Brain’s not working for the real world today.
I tried it.
The street people made it clear
I wasn’t supposed to be out here.
Scurry from underground workshop
to historic reading room.
Feed, then theatre.
The life of the artist I sometimes wish I were.
Entombed by ceiling-high cases
of leather-bound tomes
which look down on me
and which I cannot touch.
Rubber sole rubs on parquet flooring.
The resulting squeak pierces the must.
Brings to mind open bright cafés,
instead of perpendicular sandstone.
Faces in the glass and the ironwork.
Silent statues yawn awake.
Thoughts wander
onto Deansgate,
right up John Dalton St.,
left onto—
can’t think in maps.
Scared squirrel finds sustenance,
squats on park grass
and nibbles at the books he scavenged.
Boxing Day.
The usual crowd.
Bright kitchen’s full of food and people and wine and steam.
A small banquet’s been laid out on the table—
cheese and ham whirls, malteasers in bowls,
fans of celery, and profiteroles.
All the glasses are out, scarcely enough.
Sarah’s one-way system round the island counter is
causing confusion and congestion.
—Can you just rinse—
—Ooh! How are the carrots?
—Look, I need to open the oven…
Parlour’s full of chatter and tinsel and nuts.
Much better idea.
Leave the sodding peas with Sarah.
Time for Trivial Pursuit.
Appreciate that warm spot:
helps to navigate in the dark.
Windows now striped with dry moonlight.
The kettle didn’t take this long before.
Thank god there’s milk in here:
no idea what’s out there. No way.
A drum roll from the kettle,
then a noise from the porch.
Frozen feet, frozen thoughts, frozen body.
Slowly slowly heat conducts from warm tiles.
Thaws fear.
Peep through mottled glass in door.
Drums stop, and click.
Heave door open and squint in.
Still nothing, but a fridge magnet
on the floor.
Grandparents’ kitchen
rain streaks down the windows
floor is cold on shoeless toes
but there’s coconut cake in the oven
orange juice and apple juice
then rearranging the fridge magnets—
all to the edges
but don’t fall off
or get too high to reach
jump. swing. grab. miss
move on
why do two people need all those glasses
there’s music on that’s nice music
find a warm patch of tiles
no idea why
whatever
not important — got to go
The lady in red lives in a distant land
and only sees me on occasion
brings jollity colour and a sense of humour
to every family celebration
Walks to work, has Wednesdays off, loves her job.
Her wardrobe isn’t trendy, but she knows how to dress
not in torpid tartan trouser suits (Mum…)
Throws the best parties. Knows how to have a good time.
Gives the best presents. Knows exactly what to buy.
Built a quite big house for her quite big life,
and it always has clean bedding
and clear surfaces
and cream carpets
and light.
The way her house can keep a guest
makes ours look like a pig sty.
She has a degree in catering, but doesn’t know how to cook -
didn’t realise you could make a quiche at home.
Always hand-washes everything before it goes in the dishwasher.
Starting your career at Sainsbury’s does that to you.
Makes lists, and more lists, and lists of what she’s got lists of.
But still leaves things behind.
When I am fifty
I’ll walk to work in a big red coat.
Just like her.
This global navigation satellite system,
not just an in-car electronic map,
had got so many flaws it’s hard to list ‘em.
In fact she could just be described as crap.
The awful thing is that she’s so insistent,
and never takes a moment off to think;
my personal persistent lane assistant
is driving me in circles and to drink.
Quite often she will only serve to hinder:
I know the way back to my own abode.
She sits there and obscures most of the winder,
so she’s why I’m a terror on the road.
But I fear it is our own fault about Sheila:
we bought her off a dodgy market dealer.
Sitting, sagging, lying,
on trampoline, unseen.
Hear birds, watch clouds.
Smell smoke, taste beer.
The inevitable, the prevented:
Stop it! Cheeky.
Half five, sunrise,
neighbours are chirping.
That afternoon feeling sets in.
After two days of blurry slurry haze,
filesmoke, cheery coffeeshop chatter,
worry, and fears abated.
The energy sink, the relief,
warrants some kind of release.
But no, not this.
I’m going back inside.
Awkward glances
waiting for a train.
When they’re from him to me
I can barely contain
my arrogance fuelled
by this outright flattery.
I’m a lecher all the time
but this is a different matter, he
changes position
to get a better look.
I know what he’s after,
and it rhymes with “duck”.
My train pulls in,
I stand up to go.
He stays sat down.
It’s an unspoken “no”.
As the train doors swish open,
I slink on to find me
a seat, and he winks
at the slapper behind me.
Teenagers around the peaceful nation
sit and wait in anxious expectation,
wriggle, writhe, quiver and sigh,
jitter and splutter and shake.
Wring energetic hands.
A combination of a secret complex electronic monster
(available from midmorning)
and hazy, woozy, hay-fevery memories
of exam hall grids
and dropped pen lids
(how embarrassing).
This is what decides our fate(s).
We worry, whether we need or not,
lest we should anger the deities,
the examiners, the admissions tutors.
They could strike us down
at any moment.
We are powerless.
Isn’t it funny
how just a smell,
one little whiff, a prolonged sniff,
can transport,
evoke a whirl of memories,
a potpourri of feelings.
By my bed
I have a wardrobe,
a small armoury of scents
lined, ready for deployment,
to entice
or to stir up.
But these are wet rags
when compared to a t-shirt
waiting to be washed.
You cover your face
and inhale, slow, deep.
You’re back in that bed.
You can rest now.
These streets seem smaller
narrower
shorter
empty.
Buildings stand as rocks,
unchanged by time-tides,
the trees you fell out of,
tarmac you rode on, then grazed your knees on,
grass you rolled in.
Hopscotch memories rain-washed away
flicker back into view.
The whole thing’s different,
varnished and tarnished by years of “life experience”.
House isn’t yours any more.
This is a child’s world,
a children’s world.
You’re grown-up.
What are you doing here?
Eager-eyed plans made
in fits of enthusiasm,
youthful naivety
and over-excitability.
We’re foolish kids at heart.
We’ll go to Paris,
cycle all the way;
we’ll sail an ancient schooner
for a whole week and a day.
Utter shit.
Our tyres went flat,
the ship was full.
Beautiful pea-green boat my arse.
And now we’re stuck at home.
On facebook.
I want more spontaneity,
a bit of get-up-and-
Do something reckless.
But everything flatlines.
All agreed?
