This is the Place I go to When I do not Want to Understand

I don’t have a clear picture today. There’s a lino kitchen floor like beige wood. It feels as though the window is open but it’s the fridge, vapour pouring out like in the movies going to see the man who makes eyes. I curl up inside. I am on the lino floor, legs splayed like a funnel. Something is pouring into me. My shoulders rest on the kitchen drawers, my arms lazily reach out for booze that isn’t there. Somewhere in the room things have spilled. I hear rollerbladers outside. I see an evening near Christmas; looking up at the Moon, I imagine making a window box with her as she tells me I will never make a window box with her. The flowers become orchids and die. The dull thud of thick glass knocking on my head, the dull thud of golden liquids, the dull thud of red wine bleeding makes rhythms across the scene, permeating the cold monochrome and beige, my splayed body thuds. Maybe I let it out in a sonorific, a grating, a breadknife to saw it. This is the place I go to when I do not want to understand.

A man for all seasons

First there was a grey room and colour of midnight
And the same beer he would drink for the next nine years
With different stickers – I never heard him complain –
I liked him immediately this spectator reading his books
It was apparent there were lots of conversations we’d never have
So there I was cleaning the dishes which he must’ve understood
The blue sky rolling over London in that bland tall way
A bath of air a soap in the mouth
It was inevitable that he would be the Leader which was good
I remarked on it
He fights like a mad soldier on an island
With real passion with zeal
This plan he has – this coming to fruition as inevitable as the trees –
A fateful man like this
Unshaken by trenches he was a poet also
That when this heart was broken further I knew – plate and magma –
Someone who pulses like the world is to be trusted or at least enjoyed
Of course speaks of absolute laws adrift thru whirlpools and spires
We dropped bombs on Kings Cross in our youth – a time passed –
Now he is to me an Atlas and bears the weight of great friends
Legends spoke around the hall as cups clash where heroes meet
Not quite as he imagined and yet the plan is enacted.

farewell the bottle

Off-blue wall light and standing lamps that don’t stand
A single magazine on the table advertising crochet
The abyssal antechamber hangs off an endless
The kind of corridor you find in pyramids
Or don’t find
We waited for nothing and then someone came
To announce it was ready and read about crochet
Instruments could not play or work
A wide room, a single flower pot and hotel bedsheets
I walked over to his vacancy
The stillness does not end so I walk to the soft head
I kiss his blue lips that are blue like strange lipstick
I push my tongue into his cold mouth
His beard has not grown back to tickle my nose
He is dead and we all seem to know
So we leave the flesh on the bones to rot a little
Before the flames
The pyramid makers did not understand.

We Are the Dead

We are the dead
Short days ago we lived
And scraped life off the concrete

Our children draw pictures of
Flowers in crayon and the daisies grow
By the gutters in the heat

Your boot crushed our neck
As you opined on the beauty and equality
Of the natural order in concrete

No-one wants to see our body

The blood washes away like rain
As you scrub your shoes
On the welcome mat

Watch the blinding light as theatre

Those movements in shimmer and
Flicker and the glow like plot rolled
Into actor and spread across the eye
Shut eyes too tired to turn away or
While blinking scorch a hole through
This play this life this appreciation
Of light too bold in its purpose but
It’s warm still warm in the dark feel
Light that you cannot see hear light
And the burning be a part of some
Madness or illumination there is a
Fear of the dark not unwelcoming but
Invisible the base fear of unknown
And this is how some stare at the sun
Into blindness to try and see beauty
Again

I know the end will come which

Makes a mess of my soul’s
Bedroom all littered with bottles
And half-filled condoms bleeding out
Lying on the stained carpet this heart
Crying or staring at the ceiling wide
Empty sight of understanding
Mortality does strange things to a mind

And acceptance the slow process of
Cleaning the room and the sound of glass
Smashing glass in the bin the cold
Or encrusted feel of these
Some industrial carpet cleaner
And a comfortable night’s sleep before
The shops open again

You might want me in a bar sometime

And that’s okay I think that’s good
I can see us discussing strategy who
Will go to the toilet first we wouldn’t
Go together and we’d linger awkwardly
Or if no-one was there hold close and
Kissing push into a cubicle and untying
The door opens and we wait but in each
Other’s eyes smiling edging lips closer
Drifting hands we hear this person peeing
And hold eachother and when they leave
I go down on my knees for you on the
Wet but back at the bar if I’m not
Horny enough when you ask don’t be
All melancholy I’ll just have another
Drink and under the table start feeling
How I should for you and in the end
We can play like this unashamed for
Our fun and not worried about babies.

The feeding of the instinct in the eye

And in the hand the adrenaline need
Meanwhile seated and curled some
Clicks in bones some sores the ache
Of the eye meanwhile backward this
Head focus gone or stayed sleepless
Such a casual feed apparently easy
Stressless except on the emaciating
Body these games these hands this
Warped mind desperate is one of
Many possible ends that in the false
World can be lived by the dying
Hope to sleep in order to wake and
The brain goes on past exhausted
Forearms wrists fingers broken brain
Goes on past the body the two selves
Split for the sake of a pyrrhic dream

The long sounds of the night

Are the sleeping world as it settles 
A humming light socket or creaking 
Shoulders of wooden chairs the wind 
Roaring beyond draughty window panes 
And sudden paw shuffling of the dog 
Dreaming below the bed or the shifting 
Of legs beneath these sheets the shift  
Of the iron bed with its metal wheeze 
And a flash of wind catches and draws 
The blinds and dances around corners 
A spirit has entered the animals turn 
At the thing and it’s gone all over about 
The room as the blinds still click and a 
Few drops touch the glass perhaps the 
Plants will be fed tonight the wind quiet 
For now and by my knees the cat curls up.