Thoughts Are Few

And inconsistent;
largely light, reticent.
Struggling through
some lonely night –
I try to think; so on I write!

Music plays me,
curling strayly,
lost in worlds I cannot own.
Mindless – flightless –
walking slowly…
Soft in brains puss brought to show!

Short and tragically
we peer contemptuously:
Laugh at sordid, life-lost lightly.
On my grounds
I’m sure my folly
when the night brings losers; jolly!

Parallel

In another room
An age away
Another us
Rips the night apart
We curl a tune
And drag
A line of thought
Limping like a broken dream
To drown, face down
In our puddles of beer and tea
Washed ashore in perpetuity
on our islands of cakes
In those valleys of skunks

Through a portent,
Unfathomable universes,
Diverse from ours, away,
Another us
Reaps the rewards of climbing the stars
Of sacrifices moody and unwholesome
Compromising breath of the soul itself,
Each in reward for renown
For compensation so vast and improbable that
merely reaching the heart of others,
Has immeasurably enhanced
The quality as well as status
Each of us – in this other world – enjoy.

Some blurred echo of those thoughts
Expressed above
Retain a tenuous grip in the
Blank planes of
My particular memories.
Forging bearable apology
For having squandered
Such time
And exhausted such energy.

The Clear Out

She has bags of bags, filled with shoes, Christmas wrappings, old cards
And new ones.
Bags of overplayed records and unopened letters.

We keep clawing into the gloom and dust:
More bags, half open boxes, stuck to this sticky insect-shell-carpet,
Deep in the fabric of the long dead.

Box after box…
Some have bags in, some have letters, reams of aims,
Bags of dreams.

There are more shoes, a crimson coat of majestic massiveness.
Here is a box full of bags from the eighties filled with toys
– Battalions of soldiers in disarray eyeballing teams of alien muscle-men
Through the decades.

And last of all, wrenching the newspaper floor with it,
Dragged out from beyond,
A decomposing leather hold-all, filled with photographs.
Beaming childhood hopes, tiers of school pics, camping trips,
Instants of hurried-through birthdays and flashes of Christmases.

I clamber back. Kneel back, and, hands on knees, take a breath.

Our treasure-haul has piled up in the bedroom,
One trove stacked on a chair.
Inhaling the gasps of long ago,
The chatter of ages fills my nostrils,
Hits the back of my throat – the depths of memory
– And I gulp down more,
She shuts the bedroom window, Which abruptly suffocates us.

*** “Go get a bag then.”
Her hands already picking over the bones.

Another bag. This one heavy with dark implications
Heavy with its Black.
The crisp pliable plastic of sacks.

I bare my mind as I reach into the kitchen cupboard, downstairs.
Here dark, personal, thoughts swim.
So, again, upstairs ripping one finality after another off the roll
We empty years of what-ifs into these terrible cocoons.

We stay for days jogging back and forth
through shared and forgotten events.
All that’s dead is gone, all that’s dust is dead. In a bag in a box
In a hole. There’s a dream that once lit up her head.

 

 

4:20

A return to attempting to find my poetic voice. We have come to the end of a string of Beck’ Beat Poetry events, which have been a series of fantastical occasions! Enabling me and others to meet and hear top-class poets from across south London (and Hackney)!

Here is the 420

 

Silence

You, my blue lipped beauty
Stare glassily at this sky of fading fluorescence
Of panels and screw coverings
Sharing your long dead warmth with steeled neighbours

In my head your laugh is raucous
As I trip,
or burn another meal
Like how you snorted that day Paul fell off his new bike
Poor Paul
Or when Isobel helped us to decorate;
Daubing delicate pink prints on your mum’s new faux mink jacket
Hilarious

Noisy
Always
Laughing in my head

Not now
With that fine sheen to your fading makeup
So as you stare on
At your terrible cocoon
The silence left is closer

The noise in my head of you
Is loud
Ringing
Deafening
And eternal somehow even from your beautiful blue pout

Alison

My pretty dame.
I will meet you again
again.

Sometime
in distant time
refrain…

I love your eyes
your sweet smile, pretty,
and quietly close
I sing this ditty.

Off The Page

Rivers of rooftops flow
Drowning out windows
with clouds from below.
Down where the noise and malevolence grow!

Whilst daily you claw at your dreams:
taking apart
every thought you believe.

I keep seeing your face –
hearing your succulent tongue lick your breath –
as anonymous people take place.
Stealing a memory
of what your love left.