Four Poems, 2018
2016 was a Bitch
2016 was a bitch you said. I’ll say that…
many heavyweight stars died
and observatories harvested full-moons
like fruit slung from low branches.
Fascists and bipolar boyfriends trended, mindfully colouring faces blue.
Migrants became sad. Reporters spoke of states hugging borders governments abused.
Brutalists, astrologers and the absurd understood these broad fates and sweeping gestures.
While you posted ‘self-hatred’ and ‘Neoliberalism’ in the same sentence,
I packed a bag, thinking love must exist in a metropolis or country
too wide to photograph, not in this networked township.
So I travel in search of a big mind, (in theory), floodgates continue to break
as though a pick-axe had struck walls of a circling aquarium, we pick
redemption from wreckage, one star, globe, red-faced breath…
Dinosaur Scoliosis
Down up down
my dinosaur spine,
breath rides,
choppy as Lake Hollywood.
Observing, physiotherapists
set flag-semaphore style exercise
in abrupt adolescent onset,
before I heard my
tyrannosaurus neck crunch
at table, sofa, computers…
crunching along Riverwalk, breath
flows like water on pins, air
fills my vast vertebral mechanism
as if walking history, as if
stalking a glass museum.
Nana’s Blue Eyes
Nana’s blue eyes burn over Christmas turkey,
their safety flames move
before lips.
‘Have you met someone yet?’
She bites onto dear life for a wedding.
‘Yes’
One perspired marathons in sleep.
Dates ran fast from his diary
…insipid, invisible ink.
One hid a passion for men
behind closed doors. His flat –
a play-den of phallic tools.
One would only speak
to his therapist of my faults.
Silence was their punishment.
One whose ex’ tried to lose life
whole by swallowing pills.
He found himself reticent to commit.
One’s Romantic moods,
oceans from home, engulfed
with mania and contempt.
One praised then critiqued
as a Ballet Master would,
ignoring protestations til’ I bled
and bled.
‘No Nana, I haven’t met anyone yet.’
The Autumn Edition.
She sits amiably with herself
in a public place.
Rolling cashmere sleeves, unzipping an engraved pen.
The almost Saint-Laurent handbag has a place for everything.
A man behind her coughs cappuccino into his saucer, notices:
one lock of shiny hair falling proud of each ear.
She bites an airbrush effect pink lip while pressing ink
onto an envelope selected for purpose this morning.
She writes, every character with upward stress:
Nails. Too mauve for Autumn.
Coffee. Generic at £2.90.
Route home. Uninspired.
Body. Unfit for the gym, yet.
Car. Filthy in view of bike.
Mornings. Too late for optimism.
Facebook. Poor nourishment for lunch.
Short-wavelength-enriched time. Gratuitous.
Hours. Cut.
Leanne. Spreading slurs. Delete.
Leanne’s friends. Screwing faces up. Delete.
Family. Controlling. Place egg-timer by phone.
Partner. Mentally absent. Rethink.
Childhood sweetheart. Forget.
Unborn child. Stick a pin in it.
House. Inappropriately suburban.
City. Competitive/smells.
United kingdom. Claustrophobic.
Life. Edit edit edit.
