A half formed feeling that somewhere, out there, something is wrong
I cannot as yet say what it is, will be
Or even how it’s effects will be felt as its tidal flow enters my placid bay.
You want I should tell you of mornings cold and frosted and the warm coffee still and colded like a stillbirth chill in my face
like I can give you experience of those moments held in a childs arms
new fresh as daisy to be formed.
Would that I could
my tears coursing down these faded ungilded cheeks.
I love you freely, unbidden
as my child
my neglected children
passed thru’ these hands into the brazen embrace of clocks ticked.
Eternities spent toward uncaring loves
experience daunts me…
I cannot hold this
yet you call for my love, my memories, my holding.
For free hey?
I know that to describe, unless you hold the space yourself is wasted, there is no free lunch for journeys missed.
Hold me, love me, come back to me, return before you have left, for there are splintered fragments here:
Ice upon the puddle, cobwebs in the bushes to hold the boy. Plastic stroked for the first time, coca cola sucked into sanded thirsty lips, sand blown across a desert slowly reclaiming city.
I hold no grip on this
only experience that cannot be held between us.
I want to part you as you desire to hold me and the cactus grows untended whilst we ponder.
Silence will hold me forever.

who is alive or dead

I don’t know who’s died, who’s alive
Who’s lying maimed
In some Spanish street at dawn.
Who died from alcohol
Tho’ one I know died from leukaemia
He married an ex girlfriend of mine
I can only hope
that he died in love
in her arms.
All those crazy young men
Riding black chrome deathtraps into
Blacktarred flat tops
Sunsets and shrouds
Gone from me
In my ignorance of their
I cannot imagine their lives
Only that some may still be
I wonder if they passed their days
In the same winsome way
I remember
Their adolescent ways
In some eternal half yeller sunny
Of golden cider
Stolen cigarettes
And girl women
with sticky knickers.
We were boys then
And some of us
Still are.

Vice Grip

Walking thru’ pensioners and girls in mimsy see thru’ dresses
I wanted to touch them all, hold them all in some vise grip
Shake them from their set smiled sunny day’d stupor
In imagination of duller worlds other than my own.
They part as waves plunged by darker bodies
Flowing to left and right in unconsciousness
Unknowing of my real motives for contact
I suspect they suspect me of financial, sexual motives
Anything other than existence wake up calls and tell me
How I/we can justify the next intake of breath
And the next
And the next
This is no idle question
I hold a real need to know
If life is to continue
White poppies to burst again in autumn
Asphalt to crack in summer heat
Lambs glisten in spring sunshine
Winters ice sheen to fade once more.

I wonder where

From far off away I’ve come to stand here once more alone. I could not fathom you then and now the effort seems too much to make. I feel your eyes burning into the dark and wonder no more my fear on this blackened journey. Your postcard sits amongst momentoes, junk from other places I’ve been and seen, if I tried I could put my hands to it though the urge has yet to take. Yours to remind me that horror can come dressed in good clothes and pretty manners.
To tell how we met escapes me too, I think work and sufferance of circumstance threw us together. Yours of taking pity on my poverty of expression and life. Me the needing a friend against the rain of woe that was fated in that lacklustre job. I feel so young looking back so far, so low a distance in time, yet so high in cost that I cannot bear long thought you now. I never expected to bear another’s grief though I guess that is motive enough for you.
I painted for you that long summer, make-work for you but food and cheap wine for me. Meeting your friends and relatives seemingly lost in their own thoughts though not shared there. Life gloom is contagious, this I didn’t know then and took the gaiety as true rather than bulwark against long nights. We talked into the small hours of music, politics, art and how philistinism can be good subterfuge to avoid the deluge of those with more money than us. We slept together first as friends and later as slow lovers who fear for their actions but act in good faith to support more than mere acquaintanceship. You wanted/decided to take me to Italy. Though my journey was taking me to France, to easy friends and halted journeys by hitch-hike. Instead we rode to Paris by train, meeting more of your friends drinking good expensive wine and food to stretch waistlines. Later to catch the Rome train all couchettes, cigarette smoke and pasty tear faced girls holding love like lepers their bell.
Rome was light, atmosphere and me running away from you, having discovered your lie about your age. I could hang onto the twenty years difference but not the lie, if this unimportant then why the miss? You chasing me through ruins dark with history, shot through by glorious light, slow motion commotion, too hot to create much movement. Catching up with me in bars, sipping frozen beers, wanting to make amends, be friends, siesta together. Back at the hotel looking through a strange comic porno book I’d found in some dark corner, your hands finding me swelling and building more, not wanting to fuck and knowing that all was on offer. We had sex, me in fog of beers, heat and fuzzed images from the magazine. You in need, the wanting of more, sadness that I would be leaving soon and more: the scheming I was yet to discern. Your face escapes, though the mix of sunshine yel-low, mud brown and seventies purple hotel wall paper burn as cinders in my memory of parting.
I left Italy in the company of strangers, growing light heart bright with the places to come. You again silent at my going. I loved France with friends, the vineyards, walk-ing to the boulangerie for breakfast baguette’s and the cool space of morning. You were asked after then left alone as I wanted you to be. Time moves us on and I came home to your note asking to see me, hoping to be friends again. I tried the best I could thought to accept less when more had been once freely given bothered you, turned open face to stone. My visits grew less and then no more.
Then, late evening talking to a newer friend, sitting on the floor looking through photographs. The window erupted, a brick, there, in the middle of the floor. You in the street, angry. Demanding entry and time to talk. The newer friend left. You still angry, incoherent about love gone and whatever memories you could dredge to throw. I drove you home hearing suicidal promises, threats to others, to me. You in-sisting I come in for coffee, conversation, insisting on being heard. Fear surfaced here, I didn’t want to be there, be with you, with this mess, then you tried to pour boiling water on me and that gave enough excuse to leave.
Your postcard arrived five days later. You’d miscarried, the child, a boy you said, immediately christened, named and died. You would be away for some time. I never knew, I still don’t, was this real, part of your plan in Rome? or just a crueller way to punish?
The card lies now amongst memories, I could put hands to it but the will of effort is not there. I carry it amongst sentimental momento’s whenever I move for I never want another like it.

words right and loving

Though I could feel a Russian sadness, one that suddenly breaks. Cries out in soulpain for no apparent reason.
And so it will not be for us. Gradual easing away, longer gaps be-tween. And then?
I could be wrong. Could’ve been a bump in the road. Stomach cramp. P.M.T. Innervisions suggesting nightmares. A die cast in that moment, moment of our future decided by a weighted tossed coin. Point of time, I knew it, you were facing away gazing out of the window. I knew it would happen, had to happen. Set of your shoulders pitching against force we both felt. Force that creates bitterest enemies to the last or, lovers to the bottom of the aching pit, lovers creating voids for others to fill.
Your hair down over shoulders, shining into the light, head high, high to slow down the trickle of tears forming. Feeling your rage at my presence, my questions. Upsetness nothing could heal.
Then I realised; you were feeling the same emotions that made me leave rooms when you entered. Ache spreading across my be-ing. Head, shaking, dry throat, hurt, Help… Want that cannot be assuaged by kisses under the mistletoe at a party, a note for cele-brations, cards for congratulations…
Want only fulfilled by sweat, passions, sticky sheets unfolding in-to the secrets and dawn of earliest desires. Needing ended only in hurt, pain and blush red at letting go of deprived/depraved dreams. Fetishes, wants charged, dredged from sordid stories and held on from adolescence, you felt that too. Did you also see then the pain that would arise from our bodies locked together? Anger flaring from the knowing that, that was so good, sooo goood.
But this is moving on too quickly.
An instant upon us then, I wanted to hold you, feel your flesh against mine, sparrow heart beating. As good as truly uncon-scious passion can be. Knowing how incredible, exceptional we could be. Knowing, all this with your back turned to me. Wanting to crawl at your feet, willing for anything, agreeing to all, just, do it to me, now.
Trying to remember how we’d met. A polite introduction from a friend, music too loud (looking so good) I’m sure I was drunk again.
Had to be drunk just to be there. To ignore the noise and painfully inane chatter, that’s how these places work, get ’em drunk, make ’em think they’re having a good time.
A white dress, White strong cotton that had been washed without softener, never seen an iron, wrinkles holding the light, crevices holding captives. Were you drunk too? Or was it the light in your eyes, almonds bright as you sat kicking your legs, waiting, waiting for? Anything, waiting for me to speak, waiting for a drink, waiting to think.
Those legs that later were to wrap themselves around me, holding me captive as we loved with tongues.


apple of my eye, drive of my loins, lust into seconds, hours of fucking, loveplay, foreplay counts second best you said.
You said: take me, take me sweet pain of death, touch me there, and stretch me you ….
Pain, make me hurt, make me bleed, make me blood red, turn me inside out, chafe me, rape me, until my legs hurt to walk.
You said: only you can make that feeling deep inside of me,
it warms,
it hurts, death approaching, hurt me you bastard, put your hands around my neck, fuck me, hold me, rip into me, harder, harder.
You said: Do anything you want,
I’m yours,
give me,
give it to me,
give it to me,
give me your spunk,
on my chest,
my tits,
my face,
in my arse.
I want to drink you, fuck you, and don’t stop.
Ever. Ever, ever.
And you said: Uh, Uh, and UUUUUUUUh.
The headboard rattled, slapping the wall, springs squeaked, floors groaned as sheets held our sweet sweat.
And you said:
Stay away from me,
don’t touch me,
don’t come near me,
I hate you, after this cigarette,
after this drink,
this drink,
after this, later, later, later, later.
Not now, after this T.V. show.
Later, Later Later, Later…
Later you said: Goodbye.
Nobody too close.
Multiple relationships, child screaming “I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna get involved”
A dog with two dicks, nobody too close, pleased to see you.
Do come again.
Sweet wetness bubbles under tongue, honey cunted, dying each second as you say NO!
Sweet redrose of death,
hips spreading on my chest,
opening, wider, wider.
Head swims in pan lust, want, want, want.
Redrose beckoning me into darkened hallways,
piss scented doorways,
secret places,
alleyways up against crumbling walls,
off to the woods!
Take me somewhere quiet and kill me…
Kill me now, kill this second as I suck you,
taste me,
garrotte with legs in ecstasy,
suck and feel life force,
blood pounding,
feel life flow into your throat,
kill me then,
do it, do it do it, do it…

one of THOSE mornings

Wake up, reach up, reaching on switch for the stereo. Grey and miserable, music to bump start the day. The Boss tells me ” I guess I been sleepin’ in your bed too long, Y’been planning to do me wrong”
That’s it. Trapped.
Another day, another way to blame for the wrongs, another to blame for the chills.
I would cry now. Long. Hard. Clear and loud in sufferance.
Could you, would you hear me? If a lover cries in the forest and love is not there, do they make any sound?
To have, hold a beautiful thing, only, she cries in the night. Her needs spoil her beauty. Muddied river. Muddied as yesterdays Rainstorm flooding. Sheets of silver water reflecting clear sky, underneath, topsoil slipping away. Occasional spots of light fish surfacing, enticing, then gone into the gloom.
Why do we go on? This anger that never finds tongue? She loves me, she loves me not, and she loves me not… To hold a beautiful beautiful thing, pared down close to the bone, the meat. Wanting to say your name, feeling you close, breath on my skin. Knowing that you are gone.
There’s a thought, growing. Realisation that maybe, just maybe all is not what it seems not all that we thought it could be. Dreams of youth, lead to this?
We are not little children. We know what we want. I forget now, but my guess is love is all about control. A brief sentence (exact wording escapes me) you were saying “It’ll be alright, I’ll love you forever” Behind the words I could hear tunnels being dug, leap over the wire being prepared. Preparing to escape me, Us. Escap-ing after maybe a hundred passion moments more.

In Absentia

She was talking to them, engrossed in a conversation about nothing much except as conversation. It was then that I spotted IT…
The fatal flaw, The minor blemish, The look which would disfigure her for ever…
With another a tooth extruding crookedly. Another the glint of sun from her spectacles as she awoke from an afternoon nap. Yet an-other, a crooked smile. At first minor detractions from their beauty as beautiful women, people. Petty hurdles, mere happenstance, Then;
Then, then they would grow, mutate to become unscalable mountains of hideousness, oceans of unfathomable depth wherein lurk creatures of unspeakable horror…
yet. Only a spot. A beauty spot, a freckle turned mole, scar per-haps from a former lover. An operation sliver of silver tissue. (Long nights anointing vitamin e cream)
sections of tattoo, three cherries, butterfly, darlin’ly cute, eventually tiresome.
She was talking to them and I saw her blemish, the look that made my blood slow, diminish erections: hormones take a holiday… Don’t get me wrong, I loved this beautiful woman, loved her with all I could muster, my balls would tighten when she gave me that other look, that look sent my tongue rolling after her down the street. A dog on heat. But, this look…
Tore away the veil that hid worms feeding, ripping into flesh, decline of beauty, slow degradation into Oil of Ulay (and surgical tucks) End of warmth, sweat, lust. Bodies straining…
i cannot love them then, turning away until fear subsides, turning in a vain attempt to save the vision. Wanting to keep the photo-graph clear of greasy thumbprints, away from ice cream soured, now dried and staining the picture.
This is impossible, I look again, positioning to catch IT, IT, that look, that frame. Finding myself straining for the same gaze, being there, looking, staring, seeking that momentary glimpse which will destroy beauty…

There’s a Girl in Lymm…

A sweet spring morning, the start of the majorette marching season. (though I didn’t know this yet) I was mooching around, going nowhere, wandering. Wandering streets looking for life, meaning to my Saturday. I’d gotten bored with sleep and sharing a tent with Doug who was only three quarters thru’ his usual twelve hour sleep.
Sun filtered thru’ high cloud, today was to be a scorcher. Today was carnival day. I was at that age where carnivals were boring yet could still stir my blood in some way yet to be fathomed by time. I kept wandering: hungry as always, hungry for every-thing and anything that might take my mind off my constant companion food hun-ger need. Food entered my life, from friends, family, the scared shoplift, forage from trees but never left any lasting impression. Hunger stalked my dreams, prowled my days, turned me into a scavenger for experiences. All life served only to aid my es-cape from hungers claws.
My drift had taken me down to the park. The park was a cold greener place with a river, it’s banks steep and slimy had provided many a trap on other days. The park enclosed solitude, if we as kids invaded with laughter and games its statues would scold us from their lofty perches in coldened metal. Soon we would be looking over our shoulders, suspecting ambush by older kids or some irate adult with a stick. We would run from these ambushes even though they never came, feeling the fear was enough.
The park was busy, tents and stalls suggested yet to be offered delights littered its green pathways. Even in these numbers of people I could still feel eyes peering at me, waiting for my errant ways to manifest.
And then I saw them.
Girls in short skirts and tight tops.
Girls with breasts.
Girls with shiny red knickers…
Girls, Giggling at my goggling and ogling of them.
I stood my ground continued to gaze in wonder and adoration as they twisted, twirled silvered sticks, turned in unison on some beat I knew I would never ever be able to hear.
They ended their practice routine and some mother hen, older wiser and aware of boys like me, clucked them into line and marched them way. I stayed. Drunk in in-ner reverie of skirts, knickers, padded breasts and legs that went on in my younglust mind forever.
My thoughts were interrupted: ” Like what you saw?” she stood in front of me, sun behind her not yet high but lancing over shoulders and into her hair. My blush gave me away. She smiled and told me of who she was, her home some forty miles away, of schools and parents who could never understand. She bought me a Coke (I was always broke) and we walked thru’ the park. At some point my hand found hers, she was warm, firm yet soft and smelled faintly of a soap that I would never smell again.
We stopped on a bench, her hand tightly squeezing mine as she spoke of a father who hurt her but would want cuddles and loving that she didn’t feel able to give. A mother who must know of her daddy’s late night calls but clung onto deafness ra-ther than hear the cries she called out. Her story touched me only slightly, this was common fare to my ears. Many nights in tents, bus shelters or days lodged in trees, anywhere away from the prying eyes and ears of adults and these stories would tumble out. Some would be half formed as if disbelief were a given, some full of de-tail that shocked yet lent an urgency to ask for more. Some like this touched in their simplicity, she too wanted to love him, only not in the way demanded.
The sun was rising higher, noises of starting performances were made, she rose to go. ” Meet me later, after the carnival, there in that red striped tent” She pointed and was gone.
I watched the carnival, aching to catch a glimpse in order to stop this being a dream. She came by twisting, turning, pirouetting, throwing and catching, yet smiling still straight to me. this was something that yet I was still to learn the name off. Crushes had happened before, I’d held hands, professed love tho’ had felt only friendship. Yet here I had met a newbest friend, a something more that others had talked of, was this what the music spoke of?
I can’t tell you of what else was there in that parade for I was gone, gone to stand in the park staring at a red striped tent.
The girls eventually came back, I lurked a little longer by a tree until the mother hen went on her way. She saw me, pulled me in and we began to kiss. This I’d practised but the practice was no match for the real thing: her lips were hot, she was breath-ing deep from the parade, a slightly salt taste came from her tongue as she held me. her breasts pushed into my as she squeezed me further. Her hands locked into mine then found my shoulders, my back, my head, her breath became shorter, there became some urgency that I couldn’t articulate or worse still do something about. She stopped, looked at me and asked if I wanted to touch her. We kissed again, but now my fingers became the focus. I could feel her heat and wet through those red shiny knickers, could feel her breasts hard and firm pushing into my hands, could understand her wanting to give, feel her knowing of companionship and more in this place and time, her eyes and mine were locked, staring into the abyss that an-other can hold when anything can and maybe about to happen.
Then the voice, mother hen come to take her away.
Still staring into me she asked me to promise to come to next weeks carnival at Lymm, I promised and she was gone, whisked away.
That week I searched for a map, indirectly begged for directions from suspicious adults and came up wanting…
The next Saturday came. And went. I didn’t know how to find Lymm or her. That spring became a summer, then autumn and finally winter. The next spring I guess she was too old, though I stopped and waited while the red striped tent filled and emptied of young girls, she wasn’t there. I didn’t stop to see the carnival though now I know there must have been clowns, fancy dress and fun for all.

when i tried

She was beautiful
in that dark
haired eyed
beautiful way.
she wasn’t beautiful enough
to drag me
from whatever it was
caught my eye.
she was clever
in all the right
she wouldn’t blow me in the movies.
She could cook
even if some
of her offerings
were burnt
tasted strange
kind of like her in the night
when I tried…