I put words down
most everyday
try to talk
to these people
using words I learned
as a child
to try, convey
sometimes everything
oftentimes nothing
& all that in between
this tiny light is a spiders web
filtered through an autumn
gold leaved tree
filling the gaps
around the you and me
& your silence is chilling
but I must keep trying
for what else is there?
I don’t want
hate, murder
the end
all I have is words
my only way to stop this

La plume de ma tante

I was teens
and the usual do gooders
had washed their hands
so my aunt gave it a go
I’d go sit with her and uncle
one night a week
biscuit and coffee
I guess they expected
me to pour my
little heart out
while I was terrified
to let slip
how could I tell
I lived in fear
of the old man
closing windows
cos that meant
there was a row to be had
and the neighbours
should not hear
was it me
my sis
mum’s turn?
would she
put it on me
my sis?
they didn’t know
when I got back
she’d sit me
close off areas
that would not
could not
be spoken of
so it fizzled out
the coffee & biscuit thing
I guess they thought
they’d really tried
we’re 40+ years on
and still
I never get to see
my aunt, uncle
the ever present chaperone
they loved my dad
who has now died
love my mum
and if I told them
had tied my tongue
beaten me
to silence
I fear
they would not believe
me now
never mind
back then
over a coffee & biscuit

i have met our future

I have met our future
sat in a car
by the beach
windows slightly ajar
she with a tartan rug
loose over knees
him mouth open
head back, asleep
between a thermos
a proper one
not a chinese cheap
that matches the rug
maybe of soup
or weak tea
radio 4 humming
in the background
because we are now
slightly deaf
there may be sandwiches
or a cone if the weather
is warm
enough for our 24 degree
centrally heated bones


I trashed most memories
as I made them
keeping a list
of they that shared
my bed
we could get
five minutes
to do the necessary
some took longer
but I was younger
and eager to go
some I kept souvenirs
until one found the trove
and binned it
shortly before she binned me
some left souvenirs
under the bed
in the bathroom
to call back and collect
for another go around
it wasn’t just me
pissing on romance
letting down the tyres of love
and I wonder now
what we were all trying to prove
if all have is
the knowing
that somewhere in a landfill
our memories
are stuck in decay

seeking spirituality

In France
of the people
the heat
the light
she threw a baguette
I ducked
as it fell four storeys
drunk in Spain
she lost her shoes in the dust
from her handbag
a trail of paper
in England
she favoured nothing
no restaurants
no cinema
held her
notes to another lover
wrote of her need
for deeper spirituality
I was there for practical
I guess
her vodka
poor holidays
bad company

cowards fingers

My cowardice holds my fingers
trying not to say
the what needs, needed to be said
not proud of hiding
but when its me out there, public
sorry doesn’t begin to cover
I ran away from you
the what we could’ve been
I could blame your inability
to tell me what you needed
but baby I already knew
and that’s why I ran
your world I saw as bright
clean as your babies
that I did not want
your is sunshine in the witch corners
I slide away again
mine is darker than any storm
tho’ I brought one to you
and sorry is a sad blanket
full of worn out holes
if I cant forget you
is that vengeance enough?

for Z.

Man at home

Man at home
stranger in my own land
when I want to strike
its all mens fault
the world
their lives
mine own
and here is no longer
my domain
she got books
magazines telling her
to take control
the best
only ways to do things
I got zilch
except the knowing I didn’t
want to be doing
being the same
as my old man
so I give in
time after time
holding my words
knowing this is not
the better way
but hey
you’re a man right?
what the fuck
do you know?

No hiding place

My adults
were scary creatures
I never understood
the what/why
of how they ordered things
in their lives
what I did know
was that my life
was under scrutiny
every second
needed accounting
justifying of
aw c’mon you I hear
it was not like that
so answer me this
where was my
hiding space?
a kid needs
the locked box
a niche somewhere
to call his own
away from the bad world
that is

karma button

Karma button please
I’ve met few people
I’d consider stinkers
but they are around
their tell tales are sparse
no long term friends
some sad story
of not their fault
businesses gone wrong
love lives in pieces
and if you’re not paying attention
they will
make you part of that story
make their story
the fairy lovers
hippy Buddhists
for world peace types
tell me
everything happens for a reason
while I think it unreasonable
life comes minus
a karma button
where these takers
could get theirs

Train station drama

I order my cup of tea
behind me is all drama
she has a cut finger
how I don’t know
there is not puddles
of blood on the floor
she is demanding
that he ‘do something’
he asks the counter lady
who fetches an antiseptic wipe
I sit entranced
waiting for a friend
watching the tale unfold
she whines, complains
twiddles the napkin
on the festering wound
for the next twenty minutes
at one point he leaves
to sit ten feet away
her face twists in anger
texting at speed
and he says
stop texting me
I’m just here
do something
she hisses
its about now
I begin to pity him
if this is only the start
of their life together
he queues again
the counter lady delivers
he hauls his trophy home
a plaster for her paper cut
her anger frown clears
her man, her man
has done what she wanted
all is good again
in her precious world