Monthly Archive: November 2014

Two swimming pools

A photo
Struck out of a steep valley
A hill of technicolour white white
On a sun blue blue painted perch
Set in the Kentish August dust
against a green green screen

A bright bright pool
Blown outdoors
For us swimmers
We get in and can see though
To now
I hold my breath and dive.

A photo
Struck out of a steep valley
A dripping road black black back
Breath still held we walk
To a green green glass room
Against a green green screen

A dark dark pool
Trapped indoors
There are no swimmers
I look in and can see though
To then
Putrid I can only peep, afraid.

(The 70’s series) Swanley

Lumped in a thick chair with sag slippered feet
fatter than blisters carpets scuffed to thread
rubber yellow and crippled with flesh
stinking of stale bed he never spoke just looked
and drank in the TV cops and pale ale mouth
full of dead teeth and gas my best friends dad
was a right picture meanwhile Steve fucked his cousin
or was it his sister in the shed in the grassed yard with the slide
barking at the noises they made on their dog shitty
turf on their patch of Kentish green this England this
scrape of the South East Nr Dartford where
boys and girls went out to play in sheds and parks and station yards
and recs and woods and busses and yes bike sheds
at night till in the morning still trickling with it
he filled us in how he loved her as his Juliet dancing a Moresca spun with bells
her narrow wrists ringing sonnets till dawn when the lark
not the nightingale wrenched him into his bed.

Three

Three is a lonely number.
We are three in a boat
rowing he and she
and me.

Three is a lonely number.
Parked up handbrake
on our lives
held
pregnant in the dank
banks of buttery mud
we float black slop
on.

Three is a lonely number.
He takes the oars and pulls
the drift forward to
the weir
where the roll of water
spins a shell of gloss
that keeps us there till we
turn

Back forward toward
the pier where our car
sits to carry us back
to land.

More martins

When Martin was ten he buried a tin
Inside he put a string
On the string he put
a washer, a key, a bead, a polo mint and a thought
“If you are not dead”
It said
“In fifty years you should
Wait on the bridge in Eynsford
On our birthday
The 16th of January at midday.
Wear on your wrist the things on the string in the tin
and I will tell you what they mean.”
Then he put it all in a plastic bag to keep it clean ready to bury it later.

Fifty years later Martin found the tin
He had forgotten to bury in
it’s plastic bag with some Corgi cars
Wrapped in a pair of trousers
Left by an old man just dead my
Dad
He opened the lid of the tin
To see if it had anything in
side. The peppermint lent
the tin a scent of not now, then.
He put the cars on ebay
and threw the trousers and bag away
He put the things on the string in the tin on his wrist until later.

On the 16th January he was there in as he had said
60 years old and not yet dead
He saw myself leave the sweetshop
Cross the road and on the bridge, stop
“Show him the things on the string in the tin
Martin.”

The bead is for the tears not wept by you
The washer is for the ring she left to you
The key is for the secrets she kept from you
And the string is for the end she leads you to.
And what about the polo mint?
Oh I have loads of those I said offering me another mint I had got from the sweet shop earlier.

In a hole

In a hole we sat together flying
Our wings our tarpaulin pattered
Machine gun rain and washed
Our bare muddy feet kicking
All the way to Australia where
We would build a fort and
Have spades to dig away the sand
To space.

Panettone cat

Our cat is a fruit cake
Spotted with currants
A nutter

Our cat is a ginger cake
Striped with syrup
A sweetie

Our cat is a birthday cake
Smothered in icing
A treasure

Our cat is a chocolate cake
Dusted with cocoa
A treat

Our cat is a panettone cake
Wrapped in sellophane
A micino.

Encounters with a foot fetishist in a white van while hitch hiking

Standing in the shadow of a shop in Rochester on the way to Dover
with sign and thumb up it’s me back a
bit and my turn
for the van with a man in to stop and turn
his shoulder back at me and so to say “you’re welcome
you are on your way to Wein for some
cakes and schnitzel and hot chocolate
with cream and fuck me my mate
your foot looks good enough toe eat.”
So I waited another hour
for an Audi.

Sitting in the shadow of a cliff on an asteroid
with sign and thumb up to the void
our spaceships turn
for the van with the man in to stop and turn
his shoulder back at it and so to say “you’re not welcome
you are on your way to Rochester for some
of the people there can’t tolerate
a spaceship, and fuck me my mate
your foot looks good enough toe eat.”
So he puts it in his van
the white man.

The library boat pond

Next to the library is a boat pond just alright for toy ones.

On Saturdays its full of white sails with
blue boats for blue
boys

This Saturday there was a green boat
and a red girl
on

the bank with a stick which she flicked
to make her boat
go

I was too big to talk to her so
I just looked a
bit

She had welly boots so she could go
when it got stuck
a lot

so blue boys laughed their belly belts and caps.
She looked like a girl you might meet in a story
you know a story about bears

On Sunday the girl same boat
same stick same stuck
but

She had brought her brown dog
“Fritz stop it, you are spoiling my
game.”

she flicked her stick the dog would go
in the water and splash about and
make

Her green boat lie down flat
and drift off course really
dreggy

She would shout
the dog bark
stupid

till blue boys laughed their belly belts and caps.
She looked like a girl you might meet in a story
you know a story about bears

Her green boat was soggy
her wellies full of
pond

The red girl’s heart was broke
her watery world a
whole

Mess of nothing gone right
toady, spawn litter of a day
till

I watched flick her stick.
I heard her shout
“Na jut; wenn ihrs durchaus haben wollt!”

I saw her brown dog stop
I saw her brown dog swim
I saw her brown dog eat the blue boats with the white sails

I saw the red girl pick up her green boat
and pop to the library
leaving her brown dog tied up at the door.
She looked like a girl you might meet in a story
you know a story about bears.

A youth hostel zombie thing

A youth hostel is a tame thing
Not risky like a sleeping outside thing.
They are soft potter places
Full of soup safe paperbacks
Thumbed pack-ups and mackintoshes
Till thick oat crumblies by the mitten stove.

Then the border hostel thing
Between this or that mountain land thing
Where the half hostellers hang-out
On the top bunks steady asleep all day
In the cabins for boys and girls and families
That at night settle down nicely to the moons gloom.

The half hostellers wake from their bunk thing
Naked save for a wee thing thing
Climb down past faces as bright as mirrors
The boys and the girls and the families
Dreaming of the soft soup paperbacks they read before they went to sleep
Happily miss the next bit for the half hostellers…

sew paper cut string things
To the whole hostellers lip things
Tiny shards of ash
Feather the pillows of these woolly sleepers
Ash carried from hell drifts into the
Lungs of our innocent drifters

At night the boys and girls and families
Sing the songs of dead crooners
Moon River is a favourite swoon
For our half hostellers
Who light pull the singers string things
And cry hot thick chocolate by the mitten stove thing.

Poor things.