Memorial

We want diamonds of peace

to blunt beveled blades of chisels
starving the tool of its weekly diet of sandstone
dusting pristine cenotaphs
as a mason carves
another name, who will be

mourned by civic tears
watering gardens of memory,
where obelisks rise like needles,
facing the direction
of a misunderstood war, where
paper poppies avert their rain stained gaze
lowered standards graze the ground with reverence,
as the Union flag protects the memory of the fallen
steadying, leveling all

as a cortège

of bare, bowed heads

make

a private pact

reflecting in the gleaming paintwork
off young cap badges and old brogues,
that they will never be forgotten
their memory will never be tarnished
for they go where they are sent
serving without question

for us.

05.02.10

All this paper
each ream six percent of a tree
I didn’t work it out, I Googled it
lax net policies prevent loss of cognitive function
in my world

that is rapidly swallowing me up
like the trays of A4, jaundiced by time
if they could talk, I’m sure that they too
would be thinking, there must be more
was I destined to fulfill an order?
Why couldn’t I be bound in a tome?
Hey, I’d settle for a paperback these days
popular, cheap, in wide circulation
good for travelling
sounds familiar,
but then so does the ubiquitous boom
of a man I don’t respect
or pretend to,
as so many of us do
corporate niceties
slipped away one morning in the mirror
that I’d forgotten to clean
need more coffee
that I always take from the desk in the end office
not because I’m a snob
I just like the way
it melts in hot water
replacing the faint tannic taste in my mouth
which is probably the vitriol coming out

as thousands of times a day
or what feels like it
stupid questions
fill this dusty, but not unpleasant office
where people file past the door
saying “morning”
but not really meaning it
and the “goodnight”
will be the same
insincere vespers
for the sake
of civility.

Unsuitable Mania on a Thursday Morning

The world to you seems like high-resolution
or could it be that its pictures
are pontificating manic messages
that swirl around the apex of a mitre,
that you do not deserve to wear

a poisoned crown leaving invisible scars
except for the sleepless nights
and crashed cars
hitting walls of misunderstanding
layed with mortar, thick with prejudice
and now the ivy gets in between the cracks
and looks down at the mangled wreckage
green leaves, new sprouts
seemingly holding together the frail face of brick
indented with metal
but destroying it from within.

Hothouse

Graphite scratching it’s way across the surface
of a pristine notebook,
diligently remembering it’s owner’s hand
drinking in facts
from a seasoned orator,
wrestling with the notions and theories
of three classes ahead

this is the hothouse
where children are dead,
where the gifted come
to crack open their heads
like eggs in a daydream
opened with force
by tutors and parents
with the best interests, of course.

The Secret life of Make-up and Teardrops

It doesn’t matter that I have mascara drawing a map on my face
mating with tears, planning to run away together
down those long black roads
that spread over my cheeks

stretched over a frame
carefully positioned by genes
like a painting on an olive-coloured canvas
waiting to be illuminated
by a lamp
not yet switched on
but it will be soon,
once the roads set
and the tears become part of the air
ready to fall again
as part of the cycle
death, rebirth, death, rebirth
in the shape of a single droplet,
life.

On the Cowardice of Power and Grandeur

You built castles for yourself
from the delusions in your head
then the stones kicked and taunted you,
wishing you an ugly death

so you paraded a white flag
stained with blood of men who’d fled
and your stubbornness magnified,
crimson petals long since shed.
Still you stood there unfazed

as hawks and ravens began to sing
serenading you with an unfamilar tune
adorned with bullet holes of  the Spring,
the liar’s bugler with his ugly notes
taunting a widow’s bereft wedding ring,
clad in a borrowed uniform,
wearing a lanyard of pompous string,
“It means nothing”, she murmurs silently,
as the reveille hails triumphantly,
he is no longer king.

Winter Musings

cold, chastising the goose-flesh arms
saying “put a cardigan on”
whilst taunting the ailing radiators,
the type found in Victorian schools
with black iron railings
often left to crumble
often charred husks
burned by callow arson

committed by youths who once sat on parquet
singing hymns before playtime
now, they sit
complaining they are cold
in a cell, the same size
as the shed, where stolen bikes
and garden tools converse
over compost
about the weather
in an imagination at least, oh memories do
funny things
when the hairs on your arms
bristle in a breeze.

Traffic lights, Newtown Row

Hearing the axles jolted by the indentations left in the road
my back screams in sympathy with the passengers
silently travelling, I can’t hear their conversations
the faint outline of their lips through the windscreen
might be misleading me, I don’t know anymore
just a pedestrian on this street
waiting to cross the road
as a jumble of traffic signals
out of synch
cause horns to buzz,
heightening the metallic colours
shocking me, like a defibrillator
one, two, three
clear.

Wednesday’s tribute to nothing in particular

I keep telling myself that I’m too young to look out of the window
every morning and notice the mood of the sky

scowling if I’m paranoid, banter if its a good day
framed in rotting wood and traffic fumes

and a pneumatic drill, somewhere up the road
by the petrol station

clipping the pavement like a thousand jackboots
of a bored army, marching to nowhere.

Music Lesson

ok, so I’m arrogant as Pickering my violin teacher once said
as I made the strings squeal on the morning of my grandfather’s death
she didn’t know and I couldn’t tell her
decided to carry on
rosined bow dragging as I think of him
cold and alone.
A man no more
as jarred, staccato notes
mark his ascent to another throne
where the music is sweeter
and the tutors
are kinder

my grandfather is home.

Medicate

Adrenaline and his friends
held in a headlock by a script
written in a pastel-coloured office
with a smile.
No conversation
for eye contact, you go private,
a green slip of cheap paper
flapping, waving back
from the dispensing counter.

Next.

Is this blackmail?

you expect those words you say with such
loaded, sweet meaning to explode like atom
bombs but they fizz like small incendaries
of guilt,
dropped from height
for maximum effect.

Snowfall on the A34 Junction

The BT tower, reduced to a silhouette by snowflakes
that look like feathers, stirring the urge to fly,
the dust on the windowsill aches and vibrates
in time with the hum of traffic,
specifically a thirty-three bus
double-decker, white, red and blue livery
gliding, then choking
in the slush
as silver and black cars of sales reps
ambulances rushing to accidents,
a police motorcyclist
wiping his visor
at the traffic lights
with a leather gloved hand
whilst eyeing a woman in a purple knitted hat
rushing to the warmth of her office,
the pub.

Socks

For Anjee Busby

Woven on giant looms
servants of purposeful feet
wonders of mechanics
created by an intelligent maker
bones, wool, silk
all natural
striding purposefully
across boardroom
cities, rocks,
parade grounds
personal histories stamped in sweat
on pairs that are sometimes parted
forever, from their stripy or silky
twin.

Hooligan

the shirt, taut across a
distended belly
the poly whatever fabric
that helps a midfielder cool
down, does nothing to quell
his temper,
baying and growling
at police and away supporters
breaking the symphony
of chants with a swig
of lager
warmed in the coat pocket
of a girlfriend
brought along
as a decoy
to get into the ground.