Unrest

Unrest. A poem

those waking dreams like scum, no

like napalm

 come, stripping me from sleep

I wonder if it is some kind (wrong word) of retribution

for past behaviours

or those that are still within.

The nomenclature of faith

that wrestles, by proxy, inside me

ill advised and ill informed

and thus

 powerful in a morbid way.

The furies in cloisters collude

to pull the sheets sharply across my eyes

and let livid colours settle

on daylight

like toxic chemicals in a sneer

ready to swirl and coalesce

in a dazzle on the surface

confirming all the worst weather reports

unsettling me here, on the shore

where I most want to be

still and calm.

Sorry

Poem. Sorry

wove down Bunkers Lane

re-living an old familiar route

across country, short cut

where once I encountered black ice

and slid into a hedgerow

another time on a bend

a pigeon flapping, one wing stripped to the bone

I stopped

we were both helpless until

I put it out of misery

Other times I might have been happy

Bunker Lane doesn’t care

on down into Apsley, the Mill area

where I once lived

All changing now. The pub on the corner gone

Ebberns Road beside the canal

my first wife and I lived at 69

I had my first and only acid trip there

Now Ebberns Road doesn’t care

And in me. In my soul

I want to say how sorry I am

for being so much less than

the man I should have been

To the pigeon, to the ice, to my first wife

I do so want to honour you.

Appendectomy 5.5.17

Appendectomy.5.5.17 pic

they are apparitions

wand like figures

on a bent horizon

so diffident they can’t explain

released from the holding room

my body transcends it’s organs

and slips beyond responsibility

to that place where darkness is not king

for the fear has been released

so that white bleaches the figures

whose honed titanium blades slit

the fortress of my containing skin

their spoils are mine, to discard

my body relieved these gods disappear

back to a life of their own

and return to me as haunts

patient

Patient

like an atom adrift

in this vast body of parts

failing somehow

and all gathered because

one clock was an hour behind

another advanced by the same amount

‘nil by mouth’

time becomes obstinate

a mocking chant

not that of monks

no abeyance to humility

because the institution grinds away

at those within

with a remorseless appetite

habitually uncouth

and promising, always promising

an outcome. A deliverance.

Andrews loss

Andrews loss. Photograph

a griddle of desire

turned slowly, framed

by the heat and turning

slowly into history

so that,

loss becomes a pyre

a disentangled thing

unwoven, unspeakable

in pain

the holder always reaching in

with fingers that implore

for more of that sameness

the comfort that escaped

and in the brittle moments

when dawn dampens the fire

it is darkness not light

that descends

to scratch at and bother

the future,

a place so desolate

that only pain will do.

And so it came to pass