Left-Handed Poem

Cycling home in the rain last night
I hadn’t gone far when my little bike
seized up. A thumb-sized piece of wood
had ridden up and jammed real good
between the wheel and front mud guard.
The wheel just stopped. Though I tried hard
to pedal, momentum took me for a spin -
an elephant pivoting on a pin...

I sailed clean over my handlebars,
pin-wheeled into the road where trailing cars
honked and swerved and thundered past;
not going terrifically fast
but even so, it could have meant death.
I landed winded, out of breath,
and sat a while in mute surprise
on the cold pavement. I closed my eyes
and there, in a downpour, contemplated
the days I’d lived and loved and hated.
At my funeral, who’d attend
if this false start had been my end?

I realised you’d likely never learn
of my demise. Perhaps a mild concern
might disturb you for a week or two
but you’d find better things to do.
I felt, in that moment, profoundly alone,
picked up my bike and pushed it home.
My right hand smashed from when I landed,
tonight I write these lines left-handed.

Tsunami

You’re there, aren’t you?

A hanging, trembling hemisphere of salt;
the whole breath of the ocean momentarily drawn in
and held, bated.

On the empty beach below, I prepare my flotsam phrases
with beach-combed hooks, baited.

You’ve thumbed your nose at gravity, held back a
million tonnes of hissing water with one finger tip, weighted.

I’ve sat and doodled and dreamed of you. I’ve held my breath and closed my eyes, waited.

I’m here, aren’t I?

Autumn

We rake wet leaves to find paths lost beneath,
put tools away
and deadhead roses, quietly in grief.
As autumn’s wind now shakes the empty trees,
we’d kill to have just one more summer day,
and dread the coming freeze
for, in the breeze, we feel cruel winter’s hand
come creeping up to suffocate the land.

The bumblebees must take their final flight,
on thinning wings,
to certain death now half the day is night;
now green has turned to brown and brown to mud.
This season takes its toll on living things,
feeds England’s fields with blood
and, as that life’s extinguished, all the fear
and pain is silenced, ready for next year.

Mayflies count in hours, sparrows count in days;
by now I know
for each tomorrow, I’ve had two yesterdays.
Now haunted by the things I’ve left unsaid
and all the places that I’ll never go,
I sweep away the dead
and close myself to fear and love and pain;
I settle in to wait for your spring rain.

The Same Rondeau

The same rondeau again, I fear,
my muse refusing to change gear.
I’d hoped for new ideas tonight,
to whet your tired appetite.
I shake my pen but none appear

and, though we spoke, it’s pretty clear
this isn’t what you want to hear
but even so, I sit and write
the same rondeau!

Ugh, in this musky atmosphere
I just sound needy, insincere.
I had the bark but lacked the bite,
the count’s reached ten, I’ve lost the fight
and yet I lamely volunteer
the same rondeau!

Rosetta Stone

Rosetta Stone, come back to me.
Reveal yourself and let me see
just why I write the things I do;
these secrets whispered just for you.
You comprehend the history,
the complicated mystery
of why I write this poetry
for in the dark, you write it too,
Rosetta Stone.

Come back and let this love run free
or tell me no - I’ll let it be -
I’ll recant words that frightened you.
It doesn’t matter that they’re true.
You hold the key that unlocks me
Rosetta Stone.

Superposition

I. I walk with you
through crunchy leaves,
my hand grazing in the small of your back.

II. In your midnight bed
we wage a furious war
for flesh and pleasure.

III. I touch a cold windowpane
imagining your fingernails
scoring the far side of the glass.

IV. I crack an egg
and pour the neon yolk
between your spread legs.

V. Across a desperate café table
you reach out for my hand
unable to form anything like words.

VI. I ejaculate all seven seas
and you fall into a dreaming sleep
as heavy and weightless as a manatee.

VII. Outside the weather’s pretty nice,
it’s bright but not too warm.
You butter toast and we
begin to discuss Brexit.

Out of Sight

She has such tactile qualities
but that’s a side which no-one sees
for when she lies in bed at night
she dreams of how she’d growl and bite
and bring a grown man to his knees
and yet, by day, she aims to please.
Say black is white and she agrees -
You’re never wrong. She’s never right.
She has such tact!

As gentle as a summer breeze,
she is the Sword of Damocles
poised ever-ready, out of sight
where, always pleasant and polite,
she tolerates us nobodies.
She has such tact!

Lost Cause

With no goodbye you stole away
as though there’s nothing more to say
and left me with this mystery:
what did you ever feel for me
if walking out was such child’s play?

Each word from you I now replay
on endless loop. It’s Groundhog Day,
with you forever leaving me
with no goodbye.

I know some ludicrous display’s
not on the cards. It’s not your way,
but just one word of honesty
might be enough to set me free
then I could go my own sweet way
with no goodbye.

Dream Poem

Two poets copulated and now
one gestates a fish
that cannot be caught
with net or line.

Inside her now
an image forms in the mingled
smoke of their two bodies -
a hand of friendship
that is also a tree -
it contains the sap of love
the pain of grief
and shall create its flowers forever
in the heart of the world.

A tired King whose crown is found
on a dung heap
appears beneath the tree
clutching his tattered flags.
What he says next has sounded
in the skulls of common men
for fifty thousand years.
He says simply, “I am here”.

Meanwhile, the Queen holds an egg
in her outstretched hand,
speaks in a language that cannot
be written down.

She says, “This orb is my hope.
It is the future or it is a fox’s breakfast.
If it hatches, nothing shall ever be the same”.

And now we pass that egg
back and forth
you and I
in awe and terror
never daring to smash
nor incubate nor eat.

Royal Jelly

Last night, again, he stole unseen -
a fox into the henhouse of her dream.
She woke in desperate despair,
masturbated then, barefoot, walked downstairs.

She left the mail unopened
ignored unanswered calls
sought solace in her garden
the cherished prison of its walls.

Her ten thousand little stars
domesticated, stingless.
She busies herself, she starts to work,
feels heavy, Earthbound, wingless.
She licks her fingers, tastes their sweetness -
and curses her accursed weakness.

Just days ago, she’d seen him in the park
then later, for hours, she’d lain silent in the dark
rehearsing things she knows she should have said
Ten thousand words unspoken,
wingless, dead.

She understood he coded his replies
She interpreted his sweetly searching eyes...
She breaks off and attends to her beehives
but a piano is exploding in her insides.
She digs a honeyed hand into her guts.
She’ll do her waggle dance for him.
No ifs, no buts.

She takes a blob of precious royal jelly,
feels terrifying lust course through her belly
and, cursing her accursed gnawing hunger
she eats the queen’s delight
quietly wishing she were younger.

Leaves

Autumn is a crime scene,
another sheaf torn from
your book of days;
your crisp apple raped by worms.
A psychopath hits a long lunar note each night,
sharpens his knife for winter.

Autumn is a crime scene;
every leaf foretells your death,
shouts ‘You, you, you, shall someday fall,
to lie desiccated,
your heart a conch of jerky
and black mud,
your finger bones the spoils of fights
dragged away through clotted earth
like sacks of loot.
Spiders’ webs in your cheeks.
Skull of cocoons and chrysalides’

Autumn is a crime scene.
A beautiful young wife,
escaping alone on a railway platform - 
we flash past, tearing up a dodman of leaves
at the precise moment her cells begin to spoil.
Her baby blue dress will one day be
a mile beneath the sea floor
divorced from sunlight,
waiting for somebody
else’s spring to begin.

Autumn is a crime scene.
My body disagrees, tells me over and over 
that I can carry an ocean
in my cupped hands forever.
My body says ‘She isn’t dead,
only sleeping. Go,
go wake her with a kiss’.

The Colour Purple

Eighteen year old Billy Perkin
was in the laboratory, working.
He aimed to synthesise quinine
so took some boring aniline,
dissolved it in a drop of booze
and that was that. He’d lit the fuse!
In his test-tube, this strange solution
would prompt a colour revolution!

What was that shade? He couldn’t think!
It wasn’t red, or blue, or pink.
It was some shade sort of in-between,
an obscure hue, seldom seen;
a colour only worn by kings
for gowns and stuff - the types of things
that normal people couldn’t buy
so Billy Perkin thought he’d try
to manufacture it as dye.

The year was eighteen fifty six
and Billy Perkin, just for kicks
took a tiny portion of his dye
and made the world’s first purple tie,
discovered it was colour fast
and that was that, the die was cast!
And Perkin’s purple, ever since
has pleased us all. Yes, even Prince,
falsetto screaming, hips a-jerkin’,
owed it all to Billy Perkin.

I hope I’ve cleared up any mystery
‘bout Perkin’s purple and its history.
I’ve tried to tell it factually
although he called it mauve, actually.

Daffodils

Let’s rip out the seats!
Let’s rip out our hair!
If our parents object,
let’s not fucking care!

Let’s burn all the barns!
Let’s slaughter the hogs!
Let’s bulldoze the churches
and eat all the dogs.

Let’s burn and keep burning.
Let’s drive through the night.
Let’s fuck till forever
and leave on the light!

Let’s drink all the petrol!
Let’s crash all the cars!
Let’s crucify poets,
smash all the guitars.

Let’s romp and let’s stomp,
start nuclear war,
hit the beach and start swimming,
lose sight of the shore

and, as the world crumbles,
let’s look back and see
that the only love left
is your love for me

and my love for you
and, as we swim down,
let’s strip off our clothes
and fuck as we drown!

If you don’t fancy that,
let’s take a few pills,
and have fun pretending
we’re big daffodils!

Huldufolk

According to a study
72% of people
in Iceland
believe in Huldufolk.

Little
magical
hidden people
who live in nature
and might be invisible

and, holy shit,
major roads
MAJOR roads

major roads are re-routed
to avoid their rocks retreats
and secret spaces

72%
and yet
you can’t
believe
in
me.

The Boss Speaks

I’m fun and free-wheeling
so wear something revealing.
I need sexual healing
and I find you appealing.
Hey, I’ve got a strong feeling
you’d be cosier kneeling.
(Ignore that glass ceiling...)

Vampires

A game of chess, a piece unseen
moves in the black squares, takes your queen.
You asked for this, you wanted more.
You prayed for me, unlocked your door
and set the pieces on the board
then fell asleep and, as you snored,
I found you there and played your game.
I took my time. I spoke your name.

My teeth were bared. Your lips were sealed.
Your world was cancelled, mine revealed
and so I won your game of chess
and brought you into lesser death.
Ah, beauty, we have endless time
to love, to match your bite with mine.

And now, a coffin, us within.
I’ve had a thousand nails banged in
and, ever more, I’ll drink you dry
and you’ll drink me. We’ll petrify
eternally, but never die.
Two statues sleeping, eye to eye.

Perhaps one day we’ll be reborn.
You’ll be a queen and I, your pawn.

The Things I Could Probably Do

I could hold up my hand right now.
Yeah, I’d hold the air just so
and suddenly, you’d look at me
like girls would look at me
years ago.

I could, I guess, stare into you
and see the things that others miss
and being seen
you’d want to lean
toward me for a lovers’ kiss.

I could hold the Milky Way
in my two outstretched palms
and you would fall
and want to fall
for all my roguish charms.

We could be famous lovers
who starred in front page scandals
but I can’t. I can’t.
Of course I can’t.
I’m wearing socks and sandals.

Limerick

There was an old lady called Doris Day
who died this year (the thirteenth of May).
She’ll forever remain
my Calamity Jane;
Whip-crack-away, whip-crack-away, whip-crack-away!

Tonight

A hand pivots at the wrist,
finds a groove,
measures out the night in finger-snaps.

The headlamps of a 1938 Buick Roadmaster
flash on as the engine growls -

CLICK

The neon on the roof of the Plaza Hotel
calls out your name -

CLICK

Up in the Bronx, a drummer is dreaming
of a syncopated firing squad -

CLICK

On stage at The Strand, Louis Prima is throwing bananas
into the crowd and planning a divorce -

CLICK

In a coldwater tenement loft, junk fingers
press out the first faint notes of bebop -

CLICK

In the wild, imperfect night, a saxophonist
fucks up your lipstick -

CLICK

A boy and a girl hold hands on a dance floor,
silent, waiting for the world to begin -

CLICK

The hand pivots up,
reaches delicately for the microphone,
and a legend is born.

Audacious Dreams

First, the boiling darkness -

An orchestra is tuning up,
each player doubled by their lover
in perfect harmony.

They begin to play a haunting tune.
“Where Are We Tonight as the Dream Begins?”

Where are your eyes tonight?
In the gardens of Charlottenburg,
with every step, we sink deeper into the past.
By the time we reach the Palace,
the Palace has not yet been built.

Where are your hands tonight?
Burning all the maps,
returning the familiar world of places
to terra incognita,
abandoning words and numbers
for the wilderness of wise ignorance.

Where are your lips tonight?
Two wing-walkers, catapulted skyward,
yelling ‘I love you’s from tip to tip,
gazing at each other
across the curling tops
of grandmother clouds.

Where is your heart tonight?
It is a kitten at the bottom
of a sack already flung,
waiting to hit the waters
of a fast-flowing river.

Tonight I shall set alarms.
Tonight I’ll pinch myself and awake
in the wild barley of your hair.
I’ll hold your hands.
I’ll kiss those lips.
I’ll steal that heart.

Tonight this is no dream,
no song of summer
sung to a winter night.

Tonight, we wake at last,
release every window catch
and let each other in.

We dance and we dream together,
turn tight circles forever,
doubling each other
in the shrewd air of a new day,
blossom fat and wild and audacious
in the spring-woken infancy of love.

In Praise of Agnès Varda

Not some burly smith
but sea swimmer
lover of elms
essayist, editor,
cat lover, intuiter,
bowl-cutted mother of cinema.

Mother of Cléo
knowing in your own first bloom
how death would stalk all beauty
and how triumph contained despair.

Mother of a motherless vagabond
whose [I]pietà[/I] is piss-stained,
rigored in the frozen earth
of a turned potato field.

Mother of Jacquot de Nantes
your own dying husband
giving him a second beautiful childhood
even as his cancer ate him whole.

Mother of scavengers,
street-lost hustlers, mother of
community philosophers
tarot-turners
of the homeless lost
and the never found.

Mother of a howling man
chasing an apple
into a storm drain.

I think of you often
how you would make us all look
through the hoop of your forefinger
and thumb
and laugh a tinkling grandmother’s laugh
your nose glistening
like a drunkard’s thumb.

I think of the
Algerian labourers
prostitutes
jazzmen
tree surgeons
the black panthers
the movie stars
and the gleaners
how they all lived
and shall thrive now forever
in your windows and your mirrors
between your finger and your thumb
beneath the dreaming skirts
of a watchful mother’s eye.

Odd One Out

I lost my virginity at fifteen.
I swam in a piranha-filled lake.
I broke a girl’s leg, on purpose.
I directed a feature film.
I got rescued from a mountaintop.
I love you.
I have not had a TV licence since 2001.
My first girlfriend died in a car crash.
I once met John Travolta.

Lifespan

I love the way my poem lives.
With every reader, meaning shifts
as strangers’ eyes unwrap my gifts.

It never reads quite how I planned;
like diamonds in a sunlit hand,
it all depends on where they stand.

Some embrace my grasp of form.
A few behold a unicorn
while others read it with a yawn.

For days it holds its little place
and speaks its lust, its grief, its grace
but then, a truth I have to face:

it swiftly slides far down the thread,
falls off the page. I know it’s dead
but new lines bubble in my head

so look for laughter in my eyes.
Get ready for a sweet surprise:
I love the way my poem dies.

At the Breakfast Table

We each crack an egg
in the empty breakfast room.

Inside of mine
a parachute packed
to a postage stamp
a compact mirror
so that I might admire myself
a bottle of Chateauneuf
and a signed photo of Buster Keaton.

Inside of yours
a wounded hatchling
with sapphire eyes
beats unfinished wings
and stirs the air to fury-

a tidal wave of light
washes through the room
drains from windows
at either end.

I behold you now
uncloaked and true
a sphere of diamond studded
night sky
whose tears burn through the floor.

I behold you now
in all your griefs and losses
your victories forgotten
stripped by wounding time
your love reduced by shame
to whispered nothing....

You crack your egg and smile at me
yolk dripping from your spoon.
I pass the salt politely
in the empty breakfast room.

Oh darling, let me flay my skin
and throw it at your feet.
Let this distemper never fade.
Let me smash this tabletop
and drag you screaming
into love.

Let’s hijack planet Earth
and ride it, howling,
headlong for the sun.

Melody

This poem is the right hand part,

a melody for the minor chords

of your wounded, southpaw heart.