The Denning Dells

Childhood goes like lost children do;

in a flash,

or a whipcrack like if you pull

back a sapling of ash

to test its supple bones with a finger.

Echoes of ancient bowmen there

and the yelping of kids denning in dells, 

standing sentinels to adulthood, welcoming that

exotic stranger in, not knowing he’ll burn hands, 

and take the gold of innocence.

Childhood goes over the brow of a twilight hill

lungs full of dampening air, the summer of cut grass

and teas and grazed knees gives way to worry and weight.

Even as we hear the gladdening laugh of friends

intent on finding us in the bracken

the thump of heavy boots intrudes

and with hands to creaking backs and eyes low

we take our reluctant route home

to the place we came from, crouched, 

small and though newly born,

already taking on the patina of the worn. 

The Sculptor

I think of you, always at a loss

not for words but for their meanings, stacked
some like skeletons disinterred from catacombs 

others like drunks on  cathedral steps seeking 

the forgiveness of proximity to a fading truth.

You take my words now, scrape them with spurls

you sculptor, removing  lumps and edges 
hiding the animal in your mind,

its appetites and irrepressible id.

At this moment of recollection

finding in our room the smell of old words,

loam on a forest floor fit to nourish new life,

I wonder at the shapes we make between our lips

and at what new meaning lingers there.

The noise

There was an insistent hum in the ear

not the drum, although it was a snare, a kind of repetitive sneer

something you couldn’t quite hear,

but which was surely audible enough to cause a stir in the room,

a shifting from side to side, a redistribution of the weight

we carry daily, and take with us to our beds,

something the springs won’t unload,

and no amount of cotton can swaddle

no bud can unpick or portion out in frequencies

that a human can handle, a sound like pips

squeaking in their pith

or imaginary hooves drumming out the day

for a choir of roosting crows.

Reggie loves reggae

Reggie loves his reggae and stays up all night

With windows open to the rain and the orange light

Reggie loves his reggae, for its crouch hip gait

The tic-toc nod, delaying downbeat and the offbeat wait

Reggie loves his reggae, for the way it makes him feel

Too good for the city in ripped pants and flapping heel

Reggie loves his reggae, says its safer than a bank

As a place to store your dreams, 4/4 swing and skank

Reggie loves that reggae, smiling to think they’ll bury him

To syncopations and vibrations a thick and heavy riddim

He closes his eyes to the reggae, leans back in his chair

All his disappointments just a chord  in the air.  

A Sort of Glass

I was there when bonds were broken,

when everything you could bank on failed,
at the end of history,

when beliefs were considered quaint

the etymology of which I like to consider,

at times like these, when we leave behind 
a beautiful place for something more sinister;

like the jack-boot of a culture we let go of

marching over itself again and again 

and again and again, and again.

Is it really a shame if we’ve got bankers to blame?

Or does blame come too swiftly, never compensatory?


Though rich with satire we don't see our faces in the fire, 
or the shattered glass.

Vikings II

A while ago I thought about Vikings;

tough fuckers pulling oar over teeming oceans.

Man rage matching sea

froth to mouth, 
mouth to helmet
helmet to Saxon cunt.

And there we were in the argument 
of words as clear as we could be, 
that this is in itself beauty;

in parts of old Wessex to this day

traces of Norse skin is found

nailed to Church doors

whether it was foreskin we can’t be sure

but brutal though the practice was

of flaying offenders and showing off 
their pelt, like some kind of ornament,

you have to sympathise.

When generations have their genes worn down

somewhere in that meek and shattered crown

there rises the urge to throw offenders off

to match a cudgel with a club

and teach eternity a lesson.

The heathen’s skin shrivels in the cold church door

Christmas in and Easter out

but test the blood of the congregation

transubstantiation not withheld,

and a fair portion of the frowsty barn is full

of naughty Norse Genes and wandering thoughts.

So perhaps the only way to be,

is to dissolve into inconstancy,

the aggressor here is the victim there

and the last thing about which to care

is the colour of some other fucker’s hair. 

The News

Watching in the yard our tree’s tousled leaves

and seeing with this season’s eyes

a scared crow; it’s head an animated gif

of a madman crossing an empty street

I look again at the mail you sent

and marvel that something so important

can hide inside such inconsequence

the way a normal day can turn

from humdrum tasks to emergency room

with less warning than a wasp’s sting,

in this case it’s the price of being interesting.

Nut

You were hard today

Like the shiny shell of a nut

And it seemed I’d cracked you

Looking for nourishment,

Or just something to do;

Biting down on the kernel of you.

A possible explanation for the writer's death plunge from his second floor window

I can see the crosshair in this window

it’s has it’s sights on me,  you see

the sun, has it in for those who hide

inside, tapping out their fantasies

like one of many monkeys

I’ll turn these keys into sails then

open windows to a breeze

and dodge the bullet, escape incarceration, 

dance daft into Spring air lent 

summer’s warmth by the accident 

of an island then suddenly free 

I’ll fall 

because I live on the second floor. 

Kick

I was looking at the inside of a shoe

when you came up and kicked me with bare feet

they were soft as crabs, 
and bony like bad meat.

It didn’t hurt and there was no insult taken

even if it was meant,

So I bent down to kiss your bleeding toe,

as you said; no. 

One boy

A year of appearances and disappearances

regular as breathing,

I play peek-a-boo on a grand scale,

Daddy performer working little limbs,

in weekly re-union,

wetting the warm dint of your neck;

in this family boys cry.

There’s been a lot of that lately,

in lost-limb weeks I feel your itching

and your faltering steps,

each time I stumble, hit the decks 

reckless or exploratory,

Warm as my blood, you claim muscle

from soft arms,

train kicking legs to stand

your ground.

I mark it for you, and take my place,

at once; wurlizer, roundabout,

shoot-em up, and clown,

but true too, I am your mute pedagogue,

teaching lost limbs to dance.

Office blind

Light through slatted blinds is supposed to be

all chiaroscuro, romantic, movie-like.

It should inspire smoking or the tipping of a hat,

but these office blinds divide a light too light for that

the gentle sing-song of your chat 

portends no threat, or plot.

I know this scene frame by frame you see,

so while the light cuts your face pleasingly

nothing will be spilt here, but a little bit of tea

and some minor confidence. 

It’s no basis for a film.