Monthly Archive: February 2015

Grandmother’s sixpence

Its snow white like the noise of gaslight
A whisp feather voice of nineteen nineteen
She sings sweet to the swoons of her princes
Who flip coins.

With fleet feet she plucks them
Like seeds a sparrow thin wrist twists the trinkets
Between her teeth and spits
Green copper.

Seeps a silver sixpence through to my shelf of nick knacks
One hundred hundred hundred fingered
To a moon blank face of her
that was the fairest of all.

(The 70’s series) Carol – Oh radio past blast

Carol – Oh radio past blast.
Sat back on Ercol she purrs Jame’s Last
lights up, relaxes long legged, feet up
now dragging a plume of blue and yellow from her
deep down chest.

Carol – Oh radio past blast.
Her Nescaf perched on a slender oak arm
teeters and swings along, sings along
to those silvery soothers until it slips and stains her slacks
coffee red.

Carol – Oh radio past blast.
she’s mad like a blonde girl makes out.
My fault. ‘The drip made me drop it.’
Like an ice cream nose I clown it out
but my heart sinks lower than my balls.

Two sequential poems about my mum and dad in the war

Nippy

She’s a Nippy, starched pretty in a city
cafe where the gents and ladies sip tea
and gaseous vessels of the black sky sea
Float like steel strung puff pastry.

Once the fire wardens day is drawn
He crosses east to west by tram
To guide the Nippy safely home
To a drab flat for two in Lewisham.

A flight down.

These city passages gutter full with ciggy butts
Strike after clock echo with the cosy tones of us
Shadowing our way to the number 19 bus
Stop siren shouts no choice but rush.

Wrapped tight hands our soft comfort is eclipsed
By rage and drafts of riddled red
That puncture the sky and leave the dead
Falling as drops of liquid lead.

Steep stained steps imbibe the light
Scarved and gloved to ward the night
Nippy’s presence is still starstruck bright
Such that the tunnel tiles burn back white.

Enwombed by umbilical billows of flex
We huddle together beach blanketed wrecks
On the splintered lift of lids a crack
A gaze of traceless fear we break.

A mermaid sketch for ‘Vent’

This must be played on good speakers or headphones – should you decide to listen on a mobile device you will be ‘wacked’ – Much enjoying ‘The Sopranos: Series 2’ – This is a further development of some ideas around abstract melodrama and synthetic speech. I still have much to learn but I am enjoying the process. I created the composite image to provide a vibe for the listener. More to come.

mermaid_morph

Four under the bed

Like wiggly worms we were
tied up in rubber knots
sprung with playtime.
Under the bed
heavy with blanket dust
heavy with breath of us
little girls and boys.
On top our toys
our bums below.
Sunlight clean cheeks
dirty thoughts and knees
Lone Ranger triggers
and dolls and tigger-
Like bouncy bounce bounce.

Bang it goes show
Off our fun stops so
Sudden we now know
That girls below
Are not. No…
Can’t say.

Don’t let it get away

image

Stop, a photocard unsent.
A field lounger stamped against the folds
of Kentish downs now adrift in Ebay’s place
for village views and memorabilia.
An alien place for the man in the white socks and hat
who glances back at Gee the camera
held as still as flint, as the spire
points up in time to now
and stops the bidding dead.

Sitting on sleepers

A dull day
underneath the underneath of my motorway
I walk my path to New Birmingham
Fishing for bits of tat for this and that to keep safe in my pocket
till later I can sit and look at it.
Above me spin spaghetti threads toward some place else
Empty and quiet like here and there and
everywhere I know
That has nobody in it.
I look at my watch – 1 – time for getting on quick

I slip alongside the cutting, the rails, the canal,
the curved asphalt meanders and trails toward
the station where my trains sleep in ward
rows, doors gaping open like birthday cards
I perch on my spotting spot and look at the
stopped clock 1:23 and some seconds fast.
Enough time just once upon
To get a quick coffee from the buffet
and read the timetable fast.

And look at my bits of tat and tit, a ball a bag and some string.
A fine hoard for a dull day with no one about I can
Lay it all out 1, 2, 3 I can sing out loud like a 125
‘Clicketty clack,
down on the track,
1, 2, 3
Tat and that.’
I drop the string and the ball and the bag and climb down
to sit on sleepers and count my things.