Monthly Archive: November 2015

‘Marge,’ or, to my phone box

image
Alone she rests in the lane
This P.O. red electric lady
Has lips
Recalling that

Once
Two bombs struck a school in Catford
A mother’s voice still shrieks
And Lulu’s lovers hum to her hits
My old men piss and puke
And a dog waits while she natters to nan.

But from inside
Her thumbed brass and copper clatters
like clockwork through the slats
To join the Wrigleys, the Number 6 and all the other
Ends

Then
Where Marge rests
Around a trillion breaths filled the space
Each breath carried
Voices of lost toys caught in flight
A frisbee, a football
A ringing shuttle that fleets and spins
Till it tangles in these few trees, trussed
and then with care
brought down.

Today
so much later on than then
Unspun now for you
and spread like buttercups butter the green
to hear said as sand speaks
Flowing from sand to glass to glass
like a filament
burns through and breaks
The link from you to him to me.
“Operator what number please?”
it asks us and we reply

“Again!
That one that takes us back past the stopped sand
Cross the green, the field, the stream
Through the glass to our Wonderland
Where of here we dream
And the past plays back forever
And so do we.”

Thanks Marge.

Christmas morning

Crying into the light I woke to silence.

Then….
My ears popped
And…
I heard her first words fall like brown pears drop.

Then…

My mum Mary.
Sweet and blue as a baby boy
Licked me with black lips
Scratched me with straw
And fed me her shitty smells
And cough candy breath.

So…

Warm as a slipper I lay and bathed in her gaze.
Her eyes, egg wet
Her nostrils wet with green
Her breasts wet
My bed wet.

Until…

My mother’s snout spoke steam.

And …

I replied –

‘Moo.’

The back way

Eve
Still, seamless, night

AM
Light comes and the
Half dead summer dawn
Wakes me
To
Wednesday 6th September.
I am sad
Sad like still ill
Like still stay home hidden here ill.

Breakfast.

8:30
I walk there
on September the Sixth 1967
a Wednesday
the back way.

A thin grey birch and another marks
47 houses and 9 minutes
8 sometimes
If I rush

And

My small shoes shine
But my little life dims.

Lap cats (after Samuel Palmer and Shoreham)

On our donut island
We sit toe to toe dipping
In the cobbled shallows
Knees pulled up to pyramid pleats
And lap to lap like cats
We purr together.
My mother and I
So close to the island edge it can’t be true.

She is close like ivy.

Her friends are there
One mirror breath apart
On the other bank
Squint light and silver shadows break
So close she can reach a flecked hand across
And their smiles swept back
Lap at our feet like cats.

On our flowered green spot
Busy, Jolly, Silly and us
The three cats
Trace the waters edge
To lap with us
And paddle this tiny inland sea
With wet socks
And her friends.

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