I first saw them together, him
in pain, her
concerned, a worried frown
etched deeply on her young face
and surrounded by
the faint whisper of hospital gowns
and nurse’s pulses quicken
as they take the temperature
of the mis-morning managed
roll call.
It was hardly the dreams
of Romeo and the girl on the balcony,
it was nothing like Taylor
and Burton, but
what love is wrapped in such gilded prose,
it is what it is,
I thought with a smile,
Four in the morning
telephone calls
are never moments of great news
departed from excitable lips;
come quick, the pub landlord
has said all are welcome to
drink the place dry,
you awake, good,
you have won the lottery,
come to your front door,
I have a million quid for you
in cash, blow
it all on excess, you
are being transferred to City, good
luck kid, the big time beckons;
Four in the morning shrill,
is like the fire brigade siren,
We dominated the arcade game
even at the end of the night
when half cut, you on Newquay Steam,
vapour trails followed your hand
as we took the Mutant Turtles
to the sound of Metallica’s
Seek and Destroy in Costermongers
every Saturday night to new extremes;
Searching seek… garbled mess of lyrics
following, yet in tandem
Dear Cousin,
we struck blow after blow
and we raised our beer bottles high
as we drove to victory
in Costermongers every Saturday night.
Just above my eye, the one
I nearly lost the sight in
as a boy, battered
and beaten for being wrong
in the criminal place
of Cooper School fields,
a foe hiding in the enemy,
that is
where the headache has lain,
a small worm perhaps growing fat,
cultivating more room
in which to sneak through
the mind fields
of veins and vanity;
a small chobble here, a bite
there, slowly wearing me away
to nothing,
a headache that is all it is.
I Mish Moshing,
so out of breath from the swirl,
the fevered bounce
against another human bein’
that I would not get my words
out properly, as I say with engine stoked
memories forcing their hand,
I Mish Moshing,
the body the tool and the elbow
tucked in but still wary of
the natural enemy
to use force when
no one’s listening, the sly dig
as the ritual reaches
a crescendo of colour
and passing out sweat, flung
over and happily drenched,
She had the type of hair
that Maria Fredriksson
wore without apology,
not that she would ever need to,
not that any of us should be required
to utter,
Come not ye empty mourners,
I boldly cried out loud
in the safety of her stark office,
too young for personal effects
but complimentary on my tattoos
that straddle my arm
as if making the best of a bad deal,
a slight hand job with no verbal kissing,
no sweet talk, she took me to the edge
The Smith scratches his bald head
and sighs, exasperated it seems
by the famer’s
and the village’s
lack of understand his point,
that the horse is lame
and needs to be destroyed.
Why shoe a horse good only good for glue
He asks with arrogance in his voice,
educated not for the betterment of
those who seek his service,
but confrontational, weak livered
but full of supposed moral superiority.
He pays no heed to the cries and objections
that the horse can still provide a means
The back yard was covered
in the miniature jungle
of moss, earth bound mold,
secret fortress for the Viet-Cong
and hiding holes
for the alien Predator, casually
smoking Park Drive cigarettes
as it polished the remains
of a once scurrying beetle
late for work no more.
I have had no reason to venture out there,
like my childhood, when wet
or not allowed to go near my father’s
guinea pigs for fear of upsetting them
as I crashed a decaying
I still live
for Music, milk and Mars Bars,
never finding a replacement for them all,
the speed of the thirty three
and a third, always fulfilling
and fuelling the memory of fifty
pence in my pocket, a morning token
in which the early Walkman knock off
would play me the music of choice
on the way to school, passing by
the odd discarded milk bottle, a victim
of thirst and now drained
and allowed to stand erect, proud,
devoid of culture and parading the remains
Their school uniforms flattered
their conversation, overheard
as it was
in coffee shop in Waterloo,
over tea and a snack before
heading back to school, tucked
back in blouse, the giggle of fifteen
year youth as they congratulated
themselves on skiving off a lesson
for an hour, and the slurp
of how they shall get fat,
should they do this all year.
I rolled my eyes, I could not
sanction or approve of such time wasting,
the skive, one lesson, all for a buttered scone