2017: January Pre-Mourning

The night before the work starts
Our streets echo with lone travellers
This night of cold clear dread
As the new year shakes free
Of it’s champagne and fireworks
A mighty muted still
Fills up the dark

And in the raging dreams
Of all these people in their beds
Uncertain and alone in today’s cold sleep
Questions of fragility
Feed our hunger for dread
Spoiling this last bedtime
With what tomorrow brings

Outside in some dark corner
Of a Southern London home
I ponder how few deaths make many mourn
The slaps of conflict beat
Fresh tears from more bored eyes
Yet each hour too much life
Is bled and crushed in horror

For one more year has come on us
And forseers contort with doom
Such angry rhetoric, such mounting gloom
Yet this new year is not foretold
And harbours chances new
There’s not time to conjure lies
Just time to start the world.

The end of the world news, Ankakay via Flickr

The end of the world news, Ankakay via Flickr

Sorting Bags

She had bags of bags, filled with shoes,
Christmas wrappings,
old cards and new ones.
Bags of overplayed toys and of unopened letters.

We kept clawing into the gloom and dust.
More bags and open boxes,
buried in the insect-shell-carpet,
deep in the fabric of the long dead.
Box after box…
some had bags in, some had letters in,
reams of notes, in bags.

There were more shoes,
a crimson coat of monstrous proportions.
There was a box full of bags from the eighties filled with toys
– battalions of soldiers in disarray
eyeballing
teams of alien muscle men
through the decades.

And last of all,
wrenching the newspaper floor with it,
dragged out from beyond,
a decomposing leather hold-all,
filled with photographs.
Beaming back from their childhood,
tiers of school pics,
camping trips,
instants of birthdays hurried though
and flashes of Christmases.
I clamber back. Kneel back and,
hands on knees,
take a breath.

These treasures are piled in the spare room,
one trove stacked on a chair.
Inhaling the gasps of long ago, hefting.
The chatter of ages fills my nostrils,
hits the back of my throat – my memories
– and I gulp down more,
then she shuts the bedroom window,
which suffocates us abruptly.

Go get a bag then.
Her hands already picking over the bones.

Another bag. This one heavy
with the dark implications of the Black.
The crisp pliable plastic of sacks,
body bags.
I bare my mind as I reach into the
kitchen cupboard, downstairs.
Here dark personal thoughts swim.
So upstairs again I rip
one finality after another
off the roll
as she empties years of what-ifs into these
terrible cocoons.

We stay there for days jogging back
and forth through shared and forgotten
events. All that’s dead is gone, all that’s dust
is dead. In a bag in a box
in a hole. There’s a dream that once
lit up her head.

2601

No more words about dreams
Please
I’ll erase those words once written
Please just write of things
Dear Hart
And leave your dreams to actions!

No more lies
Or what-ifs?
Or whys’
Pen only odes to stuff!

Quit procrastinations
Of each elevation
And do
what you
truly think is enough.

Hey Monkey Men

With your stupidity and bad omens!
It’s all a space race:
With the faceless them
still setting the pace.
Yet, don’t lose track of your place,
or what they say is the ace trace!

Really,
all us fools and bums:
To further your plans;
sit forward;
give Grace
and embrace the lace bass –
which keeps you in time –
and in tune with the brace,
of faceless (tasteless),
Monkey Men;
who insist on laying waste
to your dreams of choice,
of place,
of time, to spread your mind and race
your own race.

They’re onto you and your funny ways
Profiling you
Dociling you
Infantilising and merchandising you.
It’s clearly in your best
To get invested in their
Popularity test

News is – their not resting
Till you sign over your vest,
Release your funds,
reveal those secret places
Cash in your treasure chest
that’s in your chest
And lives apart.
Must we populate their cloud
With our heart?

Lost Girl

Worldly lonely
This girl caught sadly
Bleeds and crying
Drawn from lightness

It’s her light
She’ll quit tonight
In this quilt of night
Her last flight

So she goes
Good girl gladly
No one misses
Or asks where she goes

Today

Love it: ‘cause you know it won’t last.
Live it: ‘cause yesterdays are best.
Last it: Be the one who’s happiest.

March on
Be strong
Recall where you went so wrong.
Be bold
Be joy
And true to every girl and boy.

’cause we’re all still kids
when the chips are down
and need a lift when
brows carry old frowns.

Moon through Sycamore blossom

Dancer

There once was a dancer
a furtive entrancer

Androgyny performer
The dancer was known
Through a land empty – walking,
and fumbling and talking –
no others would dance
and no others would sing.

So singular dancer
well rounded and good,
would dance to their music
(and sing for their feet)
while our land free of movement
watched dancing the treat.

There once was a dancer
lone song in the din

A colour ambassador
flute chanting its rhyme
throughout lands of grey
by peoples dismay
and this dancing entrancer
caught up all the day

While a light shone its lightness
while the muffled birds watch
as time moved abruptly
to a well measured tune
So brightness was shared
by a dance in the noon

There once was a dancer
crowned colour through grey

A dancer still dancing
To nobodies songs.