Evenings Out

I even out my life in evenings

out in the garden, making the most

of Summer, watching the

colour drain from things into

pools of black which

trickle slowly together to

drown the world in darkness,

like rock-pools on a beach into which

we stare at crabs and

starfish while the sea

cuts us off, and Autumn

swallows Summer.

A Good Question

"Is he in, out or indifferent?”

She meant her boss, of course, but

it made me wonder

which I was. I mean

I want to be in (who doesn’t?) but

how far in is too far?

Do you notice the growing lack of air

and space and light?

Are you aware of drying up and

slowly suffocating?

Out isn’t just not in, oh no:

I could be out of it (have been),

on my way out,

out of the loop, my

tiny mind or

to lunch, and

I’m often on a limb,

standing or rageous, but fear

being cold and

dread being left.

Pursuing all these ins and outs leaves

little room for indifference: I will give it my

full attention when I’m

dead.

Cadaver Party

I like that some of my cells won’t know I’m

dead but party on as though as

host I’d gone to bed and

left them to it while they shout

“Loser!” and turn up the music, break out the

drugs, search my house for something

serious to drink and it will be

several cold dawns before they feel the

lack of food and warmth and

realise that the

doors are locked.

Elsewhere other guests ignore the noise

decide to bide their time and

sleep and dream of all that

nutritious gloop I will provide while

in the attic one tiny bit of

grit imagines deep time and the

Sun’s last despairing belch

spraying them all starward

whizzing past each other yelling “Hey!

Great party!

When’s the next?”

What happened to all the posts??? So enjoyed them

They all seem to be there still? And I am glad you enjoyed them :) Do you want more? ;) x

Red Sex

There’s no need to blush when

we turn the mattress, for

how much blood has your body spent

in all our years together?

How many nights have you pressed your

aching belly against my back?

Truly live with a woman and

you will know blood,

the leak that bespeaks fertility which twice

turned me inside out and right way up.

So don’t blush at a love which is

more than mattress-deep.

Footsteps

You watch her follow in my footsteps but in

fast-forward and I can see your arms

twitch wanting to snatch her back and

hold her still like a toddler, arms

pinnioned but legs still pumping along the

imagined path to adulthood.

Hands

Tied tight in the ambiguities of

marriage and children, I find myself

hankering for those days of

uncertain kisses,

whispered words, the

instinct of hands.

Lipstick

She dressed with care, thinking

what to hide, what to reveal, what

height of heel was

suitable for the situation, how much her

eyes needed camouflage, how much

lipstick would cover the cracks,

knowing that love

kisses bare-mouthed.

Ghost Scene

All that’s left to shoot is the

Ghost Scene haunting my sleep,

the one my dream-self is sure I’ve

forgotten, though the actors are

all wrong, in the wrong clothes, the

wrong set, and no one seems to know

what they are doing, especially

me.

O What a Blow That Phantom Gave Me

A pallid house, moon-engulfed,
corridors beget more corridors:
where are the lights? Stupid,
there are no lights
only the monstrous goboes of the
windows, latticed like prison bars
black on white, like the movies.
Which movie am I in?
Why am I running, sweating,
terrified? Because from a
gust, a creak, a rustle I made
the man who killed me.
His knife is sharp and I know
he is behind me as I run full tilt
into you, dead 30 years:
cropped hair, roman nose, eyes brimming.
“O Finn, you found me!”
And hot in my hands you kissed me
boundlessly, your tongue a
technicolour thing in my mouth,
aching to penetrate into my
monochrome life instead of
being stranded here,
a ghost in a dream.