Victim

You come and go with the darkness.
I never see you leave but after snowfall

I see your footprints across the lawn.
You sleep alone at night in the shadows

under my exhaustion, a luminescence.
You keep one golden eye open

just in case I forget myself.
Your eye seeps around my raw edges

like cyanide, like a cloud of mustard gas,
like radiation in the house of the apocalypse.

I’m sealing myself in with duct tape,
pulling down blinds, wearing dark glasses;

a hermit with only Transcendental Meditation
and a half-empty glass for company.

If only you were a little kinder,
I would welcome you with my blood.

 

 

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The Door

Go and close the door.
Maybe inside you’ll find another
woman in a secret room,
the one who once loved you
naked with hair as long as winter.

Go and close the door.
Maybe you’ll find gold
dust behind the revolving book case,
gilding the spider who weaves
your future from the uneaten
crusts you leave on your plate.

Go and close the door.
Keep out the fandango wind
or it may dance
your dreams to smithereens.

Go and close the door.
Maybe something high-rise
will grow in the sour air.
Your house will become a castle
with log fires dazzling
in caramel halls.

 

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Photo by the author

Love and Hate

You are nothing but a clatter of bones in a dressing gown
coughing up phlegm over our breakfast table.
You are nothing but a slither of liver, lungs, kidneys, brain,
faithless heart pumping white crimson around and around.
You are nothing but a hundred billion neurons firing arrow
thoughts about yourself into a mist of grey.
You stab the butter knife in the marmalade.
I want to stab it in your eye, see your ego bleed out.

Suddenly you look at me and describe a dream
you had about building a house from Plasticine.
As you turn your face and smile, morning sunbeams
glow just below the curve of your cheek
bone, the place I kiss before we go to sleep
that tastes so deliciously of tangerine.

 

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Photo by the author

Remember

we gather at the edge
white feathers falling
in the dark
staring into the void
we are alone
the children wave purple lightsabers
kitted out in knitted hats
adorned with pom-poms
there’s a sense of urgency
mother and child move quickly
the wrong direction
teenagers pace and stiffen into poses
words fade with the wind
the burning of wood
the Ivory Tower
the crackling of flames
taking hold the awe
exploding the shock
we gasp smoke
sparks rise shimmering bat-wings
it is beautiful
the stars weep green roses
silver snakes carved
in the perfect dark
a father thin and tired
carries his daughter
to the edge
holds tiny pink hands
in huge gloved fists
nuclear dots burn
in the emptiness
we hold the fire
and only the wind

 

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2020 to all my friends and supporters!

 

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Photo by the author

 

 

 

 

Tips for a Perfect Christmas

Transform your family with tinsel
strategically arranged around the living.

Download seasonal hits by Wizard and Slade.
Repeat play while you cook, clean and defecate.

Anoint your sprouts with the sacred cross of Jesus.
Wrap your pigs in blankets, protect from sudden frost.

Check your bird every ten minutes. Truss her tight
with silly string. Baste with juices from your pot.

Brandy will add flavor to the tasteless.
Provide plastic antlers for your guests.

Check your fairies are operational in advance
to avoid disappointment on the big day.

Choose carefully the special someone
to cherish at the top of your tree.

Inappropriate choices will make the whole day die.

 

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Original Photograph created by the author

 

 

 

The Innocent’s Song

I usually steer away from politics in this blog but these are extreme times.  In the despairing aftermath of a British election that voted for the most right wing, populist, racist, sexist and dishonest Prime Minister the country has ever seen I thought this poem by Charles Causley was extremely apt.  I have changed a couple of lines including the last line.  Thanks to Isabel for sending me the original poem enclosed with her Christmas card.

 

“Who’s that knocking on the window,
Who’s that standing at the door,
What are all those presents
Lying on the floor?

Who’s the smiling stranger
With hair as white as gin,
What is he doing with the children
And who could have let him in?

Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head,
Why, does he caw his carol,
“Get Brexit done”?

Why does he ferry my fireside
As a spider on a thread,
His fingers made of fuses
And his tongue of gingerbread?

Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns,
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?

Watch where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double-talking:

Boris is his name.”

 

God help all the poor, sick, disabled, homeless, immigrants, refugees, unemployed, elderly and other marginalised people in the UK during the coming years.

 

 

And here’s a poem by Rudyard Kipling sent to me by Alastair:-

 

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