronted with an void white meadow
our hands go numb,
glued to the roof of a freezer.
This idea of mine is big, challenging,
but so far only a few thousand letters
have made ***** snow angels.
In its place, poetry.
Swifter to write, to read.
No rhymes usually,
just haphazard feelings lurching out my head
like a turquoise waterfall.
Sure I pace round the room
waiting for the next line to evolve
but who doesn't?
I write about real people,
people I speak to, people I know.
Do they know it's them when they skim my work?
Perhaps yes.
Perhaps they don't read them.
Perhaps best for all of us.
The book remains unseen, incomplete
while real poetry rushes into the world
like another superfluous boy band
playing more vapid pop.
Numb them instead.

II. (The Wind).

On a bench
in the garden
I sit with her
as she rests her frizzy Goldilocks
on my shoulder
and says I shouldn't go on Sunday.
A few years younger,
sweet and out of bounds.
Out. Of. Bounds.
So why am I holding her hand?
Doesn't mind from what I can tell.
She likes me.
No she can't.
When does 'the other side' ever like this?
I've told her about the one back home,
how she could be superseded.
I'll disclose, for a while now
I've seen photographs
and wondered what if,
what if the same way too feeling
snaked up the ladders
and throttled me?
What would her sister say?
'He's only been here four days
and look at him, cuddling
the queen of yesteryear.'
Her sister comes out, surprise, joins us.
Say no words, look at stars overhead.
The direction of the wind is altering.
Must be.
I unzip my eyes.

III. (The Sun and the Moon).

Half eight
a year or so in the distance
on a Wednesday morn.
A car.
Neither of us can drive as I write.
One of us is about to though.
London.
Why?
To meet friends.
Another reason?
A show.
A show of sun and moon.
A sporadic delight like a white Christmas.
I say to P it's one of those events
that must be attended.
I'm what, twenty-one?
She's gotta be twenty-four, five?
When will this ever come about again?
Have to acquire this chance.
He says if she'll be aware of the poem,
the one I scrawled down some time ago.
Doubt it, but you never know.
You never know.
Maybe it's true.
A young, beautiful girl
with a hat and a guitar.
There's something you don't see every day.
To the city.
*Rejsen begynder.

It begins brusquely in the dark, a hoary noise,
a tune which all the cats in town enjoy.
Yes, they stare at the stage for a sparkle of gold
to come forth from the shadows, the sound will take hold.

Rippling through the room, a devilish groan
rises, spirals high from an aged baritone.
The other musicians join in this depressing affair
and the men in their fifties are still fused to their chairs.

The sulky cello, whining trumpet slither into the mix,
the sadness fills the ears of several dozen beatniks.
Then with no caution comes a madcap flow
of music from the star performer, frantic yet mellow.

And it slows, then picks up, goes on for what feels like a year,
this rugged Jazz, no words but my, **** sincere.
Like something so eccentric that can't be left alone,
everyone captivated by the golden saxophone.

I do adore that jacket, its sleeves, its hood,
the way it envelops me in its temperate cocoon,
that jacket has been through a lot, put up
with my escapades way back when and then some.
I remember the way I first held it, delicately
like a handful of jewels, wore it next day
to a rendezvous, they all mentioned it in banter,
that jacket, its sleeves and its hood
look good on him is what they said.
It's black and red, never whinges
about where we go, what we do,
if it could speak it'd say it needs me
to fill those unoccupied holes in winter
when snow whirls around our arctic-like bodies.
Its cuffs are tarnished with tears for you
from over a year ago when I was so blue,
but that jacket's seen happy times too
with many more to come I am sure.
Later I will wear it yet again,
through the door I will walk,
it'll hold me closer than you ever have,
clinging to my arms like an itchy disease.

We used to play billiards
and fight all the fire.
We'd drink tea
from cheap mugs,

read The Economist
or newspaper,
chat about boyfriends,
girlfriends,

what was and wasn't a rumour?
The printer munched on paper,
lounge about on scratchy chairs.
50% revision, 50% laughter.

Psychology was me
with a group of girls.
How many people, where, when,
and what was it Freud said again?

Spanish was the same,
me, L, C and E.
Picasso's view of war, a bull and a flower,
grammar overload in the afternoon.

And then there was English.
Can you hear me Fitzgerald?
On a row of females (not just one),
roses, four stories and a single trumpet.

On the garish bus
to see the Manor or the specialists,
to walk up and down aisles in Asda,
talking music with baguettes and meatballs.

Two years came, two years went.
Exams, goodbyes, brown envelopes arrived.
After tapas and a holiday
came sly September.

Here I was with fresh men,
different faces from different places.
So I walked up the steps
into the next avenue.

Wake up girl, rise and shine,
chances are you're not feeling fine.
Who's fault is that? Well, guess who?
Yet again it's the one and only you.

6am and not a clue
where you're going or what to do.
To me my darling that is a sign,
you're a little different now and you're crossing that line.

I sit in a bar
drinking a cold beer,
my vision’s not clear,
I shouldn’t be here.

I turn to you, speak,
‘Our lives are unfair,
no one seems to care,
they so wouldn’t dare

try and help us eh?’
I am going mad,
I guess like my dad,
it is rather sad

how my life has gone.
Supping beer with you,
I don’t have a clue,
maybe I should do

something else tonight.
I’m gonna be sick,
don’t throw up you ****,
and not over ****,

he’ll **** you you know.
Look at me, a prat
with his beer and hat.
Ah well now. That’s that.

And if we were to see each other soon
before you head off to the big city,
I know I'd later return to my gloom
because I'd have to leave you. Such a pity.

I would be really thrilled to say hi too,
not so bothered what time or what place,
my hand, it would be stuck to yours like glue,
I'd really hate to say goodbye to that face.

Until that day I shall stay here some more
and wait for a message to let me know
you want to meet up, knock on my door,
say "Hey, how's it going, come on then". Even though

the good feeling won't last long, I can't wait
to see you Alexandra. It'll be great.

She longs for home.
Stuck in this town
is taking its toll
on her.

Her flatmates
just don't give a ****
and students shout
outside her window

after a few.
She can't tell
if that boy likes her
or that guy

isn't interested.
All this hearsay
burns her ears.
Needs to get away,

relax in a more familiar
place with more familiar
people, pretend
that things aren't different.

She can remember
the good times,
outside the English room
on a warm June day

even though
she was revising for Science.
It'll be OK again soon.
Soon it will be back to normal.

It lollops along
the soggy sand
in the sun,

all for a ball
its owner has thrown
towards the water,

rolling past tourists
in shorts, sandels,
sunglasses.

Its tongue *****
lackadaisically
out his mouth,

not a care in the world
on this August day
on the north-east coast.

I saw a scarf wound
too tight round
a young girl's neck,
tighter with each breath,

tighter with each tear
from her eyes, sliding
like her life down her
pallid cheeks.

I saw a cardigan
on the floor,
the one she wore
on that date

three weeks ago
when the boy said
'why not?' The zip
broke that night.

I saw a shoe
under her bed,
just one,
coloured blue,

worn just yesterday
when she was at school,
in English, Math, History
bored, exhausted, fed up.

I saw a belt
hung over the chair
vivid pink,
the one I think

her boyfriend bought
last year before
he went away
to purgatory.

I saw a hat,
it sat on her shelf,
I believe she had it on
the other day

when we went to the cinema,
me, her and the gang
to watch a film
she recommended for us all.

I saw these things
as I entered her room,
where the scarf I unwound
and we made not a sound.

Standing.
Windmill blades
turn in the sun

shredding air with ease.
The man
looks out

of the window
at the land ahead,
full of aspirations

he hopes to reach.
His wife nearby
sees the same view.

Wishes on display on
this balmy July morn.
London, far away

ticks along swathed in grey
as it did decades before.
The man hopes to return,

sit in cafés, chuckle
as men with briefcases
scuttle around like cockroaches.

Some things never change.
That's OK though
isn't it?

Here with his partner
looking out, content,
a smile appears on his wise face.

Thirty years in the past
he thinks of future times.
Still the same.
Still standing.

This clock of ours
                                                            ­                               is hidden under ice,
                                      its hands frozen at 2.45.

                     We can hack away at the surface
    to get to him, but he might never
                                                           ­      work again.

                                                         ­                                                        Can you remember how he got there?
                                                      Some­one must have lost track of time
                                                            ­           and dropped him down.

    We can see its large black face
                                                           blurry from where we stand on
                                                              ­                                                                 fragile sheets of aqua ice.

                                                           ­     Maybe when it melts we can save him,
                       move the hands to the right time
                                 but by the time we've done that

                                                           ­                              it'll be the wrong time again,
                                       our hands will have to keep moving
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                    the hands of time

   and the clock won't like that,
                                                           ­            we'll be taking over its job.

He'll become angry and make time
                                                            ­                            go faster until we realise
it's all gone.

It's a new morning
so get up out of bed
and wipe the dust
from your eyes,
let the sun filter through
the curtains, let your mind
become adjusted to where you are,
what time it is, where your handkerchief
is and what you are doing here
in this bedroom that looks
oh-so unfamiliar, unpleasant
with tissues everywhere
and a broken lampshade
dangling dangerously
from the ceiling, my God
what a dump you think
but who gives a ****,
you'll stay a bit longer
and then consider what you've done,
what you didn't do,
what you should've done
and how many missed calls you have
on your phone from friends
asking where the devil you are
because you left early
and didn't let them know,
it really bugs them when you do that,
they must've been a bit worried,
but they needn't be now
because you're in bed,
not the comfiest, not the cleanest
but in a bed with blood on the pillow
and a can of Dr. Pepper on the windowsill
in a room that looks like hell,
you feel like hell
but what the hell.

She is there.
The return of the one, the irrefutable girl.
Butterscotch hair flows, water down her back,
eyes perforate the darkness of my days.
Bang! An explosion in the mind. The brain screams ‘again’.
Do not run. Wait. Take it in, a trapped moment in time.

Thoughts collide then disperse.
Colours writhe rapidly, a kaleidoscope
as she moves closer. I can see her face.
Sweet taste, smile so intoxicating,
nothing can be said to change this smitten fool.

Too precious to touch, she is the glass, me the reflection.
Not mine, not yet, not a chance?
This is it, that moment when.
**** that thought, curse you to hell and beyond.
Doubt, the enemy, the old antagonist, can’t you drown
in the ocean of loathed emotions?

A step closer, God help me now,
every breath, heartbeat, blink, heartbeat.
Her splendour is too much, this drug too powerful.
I don’t like this anymore mother,
can I go back inside now?

Too late, her hand is in mine.
Now I am lost, she will not save me from this tsunami
but **** me in, deeper so I cannot see, hear, think or believe.
It cannot be right, it so cannot be true,
but…but…it is.
It is.
It is.

“Are you coming then or what?”

Audrey, look out the window and see your dreams.
Brydie, lay on the carpet and think of home.
Charlie, stand in the garden and let the rain wash the pain away.
Danielle, shout at the skies for this awful weather.
Ellen, smile as you see a rainbow in the distance.
Fiona, stick out your tongue to soften their fall.
Gemma, pretend there's nothing falling from the sky.
Hannah, dance in the rain in that favourite dress of yours.
Imogen, jump into puddles, one after the other.
Jade, wave to the people going past in their cars.
Keri, open your hands to cup the cold water.
Laura, laugh as the neighbour's umbrella turns inside out.
Molly, hope the grass is better for football tomorrow.
Natasha, sigh as you drive through it all.
Olivia, read a book by the nice warm fire.
Paige, sleep through the hammering of the droplets.
Queenie, scream as you dash through the storm.
Rhianne, fall back onto that squishy armchair inside.
Steph, pray for the sun to come out soon.
Tuula, watch the leaves huddle against the kerb.
Una, listen as they patter patter on the rooftop.
Victoria, take off those sodden shoes.
Whitney, snap another photograph or two.
Xandra, run to get back home to your family.
Yasmeen, follow the trail of the water on the window.
Zara, give up waiting for the rain to stop.

I wait
outside the classroom
just before one.
The sun

shines down on this
Thursday afternoon.
Minute to go.
The bus will turn

the corner
and arrive. You’ll be the third
to step off.
I’ll see brown bag,

brown hair,
glasses from afar. A smile
will slowly appear
on my face

just like that.
Waiting.
Others are in class. Hurry up
please, return, it’s been too long.

Far too long.
I expect I’ll sit, swing
on my chair to look at you,
as always.

As always, I wait.
The bus pulls up,
you step off, wander towards me.
There’s that smile.

There you are.
Here we go again.
I say hello.
You say hi.

She’s not here.
She’s not with us.
She’s in another world
full of desperate humans

and disorderly sights.
Her eyes, wide,
stare at the screen.
She falls

deeper into a trance.
Clap your hands,
she won’t even know
you are there

because she’s on another planet,
addicted like a man on forty a day
and she can’t break the habit.
I wish I could help her

but I’ve a bus to catch.
She sits alone with her phone,
in a complete trance.
She’s not with us.

This is the new world.
A virtual Vegas crammed with bright lights,
stimulating colours. Sensory overkill
for the new generation.

The mice scurry. A click. Words
and pictures fill up the sad, vacant space.
Information pours into our heads and trickles
out our ears in a few seconds.

No wallet, no coins, no notes.
Objects become ours with no money
in sight. No handshake, no hello,
but a deal has been done.

We are obsessed with the here and now.
A need to know what he’s doing, she’s doing,
surely they want to know what we’re doing too?
A second later, the world can know.

Are you feeling lucky punk?
Plunge into an ADHD mess of those who wish
to be loved by the unseen, unknown.
We are alone, unloved. We need you.

Television without a remote.
Films, music without a disc.
An online Orwellian world.
What was ‘hot’ last week

is recycled into a new fad.
A constant tinker of
layouts, images, ideas,
designed to bind us in chains.

Look at me! Look at me!
Play me, **** the clocks.
Once you’re in, like hell
you’ll get out.

The new world trapped in wires.
Why talk when we don’t need to?
Troops are growing in numbers.
Sign up. It’s free and always will be.

Maybe God created the world as we knew it.
Everything we knew and didn’t stuffed
into a space that grew each day.
The new world is no different.

We stare and sit at reality number two.
There are our ‘friends’, then everyone else.
We are not alone. Anyone, anywhere can find anything.
The life we live scrolls before besieged eyes.

It can go slow, it can go fast.
It can crash when it gets too much.
Maybe it is just like us.
Refresh the page.

Now, what’s on your mind?

They sit on the side,
discarded like a football
after a PE lesson.

A slight scratch
on one lens,
long and white.

They’re old and weak,
more fragile,
more bleak.

More flaws.
The rose pattern on them
is fading. Almost gone.

They should be replaced,
but we know that won't happen.
They’re still beautiful somehow.

As time passes,
they are more of a spectacle.
With or without that scratch.

But your glasses, a familiar sight
on the side in the sunlight.
Alone again.

A powercut.
Lights go out.
  Fetch some candles.
   Fill the blankness.

    Minutes pass.
     Eerie solitude.
      See that flame?
       It flickers.

        It flickers like us.
         Uncertain, unsure.
          Left, right.
           Sometimes neither.

            Rain outside.
             Wet windowpanes.
              Sad little droplets.
               The sky is crying.

                Wax burns.
                 Time burns.
                  It drips away.
                   Like the rain.

                    Like our lives.
                     Unless we change.
                      Be positive, fresh.
                       A new outlook.

Illuminated room.
A dazzling new glow.
  The lights tripped.
   Now back on. Fantastic.

A month or two ago I read a book.
It wasn’t bad but I’ve read better
stories with more interesting characters in my life.
I sat as I usually did with a cup of tea
but I think my wife forgot the sugar in it
as usual. She always did this.

Halfway through I thought to myself, “This
is getting boring. I’ll put this particular book
back where it belongs, let it
gather dust. I’m sure there is a better
read somewhere on these shelves, littered with tea
stains, stains from my younger self, my younger life.”

And yes, it has been a long life
indeed. Now would you just look at this!
Surrounded by novels, lukewarm tea.
I mean, see my book
over there on my desk? Yes, that could be better
too, but when I had finished writing it

I was so chuffed. Sadly though, it
didn’t make me feel more jovial about life.
Didn’t get much praise at all. My wife said, “Better
go to bed, wake up ready to start again, a new book.
Whatever happens, don’t let this
get to you, like last time when you downed cup after cup of tea

every day.” Yeah, she got it right, down to a T.
Again and again, I always ended up doing it.
Then I’d sit by myself, plan to book
a holiday and think “It’s time my life
took a different path, writing garbage like this
is not going to make things any better.”

I needed to start afresh, anew. I’d thought I’d better
stop with my unhealthy habit of supping tea
and after months of misery put a stop to this
nonsense. The stuff in the past? Just forget about it,
move on, focus on the more exciting projects in life.
Get ready to stun the world with a brilliant new book.

I presume you have read this. What do you think of it?
I turned to poetry. Better than the mush I wrote before when tea
played a part in my life? Who knows? One day, you might read it in that book.

I don’t mind, not at all,
just place your head on me,
let yourself become
immersed in my comfy haven.

Every night I am yours
you are mine, a relationship
that has lasted many years.
Many more to follow.

We never talk, we just lie
enveloped in darkness.
I care more than you can know.
I will never leave,

cheat on you when I have had enough.
Do with me what you like, turn me over,
drool over me, move me into
whatever position you fancy.

But then you leave me. I become
cold and alone once again.
Not to worry though, because I know
you'll return when you need me.

It began to snow at midnight, and
we made our way home after a night down the pub.

We ambled past a torrent of drunks
but slowly continued on into the  kaleidoscopic blur.

We hope the New Year will bring joy,
instead of wishing the calendar disintegrates in front of us.

We have suffered more so than most
and our misery is intensified by the ***, the gin.

We know our lives are jagged, confused
and with little money, I certainly can’t treat you well.

We finally arrived home and flumped onto
the sofa, our eyes avoiding that blasted calendar on the wall.

We went into the kitchen soon after,
where it was warm, we swigged a glass of wine or three.

We saw the flakes continue to fall,
the clicking of the clock penetrating our minds.

We discussed the future, where we will be
in years to come. Eternity, won’t you lend us a hand?

For it is this eternity that is so uncertain,
unclear, buried deep under the crisp, white snow.

I evoke that day in the park when
when you finally noticed my existence after months
of hoping.

Waiting. There you were, on the bench as
the snow began to fall, sipping that can of Coke
clenched in your hands.  

You looked glum; mind you, I was too.
That navy coat you wore, your ginger hair stood out like
streams of fire.

It was just me and you, you and I. My phone
rang but I ignored it, prepared to walk
towards you.

I’d say hello if I could but for some reason
(I should ask you why) you stood up, my breath
hung in anticipation.

The scrunch scrunch scrunch of
fallen snow, I looked up, there you were, falling paper
surrounding the two of us.

An invisible straitjacket
tightened around me, my voice box left on vacation
and you said…

There is no longer a light,                                                      
for a long time, well, it’s been hard to cope.                                      
April will see that girl’s flight.                                            

My, I remember that June night                                          
long ago when I wished to elope.                                                  
There is no longer a light.                                                      

How­ I'd like to end this plight,                                  
all I do is sit and mope.                                                      
April­ will see that girl’s flight.                                            

I’m weighed down by this paperweight,                                                     ­ 
pain throbs inside, so fierce, no hope.                                          
There is no longer a light.                                                    

If only she came back into sight
instead of hidden under the microscope.                      
April will see that girl’s flight.                                            

Unless the torch again shines bright
and halts me as I fall down the *****,                                                  
There is no longer a light.                                                  
April will see that girl’s flight.

You are the sunrise
that illuminates the twisted roads ahead.

The photocopier
that seems to do what you didn’t want it to.

The branch
that sways precariously in the wind.

The clock
that stops, starts, stops, starts.

The froth
that dangles a little too far over the side of my cup.

The peach
that contains a solid stone under the façade.

The book
that always ends with unanswered questions.

The confetti
that looks glorious but doesn't stay for long.

The nosebleed
that stains my pillow at night.

The boomerang
that flew off in the distance, yet to return.

He stands up, moves towards
me. I anticipate the
hug I’m about to receive.

It doesn’t come and instead                                                          ­      
he picks up the remote. His huge                                      
body leans over me.                                                              ­        

He then goes                                                       
and sits back down. I stretch my legs,                                              
look up.                                                              ­              

All I get is a                                                      
quick glimpse. I’ve had enough
of this now.                                                             ­             

I move, rest my head on top                                                              ­
of his knee. He glances down                                                      
at my face.                                                            ­            

He pats my head                                                        
and I realise. His affection for me
remains after all.