The chair she sat in, like a gaudy Gaudi
Glowing with gauche taste, framed her
pale shoulders and her black evening dress.
Under the tungsten light her hair tumbled in tresses
pinned back into submission,
while foundations, cremes and colours were
expertly applied.
"I could really do without this party -
I'm all over the place this weekend. I feel really
stressed out. Maybe I should look for another
job. Still ..."
She passed to paint her crimson pout, a harsh
burst in her snow-white apple cheeks.
"I can't believe what a dump this hotel is either -
five stars my fucking arse. Still ..."
The kohl-black pencil arched her eyebrows as they
knitted together in frustrated concentration.
"There's apparently good money to be invested in one of these
places. Niall and DeeDee - you remember them, the ones with
the 4 bedroom place in Primrose Hill - worth a fortune now that
place and they got it for a song!
Well anyway when Niall lost his job
and was out of work for 18 months he invested some of his
golden handshake into one of these hotel chains in the city.
Absolute goldmine apparently. Deedee's bought a brand new
BMW convertible
with some of the profits and their little girl, oh what's her name...
Francesa I think ...
Well anyway they've bought her a pony! I mean
who can afford one of those in London!"
I sat on the bed pulling on my boots, oblivious.
"You're not very talkative today are you? Honestly I sometimes wonder
if you listen to a word I say. I mean what kind of relationship is this?
I mean yes, we sleep together every night - but that's the problem it is
just sleep. Intelligent conversation? Romance? Forget it ..."
A huge sigh escaped her as she threaded golden twists into her lobes.
I threaded a silver-watch chain through the buttonholes of the
waistcoat and stared out into the cold grey April drizzle beyond the pane.
She fastened her black hosiery as it cut into her white thigh flesh
- like the white belly of the underclass her skin bruised and cruel -
slightly beguiling, slightly obscene.
Around her decolletage and bare shoulders she began to
apply the aspirants gaudy glow -
the faked tan a middle class sop to our middle class
means.
Outside the wasted lands of dark Albion rebuked no reply -
Our ancient sceptred land, shivering in the damp under
dark grey skies, pregnant thunderheads threatening the grey
peoples beneath them bereft of ambition and whatever.
Yet papier-maché mephistopheles am I, caught in a twenty second
catch contemplating my reflection of the drizzle spattered pane
as I drift further away from the chatter of her - apathetically
dreaming of my gutter, lying back, looking past all the greener
grass around me to focus on these stars.
August 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
London is an Old Leather jacket
Not a poem yet ...
Returning to London (after time away)
Is like discovering an old favourite jacket
At the back of a wardrobe.
One of those great old
leather ones that your girlfriend made
you relegate to a hanger.
On putting it back on,
One admires one's reflection
And wonders why it was
Sectioned to those shady, packed confines
Of sartorial exile.
Six months later,
Or thereabouts. You might catch
the tired, sad reflection once again
And, with a sigh, realise it might be time for it to
Go back to the mothballed recesses
within once more. But until you have a new
jacket you'll keep wearing it just the same ...
Returning to London (after time away)
Is like discovering an old favourite jacket
At the back of a wardrobe.
One of those great old
leather ones that your girlfriend made
you relegate to a hanger.
On putting it back on,
One admires one's reflection
And wonders why it was
Sectioned to those shady, packed confines
Of sartorial exile.
Six months later,
Or thereabouts. You might catch
the tired, sad reflection once again
And, with a sigh, realise it might be time for it to
Go back to the mothballed recesses
within once more. But until you have a new
jacket you'll keep wearing it just the same ...
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Paradise-on-Sea
Sussex shit. I'm still only in Sussex. Every time, I think I'm going to wake up back in paradise.
Shivering, collared up, sitting in the weak watery English sunshine.
Sipping powdery coffee
'Neath the dockyard chimney
jutting skyward from the
grey-brown Shoreham shingle shore.
Bacon-gristle soaks bleached white bread -
congealing quickly on the cold chipped china plate,
a fresh breeze whips soiled serviettes from green tin-tables -
its mad-drunk, fluttering, stuttering, flying-flotsam dance.
This should be hell.
And I, having glimpsed paradise,
Sucked down diamond-draught air,
Gorged on verdant emerald hills,
Lain back and stared at the soporific sapphire blue skies.
Yeah, I,
I should really know.
But it's not.
I'm re-assured by
The traditional, cyclical, elemental struggle of the Brits -
Where grey skies, sleeting, cold-showers are always just
A cyclone away.
And if I've learnt one thing,
Heaven's promises - burgeoning beauty, endless tranquility, peace.
Soon turn to trappings of a surreal, Hell.
After all,
Aren't forbidden fruits
Plucked to escape that constant, anodyne, endless, Eden?
England - grim land of opportunity.
Heart of a lost empire,
Who's disparate children have mostly flown the nest.
You still hold something for those that wander back;
But I wonder how long it will take -
Before once again, cloaked and clogged in the mundane,
An adventurer's dream pulls me back to Paradise.
Shivering, collared up, sitting in the weak watery English sunshine.
Sipping powdery coffee
'Neath the dockyard chimney
jutting skyward from the
grey-brown Shoreham shingle shore.
Bacon-gristle soaks bleached white bread -
congealing quickly on the cold chipped china plate,
a fresh breeze whips soiled serviettes from green tin-tables -
its mad-drunk, fluttering, stuttering, flying-flotsam dance.
This should be hell.
And I, having glimpsed paradise,
Sucked down diamond-draught air,
Gorged on verdant emerald hills,
Lain back and stared at the soporific sapphire blue skies.
Yeah, I,
I should really know.
But it's not.
I'm re-assured by
The traditional, cyclical, elemental struggle of the Brits -
Where grey skies, sleeting, cold-showers are always just
A cyclone away.
And if I've learnt one thing,
Heaven's promises - burgeoning beauty, endless tranquility, peace.
Soon turn to trappings of a surreal, Hell.
After all,
Aren't forbidden fruits
Plucked to escape that constant, anodyne, endless, Eden?
England - grim land of opportunity.
Heart of a lost empire,
Who's disparate children have mostly flown the nest.
You still hold something for those that wander back;
But I wonder how long it will take -
Before once again, cloaked and clogged in the mundane,
An adventurer's dream pulls me back to Paradise.
Leaving The Sceptred Isle
[A brief excerpt from a short-story written about my experiences of living in Dublin]
"I'm going to Dublin for a couple of months, do you want to come along?"
"Alright. Why not? It's not as though I've got tons going on here. Anyway, I can claim dole anywhere in Europe now thanks to the EU. Might as well claim it somewhere new and exciting rather than this grey sunken cunt of the world."
"Ok mate well I'm looking at leaving in 2 weeks time. Reckon you'll be up for it? Could be 3 months could be 6 - dunno yet?"
"Fine. The olds will be happy to get me out of the way anyway. Little brother's taking his A-levels this summer so fuck it I'm happy to leave well before Easter mate."
"Alright." There was a pause "Grey sunken cunt? Odd phrase - Pompey's not that fucking bad!"
"It's from James Joyce. 'Ulysses'. He said it about somewhere. Might have been Dublin - or the Holy Land. Can't remember which now! Not that I've read the whole bloody book mind - it's way too 'stream of consciousness' for me, but for some reason that phrase stuck in my mind. Not sure I've read much further than that to be honest. Starts well, but I usually get lost after a hundred pages."
"I'll lend you 'Dubliners' - it's a shed-load easier to read than that and will give you a bit of a feel for the place names at least! Anyway talk to you laters. Bye"
And then Greg rang off. I thought about it for a couple of minutes and then went down the Sussex Brewery with Uncle D and told him. He was pissed off because that meant his set designer wasn't going to be on hand for his Roaring Twenties version of 'Much Ado About Nothing' - but other than that he wished me on my way. Uncle D's always been a bit like that - he's been half way between a dad and a best mate, and he's probably single-handedly responsible for my knowledge of the theatre and all of Shakespeare's 37 plays. He was a bit of a player in his day and I might even have him to thank for my wayward urges with the ladies, but like all actors he's a bit of a self-centred old bastard and I knew that he was just thinking about his play at that moment. The folks seemed equally pleased I was actually going to do something and instead of sponging off them and was going to sponge off the Irish government. My mates were a bit less happy about it but they concluded I was just drifting aimlessly and it might do me some good. My brother barely looked up from his biology reference books as he sang along in a falsetto voice to Crowded House.
Two weeks later I was on the Holyhead Ferry.
"I'm going to Dublin for a couple of months, do you want to come along?"
"Alright. Why not? It's not as though I've got tons going on here. Anyway, I can claim dole anywhere in Europe now thanks to the EU. Might as well claim it somewhere new and exciting rather than this grey sunken cunt of the world."
"Ok mate well I'm looking at leaving in 2 weeks time. Reckon you'll be up for it? Could be 3 months could be 6 - dunno yet?"
"Fine. The olds will be happy to get me out of the way anyway. Little brother's taking his A-levels this summer so fuck it I'm happy to leave well before Easter mate."
"Alright." There was a pause "Grey sunken cunt? Odd phrase - Pompey's not that fucking bad!"
"It's from James Joyce. 'Ulysses'. He said it about somewhere. Might have been Dublin - or the Holy Land. Can't remember which now! Not that I've read the whole bloody book mind - it's way too 'stream of consciousness' for me, but for some reason that phrase stuck in my mind. Not sure I've read much further than that to be honest. Starts well, but I usually get lost after a hundred pages."
"I'll lend you 'Dubliners' - it's a shed-load easier to read than that and will give you a bit of a feel for the place names at least! Anyway talk to you laters. Bye"
And then Greg rang off. I thought about it for a couple of minutes and then went down the Sussex Brewery with Uncle D and told him. He was pissed off because that meant his set designer wasn't going to be on hand for his Roaring Twenties version of 'Much Ado About Nothing' - but other than that he wished me on my way. Uncle D's always been a bit like that - he's been half way between a dad and a best mate, and he's probably single-handedly responsible for my knowledge of the theatre and all of Shakespeare's 37 plays. He was a bit of a player in his day and I might even have him to thank for my wayward urges with the ladies, but like all actors he's a bit of a self-centred old bastard and I knew that he was just thinking about his play at that moment. The folks seemed equally pleased I was actually going to do something and instead of sponging off them and was going to sponge off the Irish government. My mates were a bit less happy about it but they concluded I was just drifting aimlessly and it might do me some good. My brother barely looked up from his biology reference books as he sang along in a falsetto voice to Crowded House.
Two weeks later I was on the Holyhead Ferry.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Love of Our Lives
I never thought that she,
Unsentimental and restless,
Would come to mean so much to me,
Baggage-laden and remote
As I was.
Yet it became plain,
Once I have truly lost
What once I could have perhaps had,
I realised, again, she might be
The love of my life.
Just 12 months to polarise,
As my life turned from hope to regret -
Why so late to realise then
That we might have
Got it so wrong?
And after all is said and done
It never seemed to be the
Right time for us to be one.
And as time and distance drew one nearer
It drew the other further apart.
If the constant measure of love is pain,
And of course the misery,
Then I'm forced to reflect again
That love of my life
It was certainly she.
But what is real? Then or now?
Were we just looking for
Someone, anyone to fill the void anyhow?
When the music stops in these
Modern day musical-chair romances
Do we really make the most of our chances?
Will we end up with the love
Of our life - or is the epiphany, we can't
Go on alone and we make ourselves
Believe this is the One?
Unsentimental and restless,
Would come to mean so much to me,
Baggage-laden and remote
As I was.
Yet it became plain,
Once I have truly lost
What once I could have perhaps had,
I realised, again, she might be
The love of my life.
Just 12 months to polarise,
As my life turned from hope to regret -
Why so late to realise then
That we might have
Got it so wrong?
And after all is said and done
It never seemed to be the
Right time for us to be one.
And as time and distance drew one nearer
It drew the other further apart.
If the constant measure of love is pain,
And of course the misery,
Then I'm forced to reflect again
That love of my life
It was certainly she.
But what is real? Then or now?
Were we just looking for
Someone, anyone to fill the void anyhow?
When the music stops in these
Modern day musical-chair romances
Do we really make the most of our chances?
Will we end up with the love
Of our life - or is the epiphany, we can't
Go on alone and we make ourselves
Believe this is the One?
Thursday, March 30, 2006
We Are Storm ...
Possessed by his muse
Holding the flitting sea-gull
As an imaginary kite -
But he'd lost it, and his
Muse was full of shite.
"We are storm ..." he justly said;
As life blows us from shore to shore
Sometimes tempestuous and wrecking
Our lives - and other times just
Steering us to where we should be.
Reeking of the whisky
That held his life together;
His veins flowing with dope
That flowed through the all -
He sang like the beguiling sirens call.
"We are storm..." again he sang,
As the winds blow us from coast to coast
Like a tempest wrecks -
Yet here walks a round-jawed shadow of
my old dead friend, who lives 'neath the
stormy seas, with his mates,
Full fathom five.
Holding the flitting sea-gull
As an imaginary kite -
But he'd lost it, and his
Muse was full of shite.
"We are storm ..." he justly said;
As life blows us from shore to shore
Sometimes tempestuous and wrecking
Our lives - and other times just
Steering us to where we should be.
Reeking of the whisky
That held his life together;
His veins flowing with dope
That flowed through the all -
He sang like the beguiling sirens call.
"We are storm..." again he sang,
As the winds blow us from coast to coast
Like a tempest wrecks -
Yet here walks a round-jawed shadow of
my old dead friend, who lives 'neath the
stormy seas, with his mates,
Full fathom five.
A You Shaped Whole
Unfillable, the you shaped hole
That rots in my heart;
So cannot be whole.
Leeched-white bled, in your passing -
Mine, Lancelot-like,
Remains unhealed.
The you shaped hole, it spreads
And fills the void
Of all my dread desires - this
You shaped whole I take to bed.
That rots in my heart;
So cannot be whole.
Leeched-white bled, in your passing -
Mine, Lancelot-like,
Remains unhealed.
The you shaped hole, it spreads
And fills the void
Of all my dread desires - this
You shaped whole I take to bed.
Bare My Soul
Irksome itch that wanders
Unsatisfied by all of this,
No matter how much sugar squandered
To sweeten this life I found.
Maybe devour you, swallow you whole,
And for a brief second, candy-glutted,
Belch out the shape of your soul.
Unsatisfied by all of this,
No matter how much sugar squandered
To sweeten this life I found.
Maybe devour you, swallow you whole,
And for a brief second, candy-glutted,
Belch out the shape of your soul.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Motspur Park
Mumble, drool, loll, lurch
Drunken schoolgirls sit with jerks.
Piss, stink, booze, lose
Shout your fucked up Middle England views,
Fart, wheeze, cough, spit,
Same sentiments, same old shit.
Con, brag, thieve, grieve,
Give me bad attitude if you please.
Clunk, click, cunt, prick,
Half-dozed off the loser sits.
Teeter, totter, stretch, sigh,
A glimpse of adolescent pink-white thigh.
Mediocre, adequate, useless, grey
Give me love - straight or gay.
Blow, charlie, E's, trips
Kiss me with your fast-food lips.
Lust, last, time, again
That was me on a different train.
Drunken schoolgirls sit with jerks.
Piss, stink, booze, lose
Shout your fucked up Middle England views,
Fart, wheeze, cough, spit,
Same sentiments, same old shit.
Con, brag, thieve, grieve,
Give me bad attitude if you please.
Clunk, click, cunt, prick,
Half-dozed off the loser sits.
Teeter, totter, stretch, sigh,
A glimpse of adolescent pink-white thigh.
Mediocre, adequate, useless, grey
Give me love - straight or gay.
Blow, charlie, E's, trips
Kiss me with your fast-food lips.
Lust, last, time, again
That was me on a different train.
An Angel Stood
An angel stood
and feathered my guilt
and helped build a hammer
to fracture my heart.
She made a collage of it,
My dreams, holding her
In confined paper,
The stars ...
I read her stars
And through black and white
With astrological applomb
I am hanged - once again
Fractured and corroborate.
Is she not for me?
Not now -
Not forgiving as angels should?
I will let her be.
I would have her clipped -
But she
Flies free from me, again
on my guilt-edged wings.
(with thanks to ex-Priest)
and feathered my guilt
and helped build a hammer
to fracture my heart.
She made a collage of it,
My dreams, holding her
In confined paper,
The stars ...
I read her stars
And through black and white
With astrological applomb
I am hanged - once again
Fractured and corroborate.
Is she not for me?
Not now -
Not forgiving as angels should?
I will let her be.
I would have her clipped -
But she
Flies free from me, again
on my guilt-edged wings.
(with thanks to ex-Priest)
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
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