Wednesday, 16 November 2016

The dark sun of a god
called winter, the winter of our
discontent, unrelatable: Walnut
Whip, fury like an unspoken
wave of collapse, the gunfire cry
of fear over love. Ghost faces
flit across floors of fallen gunk,
America is itchy with mouths,
a single mind- a jiffy of dread.
Voodoo death explodes like

a joke cigar, a clown’s flower.
The wall is a hand in a slap.
The elastic-band snaps back,
always. Mildred rejoices at the
pale, the blue lives. The word ape.

Who are those filthy embers
about to catch? Children with
whitewashed bellies, no picket,
nor monstrous vehicle.
Don’t tread on me. Girlie,

sit back down. Open your legs  
for the tiniest hands. And all along
we knew it was the case. Every
Injun slips by like a day. Oil & labour,
scored like a map- footfall of
terror, complex.

Tuesday, 25 October 2016

Waterstones frog with a golden
crown. Remember that deep
pool, the flaxen ball scattered
by a Princess? Like a tinderbox

that held all the evil in the world,
but gooder. Apple-right. Easy for it
to slip from her powdery hands
into the gravy-black pond, now

lost. That froggy in the cold murk
flipped it up with his webbed fingers
from the sticky mud, the gore, 
and swam to greet her blue

strange planets of thanks,
the lashes that cradled the trinket.
He was neither frog nor pipe
but after a kiss a shining boy

called Prince. Now in a carrier bag,
hidden, the first belonging of an
unborn sprite. I carry him careful past
the playground where chalk crackles

like a radio. I love you Mum it says,
October broadcast. I love you.
A golden thought that waits
to surface- for all this open space.

Monday, 17 October 2016

Nectarines settle in the icy 
dawn, one skin against another.
The cherries are out of fashion-
berries in general are aggressive.

Panda bowl. 
Vivid rips in the fabric of reality,
squash like the evening sun, crass
pumpkins, pink at a banquet.

Sometimes the oranges go magic,
bobbing down the market. Slice
them for a white light, the turnips
are moons, mais quel est un gourd?

Nobody knows. Traders wheel
like birds in slipstreams, biggy 
biggy big bowl they cry, breath
exiting into the crisp morning Wow.

Thursday, 13 October 2016

These the stay-at-home, elders, the wise ones,
the unemployable, day-offs, the night workers.

These the freelancers, poets, the guilty, 
artists and strangers, mysterious cargo.

River of potterers, dodderers, the aimless undirect,
the Asda shoppers, gentle with avocados,

Totting it up. The disabled, unable, the radical 
and rutted- we flow through the mall, rubbernecked.

Enlightened. Beguiled by lights, the ambient puddles-
ushering in air on some unwritten mission.

Monday, 10 October 2016

Pumpkins swapped up with
the Coca-Cola saint of chimneys
who plops down into your soot-filled
reception like a fun-ripe carp.

Bones skitter across the ice,

sycamore bobby-pins strewn in wintry hair,
leaves whipping over the forecourt as
demonic confetti whirls to the right,

archaic-sploding to left-overs, crisped.

The first trees in polystyrene storms,
the crooked fingers of a skinless hand,
and all the while the outside whispers

not yet, not yet- the glistening gift!

Like Blanche Dubois in a dirty slip
mulched whole, our broken quarter,
O lady of swans- Trump aftertaste.

Thursday, 30 June 2016

No one knows where the
Morris came from, some
say Africa. Or what?

Blackface see. Tradition
with its wreaths wrapped
alien tight around our

island. Don’t touch it. We
are not for you. Our children
suffer, whatsisname prizing

out the tuck from under their
Roman noses. Scarcity,
a woman scrabbling in the dust.

Brown people bleeding their
brown blood everywhere.
Muck. Time to look backwards

to a time when things were
lighter. Just don’t mention the
wars! Our Great Nation spraying

Enlightenment all over the
place- a tired child learning
how to use the Big Boy.

Nope. Your utopia is short-
sighted. Love is finite. No
space for humanity here.

Time to dial it back
to a dreamless rock,
all lonely in its sea of Mine.