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
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
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
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!
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
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.
Tied tight in the ambiguities of
marriage and children, I find myself
hankering for those days of
whispered words, the
instinct of hands.
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
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
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.