angels

an old cobwebbed beardy writes poetry which nobody wants to read – he doesn’t even know where these words come from – some of the things he writes about have been knocking about for years – since he was a teenager – muses have come and gone and now he bides his time in solitude waiting for his angel to take him away – his shepherdess – there is simply no point trying to explain his thoughts to the outside world anymore – he barely steps outside his own thoughts – when you have nothing your thoughts become your only precious possessions – he glides through them like an eagle searching for prey – somewhere hot would be nice – he’s always fancied ending his days propped against a smooth boulder at the entrance to a cave on the side of a cliff overlooking a vast expanse of nothing – but would his angel – his shepherdess – know where to find him – and would the wolves find him first and tear his flesh from his bones – never one for taking risks he elected to stay put – surely she would find him here – he listens for her every day – in the sound of the birds in the overgrown garden – in the wind that whistles through the cracks in the window frames – in the conversations that keep him company when he closes his eyes and leans back into his solitude – the sun warm upon his old cobwebbed beardy face – his smile radiating contentment – he would never know how it came to be that he became an angel himself – what a mystery this life is – how it takes us without warning.

pitch

the television screen is black
the sound is muted
for all time

hey, let’s turn out the lights
let’s shoot the moon in the face
the stars next

no more noises please
our words are meaningless
to the dead

so why not go there?
there must be something worth dying for?
a new way of being

black as pitch

she’s a mother

she’s a mother
and she’s the best
she’s like no other
not like the rest

she’s a free spirit
with specific dietary requirements
she’s spiritual
without religious alignments

she’s homeopathic
a natural birther
she’s a breast feeder
a planet preserver

yes she’s a mother
and she knows best
she’s like no other
not like the rest

she’s widely read
in narrow fields
believes in conspiracies
the allegedly concealed

she’s an anti-vaxxer
for the good of her child
no chems for her
she’s barefoot and wild

yeah she’s a mother
she knows what’s best
unlike the science
and all the rest

the only ones

on bright winter mornings
we drove hungover along the seafront
last night’s disco ball now a low hung sun
a billion twinkling dance moves glinting
on every tiny ripple of a wave
and through it all the beat of our lives
ebbed and flowed with every tide
racing – pulsing – floating onward
not that we had anywhere to go
except perhaps to the end of the pier
where the fishermen cast their hopes
and the drunks dreamed in gathered shoals
like driftwood drawn from the north
they too had nowhere left to go

we used to park at the end of Madeira Drive
and make out in the car when the clubs had closed
we weren’t the only ones

orange beetle

under a Brighton moon

in our palatial bedsits
punk posters on the walls
we stared into the smoke screen
can’t tell what we saw
can’t tell what we saw

and down the street
at the end of the street
between the sky and dirty gutters
is where we used to drink
is where we used to drink

we drank to get drunk
we got drunk to forget
we forgot why we’d even started
until the time was spent
until the time was spent

and down below the pier
on the dead and pebbled beach
the tramps all licked their wounds
just like they were dogs
just like they were dogs

yet still we wanted more
a line from a song or more
any something more we could score
to take our breath away
to take our breath away

under a Brighton moon
the glow of cigarette butts
stars safety pinned to the night
it’s all so long ago
it’s all so long ago

it’s all so very long ago
much longer than a lifetime ago
now it’s pulled out from under your feet
oh such a cruel fate
oh such a cruel fate

Petunia knocks

Petunia knocks
on The Good Fortune door
she wants to be a lap dancer
on the bar room floor
but first she must pass
the casting couch test
by pulling up her skimpy
pretty purple tight vest

white girl
trash girl
dirty little slut girl
pimp girl
pimply girl
Mummy left her little girl

the words on her chest
say she’s DADDY’S GRRL!!
yet he’s the ****
who made her life unfurl
now she’s doing it again
just like she was told
that day when her childhood
was first bought and sold

it’s just a blow job
so what the heck she thinks
but he’s fat and hairy
and his groin fucking stinks
she remembers sitting screaming
with abdomen pains
blood and baby stuff flushing
away down the drains

Petunia Petunia
she doesn’t know her own name
it’s a flower a flower
with colours aflame
reds purples pinks
they all look the same
bruises abuses
give away the sad game

you do strip or poles
and favours or what?
sign here young lady
on these blackened dots
you can take your time
here snort a line it’s fine
it’ll make your eyes shine
now go make the men say
you’ll be mine oh mine

white girl
trash girl
Mummy left her little girl
pimp girl
pimply girl
dirty little slut girl

Petunia Petunia
she does what she does
’cause you just have to work
and god knows it don’t pay
to be a shy lazy shirk
she’s got debts and rent
and men to pay
there’s never a good time
in any shit day

late in the night
on the top attic floor
when all of the punters
have been kicked out the door
she curls like a foetus
tight as a ball
the sound of the night
infiltrating the walls

white girl
trash girl
dirty little slut girl
pimp girl
pimply girl
Mummy left her little girl

the words from her Dad
echo in her head
she can’t stop his yells
even though he’s dead

but look – it’s ok
she’s ok – ok?
she’s got someone to hold
a black girl who’s older
goes by the name Marigold
her nails are like petals
painted reds purples pinks
she’s her surrogate mum
well that’s what the kid thinks

they’re two flowers them two
two flowers no more
and there’s no going back
to their lives long before
or when Petunia knocked
on The Good Fortune door
for life is what it is
and what it is
is no more

you’re a man

you’re a man
you’re a man
you can’t understand

you do
what you do
it’s all underhand

you’re a man
you’re a man
you won’t understand

the pain
the strain
to be secondhand

you’re a man
you’re a man
you’ll never understand

coz a man is a man
is a man
is a man

after

with eyes closed
I watch clouds move across the sun
a lighthouse beam sweeps in a segment
now moving away to the north
warning of what?
stars form and grow and burst
filaments of unknown origin
illuminate electrified cells
multiplying through a microscope
dissipating before my eyes
fading out of sight
darkness forming
enveloping
and

after our lovemaking
we stay close to share our warmth
listening to the rain on the window
steady and straight and determined