Éminence Grise

This village is a ghost town -
one boring shade of grey,
a clown without his makeup,
a pub during the day.

This town has been abandoned -
a throne without its queen,
a painting that’s just canvas,
an empty silver screen.

This city now feels empty -
a rainbow that’s all blue,
a ship without its captain,
a me without a you.

This country’s now a desert -
where no real flowers grow.
All I grew, I grew for you
(as if you didn’t know).

And now this planet tumbles
through endless empty space.
I’m trapped here on its surface
sans love, sans hope, sans grace.

The Touch

I noticed the tiniest touch of your hand,
the gentlest touch of your trembling hand -
your nervously circumspect, curious hand -
your touch is the touch I can never withstand
so all of the clever remarks I had planned
are out of the window, beyond my command.

Perhaps I am wrong and your touch was unplanned?
No, I think that by now I can read your shorthand;
your touch was a touch only I’d understand
and though your remark seemed quite wry and offhand,
in fact that’s just well-rehearsed, cool sleight-of-hand.
You knew that your touch would make our hearts expand 
and keep us enthralled in this sleepless Dreamland
with both of us up to our necks in quicksand.

Whipsnade Zoo, Saturday

 On Saturday we went to Whipsnade Zoo

despite the rain.

My kids thought it was just the thing to do,

complained we’d not been out in bloody ages

so I braced myself to overlook the pain

of animals in cages

and try to have a bit of family fun.

“It’s a conservation zoo”, explained my son.

The day before a storm had tipped a tree

against a fence

and two brown bears had managed to break free.

The zoo, oblivious, opened its doors

and the public, with its usual common sense,

stared into ursine jaws

through the lenses of their Nikons and iPhones

as hungry bears picked over wild boar bones.

And so Whipsnade, that conservation zoo,

with heavy heart

appreciated what they had to do.

They’d drilled for this, a thousand trial runs,

were primed in minutes from a standing start

with loaded guns.

The public warned, the keepers did their duty

and shot down poor Snow White and Sleeping Beauty.

We stood, the kids and I, and watched the bear

who had survived.

She climbed a hollow tree and sniffed the air

then gazed at me with nothing in her eyes

as happy families steadily arrived.

Their cheerful cries

and impatient children tugging at my sleeve

pulled me back somehow to games of make-believe.

A Poem For You

 This poem has escaped from the madhouse,

pushed its handprints into wet cement.

This poem is the unwanted child

whose father tried to murder it

and whose mother is the transcendent goddess

who never spoke.

This poem is the banquet

with no main course,

the after glow of a dead star,

the boundary line that once described a house.

This poem was found on a beach

in a bottle,

written in rum and turtle blood.

This poem is a prank on its author,

played on him by his pen.

This poem should be sung from barricades

at thoughtless fascists,

daubed on prison roofs

for news choppers to broadcast.

This poem should be chewed into a wad

and used to pack a gunshot wound.

This poem should be whispered by lovers

onto each others’ engorged genitals.

This poem should be carved in enormous Braille

on the white cliffs of Dover.

This poem should be read

one hundred and fourteen times

over a period of twenty seven years

and then forgotten forever.

This poem is boring.

This poem is incandescently brilliant.

This poem is a microscopic view

of a molecule of ink.

This poem is a naval flare

sent up at the apocalypse,

illuminating the city of the dead.

This poem is a seed I am planting

in your heart that you can grow

however you like.

This poem won’t stop loving you

even if you hate it.

This poem should have contained rhyme

and rhythm

to be more easily sung by road diggers

and in church.

This poem is a long list of stupid remarks

that you should arrange

in whatever order you find most satisfying.

This poem is attempting

to shrink the distance

between you and me to zero

for one frozen, beautiful moment

of absolute sincerity and say

“I see you. I relate to you

and I feel kinship with you

and I think you are worthwhile

and beautiful and I love you”

so that for a moment

the cruel gravities of the universe

will lift from us.

This poem is a collection

of the words that lay,

on this train journey,

between me and

everything else.

The Smile

walking down the street earlier today

I almost exploded

I heard music for the first time

the first drumbeats

first rising synth chords

first guitarist with a grin on his face

first sunshine first spring

first birds playing hopscotch

around a spilled burger

first man on a scooter

weaving like a sailboat

up my first Piccadilly

first time I put

one foot in front of another

first time caught in the catapult of time

first time riding the vast planet

hanging on only with my feet

through the first firework display

of a new Milky Way

as I hear Like a Rolling Stone

again for the first time

reset the seasons

reboot the sun

forget all the history

let’s start at year one

it’s the first time

you’ve smiled

at me.

At the Tip

 Where fat snakes come to shed our skins

and slough them into giant bins;

the bric-a-brac of our past lives,

things unacceptable to wives,

the stuff that somehow failed to please,

the detritus of spending sprees.

Oh, how I once loved this TV

but now it’s just 1080p

and, man, I really can’t believe

I’m tossing out these DVDs

and when the fuck did I acquire

this shrink-wrapped boxset of The Wire?

That could have gone to charity

but that did not occur to me

until I’d queued right through the gate 

at which point it was far too late.

Oh look, it’s all my books from school

and all the clothes I thought were cool.

I feel a little prick of pain

but cannot take them home again

cos Donna says we need the space.

I only kept it all in case

we did a Polegate boot fair stall

where we could maybe flog it all

to, you know, folks with shitty lives

or, at least, less fussy wives

though Donna says there’s zero cash

in all my - I quote - “fucking trash”

so that pipe dream’s gone up in smoke

although check out my masterstroke:

when Donna asked about the loft

I made a face, grimaced and coughed,

reminded her about my back

and so deflected that attack.

Okay, that’s it. My skin is shed.

My former self is good and dead

so now I’ll make one final stop,

see what’s for sale at the tip shop.

Night Terror

There’s monsters outside your window

There’s creatures beneath your bed.

There’s tentacles in the closet.

Dark dreams dance in your head.

What could you have been?

What might you have done

and where can you go from here?

These creatures unseen

are banging their drums

as you lie there, frozen in fear.

All those things that you shall never do

accrete in many layers through the night

but as you thought you might not make it through,

there, in the fog of chaos, shone a light.

It was not Christ

and it was not a bulb

but a sudden ray of hope

that pierced you through.

The knowledge that the future’s

not foretold.

Outside your door,

it’s waiting still

for you.

12/11/20

Twins

 I dated a lady named Holly

whose Siamese twin was called Molly

They shared one set of bits

but three jiggling tits

so dating them left me quite jolly.

I suppose it may have been folly

To date Holly without dating Molly

cos Molly’s a whiner

“Dude, that’s my vagina!”,

she’d say, looking quite melancholy.

I’d say “Molly, you’re off your trolley!

Try to relax, you hot tamale!

If you’re bothered by it

I won’t touch the third tit

but I need at least two, by golly!”

I’m not some two-timing Svengali

and I honestly did like Holly

but I just craved so much

what I could not touch

I dumped her and now I date Molly!

12/11/20

A NaPo Invitational

 (For Antonia)

Send up the bat signal!

Send down baited hooks!

Have it screamed on the airwaves

and printed in books!

Whatever your calling,

get calling you fools!

We must school the bank tellers

and tell all the schools!

We must shout it aloud

without missing one ear

that someone is missing,

someone isn’t here.

Perhaps it’s the Covid?

Perhaps it’s the Trump?

Perhaps she’s just having

a poetic slump

but NaPo is happening

and I sort of worry

that maybe Antonia’s

in no sort of hurry.

So let’s get pro-active!

Let’s get on the case!

Let’s hire Dido Harding

then let’s Test and Trace!

I’m missing the lady

who’s missing November

so I’ve written this ludicrous

missive to send her.

11/11/20

The Stalker’s Song

Flowers of spring are dormant now.

The soft earth is less yielding now.

I stand outside your building now

and plan to tell your doorman how

he absolutely must allow

your fans to come inside and prowl

so we might have a nice powwow.

It’s cold out here and so somehow

I’ll get to meet my sacred cow.

(He cannot stop me anyhow.

I’ve made myself a solemn vow!)

So I’ll pop up and just say ‘ciao’

and tell you you’re the cat’s miaow

and as you soothe my troubled brow

I’ll kiss you and you’ll just say ‘wow’.

I’ll slip my hand between your thighs

and then you’ll gasp in sweet surprise

and then you’ll gaze into my eyes

and then a summer sun will rise

and then and then and then and then

the cold hard earth will yield again.

06/11/20

The Cartographer

My mother was a mountain goat

my father was a mule.

I was born in midair, kicking,

did disastrously in school,

fucked up my mathematics,

I bombed psychology.

The one thing I excelled at:

Advanced Cartography.

Just send me up a mountain 

and I will make a map.

I won’t take an old brass compass

or any of that crap.

I’ll just follow my gut instinct 

and climb into the crags.

I calculate it all myself.

I carry my own bags.

The only thing I like to take

when I climb from A to B

is a huge headful of acid.

That’s right - potent LSD

makes paths into mandalas

so I’ll see a Gordian knot

where you would see a straight line;

I’ll sketch a Mandelbrot -

a crystalline recurrence

spinning fractally away -

as I map each kilometre

of the good old South Downs Way.

They say my maps are useless

but I’m not sure that they’re right;

they’re just not for casual ramblers

who walk in broad daylight.

My maps are made for magic:

they do not describe a place.

It’s more a way of feeling,

of experiencing grace,

for you can walk between the winds

or through the roots of trees,

see a place through foxes’ eyes,

circumnavigate a breeze.

My maps frustrate all logic.

The systematic world

has no time for speculation

that the Cosmos might be curled

tight inside the tiny seedlings

of any given tree

that maybe when we say we’re lost

we actually mean free.

So next time you go rambling

remember what I say:

you find yourself when you get lost

so throw your map away.

The End

 The End

(with a small debt to Adrian Henri)

Without you

the cocks won’t crow

the bulbs won’t glow

the flowers won’t grow

my mower won’t mow

Without you

the week won’t end

the banks won’t lend

the willow won’t bend

my emails won’t send

Without you...

the dawn may as well not fucking bother

Without you 

the planes at Heathrow and Gatwick

will just sit on the tarmac

with listless pilots

laying face down

between their wheels

Without you

the clocks will stop

even on boats

far out at sea.

They will always have been stopped

Without you

the crowds at Lenin’s Tomb

Easter Island, Mardi Gras

and Kumbh Mela

will all disperse

shaking their heads and

muttering darkly.

Without you

dogs will disregard their bones

and eat Wine Gums

from now on

Without you

football matches will be played

with only one team

all headed towards the same goal

Without you

the axis of the universe

tips towards oblivion

Without you

the greatest song ever written

will be dismantled

by all the broken composers

Without you 

Mount Everest

won’t have been conquered

anymore

Without you

the worms will give up

eating the dead

and hunt down the living

Without you

these hands of mine

cannot reach out in the night

and feel the darkness reaching back 

Without you

the hot moon dies

gets lassoed by gravity

and plunges into Bexhill-on-Sea

Without you

my poems are shopping lists

Without you

everybody’s poems

are just the words

‘shittlety dee’ over and over

for hundreds of pages

Without you

the world can catch fire

and spin away from me

slipping into the

clockwork cosmos of fairy lights

and I won’t even say au revoir

Don’t Go.

Shades

 You once said love can come in many shades

and just a few shades you have shown to me

but now at last our dappled rainbow fades.

You’re sick of all my selfish escapades.

I’ve loved you monochromatically

though you said love should come in many shades.

While mine’s been blacker than the ace of spades,

your love’s been bluer than the bluest sea

and now at last our dappled rainbow fades

As you erect some brand new barricades,

I softly shut the door and turn the key.

You once said love can come in many shades

and as I wrote these ludicrous ballades

new colours have revealed themselves to me

but now, at last, that dappled rainbow fades.

I hope you understand these accolades;

I think in some way you have rescued me.

You’re right our love has come in many shades.

For now, at least, that dappled rainbow fades.

Pebbles of Wisdom

I think the truth is that I do not know

quite why I live this life of secrecy.

Perhaps in some way I’m afraid to show

the agonised romantic side of me

that you put up with in my poetry?

No, that’s a stupid, facile thing to say;

ludicrously bad psychology.

The truth is simply you got in my way;

a rainbow arching in a world of grey.

I told you then what I had seen and felt;

since then our little game’s been fun to play

but I do not expect your heart to melt

and this confusion is a source of shame

for making love should not be a word game.

April Fool

 I say ‘had we but world enough and time’

as though we would be suited naturally

but you and I do not perfectly rhyme;

we are two different forms of poetry.

My meaning’s something only you can see.

I’m written for an audience of one;

existing only as you’re reading me,

I go extinct the moment you are done.

I know your verses are for everyone

yet, when you breathe, I hear my name instead

just like the daisy who regards the sun

and wonders if one day they might be wed.

Now April’s done. I’m glad it wasn’t cruel.

You were its sunlight. I was its fool.

Sirius

There you are, my bright particular star,

the brightest point that heaven can allow.

While dimmer bulbs can’t see how hot you are, 

to me, dog star, you are the cat’s miaow;

a dancing flame upon a lake of tar,

the hound that sings when all the others howl

and now you’re here, my dog days have begun,

for while you rage, your light outshines the sun.

Although it’s said that dogs are men’s best friends

I know, of course, that you cannot be mine

and yet each time the fleeting night descends

all star-crossed lovers watch our stars align.

One day we’ll part for every summer ends

but until then, my love, I’ll watch you shine

and wish upon my dog star every night

long after heaven pulls you from my sight.

To His Coy Mistress v.7813

 Are you, my love, too good for me?

Too beautiful for me to see?

Too wise and kind to run away

to even spend just half a day

in my unvarnished company?

I’m writing this on bended knee;

I’m utilising poetry

to spell out what I cannot say:

“Are you my love?”

I know that you will hear my plea

and laugh that you’re fine burgundy

while I’m an Asda Beaujolais. 

I’m E.L. James, you’re Hemingway

and, though I laugh, I’m not happy.

Are you, my love?

Maskless Commuter

 So comes the spring, so comes the rain.

I’m back each day upon the train

oblivious to all your pain

just casually sitting here

forgetting all the abject fear

that gripped us all for this past year.

Death carried off the elderly

but not my nan so I can’t see

why any rules apply to me

cos hand-washing’s a tiresome task

and yes it is too much to ask

that I should wear a stupid mask

plus I enjoy the eyes that stare

as I commute without a care

with spring and Covid in the air

so I’ll just sit here opposite

this bearded, angry-looking tit.

I really couldn’t give a shit

that he’s looking quite upset

and I sort of hope I get

immortalised in his tercet.

The Casting Couch

I’m searching for a brand new metaphor.
I think I’ve done the old ones half to death.
My trusty songbirds start to make me sick
and even sexy swans are now a bore.
Though ornithology’s our shibboleth,
shall I compare thee to a horror flick?

What would be our perfect double feature?
Am I Frankenstein or just your creature?
Are you Fay Wray atop the Empire State
while I’m the biggest monkey in the land?
The femme fatale who seals a tough guy’s fate?
The Hitchcock Blonde with scissors in your hand?
No, none of those for though it could be great
the film I’d cast you in would get us banned.

A Thoughtful Analysis of Our Historic Moment

 Ring a ring o’ roses. Let’s ease lock down,

start dancing as the world buries its dead

and we’ll twerk through the uncertain years ahead.

Ring a ring o’ roses. Let’s ease lock down.

We’ll be dancing as the world buries its dead,

as we carelessly set fire to the sky.

We’ll find some banging choons on Spotify

and be dancing as the world buries its dead.

As we carelessly set fire to the sky

we will not lift a finger to assist.

We’ll do the mashed potato and the twist

as we carelessly set fire to the sky.

We will not lift a finger to assist.

The problems of the world will fade away

as we dance the sexy boogaloo each day

and we will not lift a finger to assist.

The problems of the world will fade away

Ring a ring o’ roses. Let’s ease lockdown.

Put on your face, babe, and your evening gown.

The problems of the world will fade away.

Ring a ring o’ roses. Let’s ease lockdown.

We’ll be dancing as the world buries it’s dead.

We’ll watusi through the gruelling years ahead.

Ring a ring o’ roses. Let’s end lock down. Fuck yeah!