Just a Word

It fell out of his mouth and into my lap.

I held it in my hands,

curious about its savage familiarity,

caressing its harsh edges.

The room beat like a brain

under a blinding light.

He wore a striped tie with a checked shirt 

beneath a stethoscope. 

He closed my file

and extended his right hand.

which I grasped with thanks. 

I didn't know if I was coming or going. 

Chemo

 Life and the opposite of life.

A contradiction

storming the citadel of the heart’s stream.

A system designed to haul us

out beyond the limits

where our next breath

quivers on a high wire

taut above black waters.

Salvation in a drip bag.

A snail’s pace ahead,

pushing back the dread hand.

Love-punch to the solar plexus.

Clenched fists at the temples;

kiss like thunder -

right between the eyes.

Drag me down and save me.

Knock me down and soothe me.

Waltz me to the edge of death.

Pull me from the precipice.

The Sea Shepherd

 The waves are shushing mothers;

soothing, mopping tears

across the face of the bay.

Perched among the rocks,

weed-strewn, I scan

the sky for signs of day.

Night drops her gown,

a witch's deep blue,

and the long watch gives way

to bright Apollo's rays

warming my flesh.

Here I remain.

Bombsite Twilight

 Late spring 

and evenings 

stretch thin fingers

over the sprawl. 

Smoke from oil drum fires 

hangs in the air.

Cars nose home 

towards suburban  bliss

and the first lamps are lit 

on the stretch 

from Lawrence Hill  to Clarence Road. 

Vortex headlights whirl 

and the Easton roundabout 

slips into the sixth dimension,

where Doc-shod greebos 

battle jug-faced elves 

as Sta-Prest  teen-priests look on sullenly, 

brick-handed for insurance. 

The scene is near-pastoral. 

Upon Barrow Road, 

past the flickering high-rise golems, 

three amateur-hour boot boys, 

all fake swagger and foul tongues, 

make a reconnaissance of the wreckage: 

post-war bombsite:

a sea of bricks and shattered roof tiles;

skeletal remains of rusted metal;

empty paint pots, 

long lost tyres;

dog-shit and porn:

stirred by time into a wild, 

pungent stew. 

This is living.

Breathe it in.

Song of the Damaged Angels of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart

Pick up your harp, it’s time, we've got to go;

we’ll meet them by the pines upon the down.

 If there’s something pure left over,

enough for cards and communion wafers,

(Which she always saves for later)

and  a three quid bargain bottle of red wine,

we can woo the senoritas of the town.

Makes no difference to me, I have to say,

if we play all night or just busk it for a while;

every brand new situation is a measure of some pain,

and this thing of mine won’t stay in tune

‘cause she never looks my way,

but  one cool Autumn morning  

she’ll  need some kind of shelter from this rain.

So put on your long black coat and shine your shoes;

there’s still  a chance she’ll turn her face today.

Tell me it’s okay to hum a tune  and say
I can only ever play a twisted sort of blues,

(And know that I’m not very good at that)

but if we do our best to get off this drunken kerb,

She just might put some juice inside my hat.

She just might put some juice inside my hat.

Chesil Beach

One hundred million years that point to this:
a thread across the bay, south and east;
storm battered longer than remembering.
Ancient thought thinning into mist;
an arrow crafted and sprung from the hand of God.
Now a picture of us both returning by the year
with our gifts for the arc of Time.

Scrambling up the incline to embrace the dazzled sea,
shadows of the selves we once thought our selves to be,
and now more than all of that:
two others run ahead,
a mirror for our footprints,
gathering driftwood memories.

At Cerne Abbas

Cut from Dorset Chalk,
he straddles green space,
free as we're not free.
Beside him, all mortal men
shrivel into dust.
His life responds to lust
whilst we shrink in shame.
To live again we first must
learn to love our one true face,
take God by the hand and walk.