Young and too much lip,I’m stuck on railings, up and down the slip roadsor round the parks: topping and tailing from a paint kettle,mindful of bounding dogs, that my trailing leg might topplethe gallon stock can. I’m a gardener as well,hacking back brambles and nettles, freeing the bottom plinths.Exposed: no place to shelter or skive,
Joel tried his hand at acting,appeared as one of the gravediggers in Hamlet,an amateur production on the Isle of Man.Audience applause remained polite. Backstage, Albert, the other gravedigger,was reading Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents. Joel looked at himself in the dressing room mirror —Nose broken in a lunchtime fight with Higgins in Year 11—Joel had
Clown School convenes at midnight sur la plage — a maverick constellation of old sea-dogs and post-humous grands personnages. Chateaubriand has on a red nose and does the rope trick to a tee. Degas draws his Dead Fox in the air but wobbles and the ears go askew. Cue a snicker from Corneille that triggers
We smashed china cups, saucers, sugar bowls, plates, teapots on slabs of paved-over lawn – ripped apart bodies of teabags, scattered their unholy remains amongst the splintered finery – out of plastic kettles, we sloshed hot water, drenched the mess in pretend, ritual sterilisation – and then we boogied, in the latest footwear, on our
Would he be 60, this mantoe-punting the hook and eye latchsecuring the firm’s caravan door? Such a performanceto keep his balance, he went onto back-heel it instead when in two tickshe could have slipped it freeby reaching out, bending his knees. But this amiable man with familyhatchback and detached bungalowstarted kung fu-ing it until the
Lacing up gleaming skates, then off the rein At last, kids shuffling gouts of steam We elbowed into churned-up tracks and packed the train Of bodies bent and wobbling in the stream That watched in awe below the mirror ball As denims and drape jackets paid the price For slinging
What have I done with my one life and all the time it takesUp the ladders of alcohol and down depression’s snakesI’ve met too many predators and bought too many fakesI had too many choices and made some bad mistakesUp the ladders of ecstasy and down delusion’s snakesWhy does a simple scene in life involve
1979 Break time. Out of the staff room window through The fug of pipes and cigarettes The landscape of industrial decline Has empty smokeless chimneys signal debts To history that never will be paid Except by demolition. Cleanliness Of plate glass far prefers the playing fields Whose straight white lines mean
Wild garlic after sudden rainthat left as suddenly –each curlicue sunlit again –was part of all that kept her lonely: they’d noticed it, like everything,every spring. The firstyear alone, surely, you’d think,would be hardest, worst. It’s not, she said. I felt her shoulder.We walked back to our cars,hugged. She left. I glanced back overtheir million
White-collar workers think what elseThey need, scanning the aisles and rowsOf powders, sprays and shower gels,Still looking fresh in office clothes, White shirts exuding cleanliness,Sleeves neatly folded at the wrist:Signs of a manager impress,Along with pager and the twist Of office keys on summer slacks,Crease perfect, colours black or blue.But wait… the shopping trolley lacksA
the Blue Drawing Roomis above the Abbot’sSitting Room the blue fireplace isabove theAbbot’s fireplace (below that —fireplacesall the way down) the East Wing— missingin action the deerin the deer park— eaten antlers overthe GreatDoor a woman under-neath wheezingin chiffon dear lady (up since dawnropingthings off) do you knowcan you say thereal reason whythe fishsank? the
i.m. She bends back over the bush,pursed hand biting for curvatureamong the green, and rainsthree more to the tub at her feet. Then she finds a last one, hunches,lifts and rattles her find, is goneinside. A tractor’s been pacingthe field next door all morning,towards, back, towards, back.She went unnoticed, unnoticing. And we’ll have gooseberry tart
We were all in it an opera in a church my youngest brother going into the Ark in the mask of a blue tit Raven Boy twirling to a clarinet Dove Girl with ballet shoes and a bunch of green leaves and Mrs Noah who did not want to go dragged up the gangplank waving
(after Tracey Herd) most, is not the goal, the finish-line, but the start, (do any of us know where we are heading), the assortment of people, the runners I mean, stretching, going for last minute pees, doing their weird warm-up routines, and the straggle of loved ones congregating in Holyrood Park. I barely remember the
Deny it how you will, there are timesWhen, sitting in the car outside the supermarketYou consider suicide A moment before, you’re scrutinisingThe legs of a young mum and the way the breeze playsGames with her skirt A child at her foot –She has a swing to her that hasn’t diminishedStill has a move or two
We listen to the news on late night TVlike poets waiting for that one perfectadjective wham from the fountainreleased by the front hoof of Pegasus. Instead we get a word which means hurricanebut also warriors out of control crash of a waterfall in burning forestthe music of what happenswhen you open up a hoard of
It’s trying to snow but the window’s open wide. My teacher has her hair in a towel and everyone’s a blur because she’s lost a contact lens. Hello Kate! How are you? Class was cancelled so she’s had a nice long shower and now a friend comes in saying Someone asked today have I thought
was drawn-out but fun there was a bonfire with those small sausages on sticks we all whooped it up on homebrew afterwards — not much some- body’s dead uncle with a space for a face onto which we projected our various longings and fears hung about for a time — a clutch of haiku (bad)
Odd to think about it now, more than two decades since a bag of blood failed to connect with a tube and spilt over the chair, the floor and you. Not knowing what to do we watched it spread until the practical nurse produced saline to remove the stain and make it better, no harm
We’d wear our best to the factory bench to catchsome of the luminescence in their folds, painted nailsand teeth with the stuff Mrs Curie had kept phialsof in her pockets like tubes of mints. Became knownas the ghost girls for the soft, green light we emitted. Looking back we guessed the men with dollars in