Supermoon

I thought I’d never start a poem like this:

the moon…

it seems too cheesy

a bad joke, like that bad joke

but it is the moon seeming

larger looming, slicking

roofs sick of frost on the first night of spring

offering us; the bewildered

                                            answers

not found in rolling coverage of earthquakes,

a shoeless girl weeping the soaked tatami

where isotopes dare her wait a half life for love

or in the cracking of Africa’s burnt crust; 
the sudden end of history 
as we knew it the last time our moon dared so near.

Realpolitik in its ghostly glow breaks

free of the dossier haunting headlines

but doesn’t seem as mad, 
as you and I dear, raving
for nights as bright as this,

feeling wolf hungry, daring the lunatics

to draw their curtains, and set us free.

Your little finger

Your little finger

is a match in my hand

I strike it like a cartoon cowboy

on neglected stubble

to light your cigarette

You’ll need a manicure now,

and the flame surely burns,

But the smoke is consoling

and your eyes reflect fire

like amber in the sand.

Brain Heat

The bed is harder than asphalt

hotter than tar cooked

to a gritty treacle by July

and although it’s March, winter

still grips the roof with killer’s fingers

the heating thuds guilty carbon belches

and I writhe with the brain heat,

cranium cracking like a fault fired pot,

flames finding weakness and licking it.

I made this mind a crematorium

and for assembled family roll us in

corpses on a barge blaring

all the rock songs of summer

and winter’s dreams of heat                      

lost in the absence of consoling sleep

Season Song

We’ve known now 

the cold to come

and to go.

We’ve known its ferocity 

on hard embankments

and we’ve known the rich silty flats

to give off ordure,

in the renewal of compounds.

Seeing, as we have, love’s angry dogs

attempt to break the leash

when rain lashed handlers

heading for the heath

wanted only to reign in, 
hold back the frothy jabbering.

It’s no wonder our eyes are sore.

But, my love
there are sights for those eyes,

along the chill embankment

where the river throws itself

at the cold sea.  And warms it.

Lost Tools

You ought to have had a shed, moss musty,

You would keep some rank booze there

Which we would drink from chipped cups

Rinsed in the water butt

Not clean but clean enough

Because this is my idea of being a dad

Borrowed from an old idea of yours,

An apparition out of doors,
A bonfire curling lazy late daylight skeins

Around knock-knees and varicose veins

You ought to have had a shed,

Where the tools could wait for me

And might have forced

My unskilled hands to work

At the sweat black wooden handles,

Not clean but clean enough

Those tools in their oiled sack bag could tell

Of hands that dished out lollipops

Shot unthinkingly at hotentots

And steered a wounded Hurricane back

To medals, the cold metal applause of wars

The tools are gone,

And although they’re probably in use

They don’t have a story,

Beyond this one of loss;

You had no place to put them,

No shed, musty as moss

But a garage crammed,

Not clean, but clean enough.

The Lady

Who was that tapping at the window?

Pain like bolts in her curled fingers

Arthritic yes, but betraying perhaps

A past, more delightful, yes light

Full life, lived through a domino

Display of opening doors,

And years of tipped hats and applause,

Giving her the strong back of the

Perennially loved, and eyes still

Fired to flirt even down two generations

And we flirt back, we boys, to her at least

But men to all others this side of the window
Their backs turned and already beginning to curl.

Going for a drink

Ok then let’s go,

to where the evening waits

like a mugger

to rob us of our faculties,

and yes, let’s wander

the headline making streets on purpose

we are fodder after all for stories.

And let us lurk in corner bars,

sinking a few jars,

celebrating the gutter for its reflection of the stars

and swapping tales of those same stars

and how they bounced off puddles

to take their twinkling place above these

poorly maintained roofs, locked like empty lovers

in an architectural embrace of stained ceilings,

witness to the couplings of broken men and whores

but let us never have cause

to fall too far

through the gaps in the bar,

where the drink

we sink

takes chunks and lumps of life

when it promised to restore it

because there will be time,

in time to call time,

to hear the bell tolling us into those same

bruised streets where we’ll pick up pace

and head each man to his anointed place

somewhere between the puddles

and the stars.