happiness
lying in bed ofa weekdaymorning
Autumn
and the trees
none the worse for it.
Youve just got up
to make tea toast and a bottle
leaving pastures warm
for me to stretch into
in his cot
the littlefella
outsings the birds
Plenty of honey in the cupboard.
Nice.
Buddies
We were drafted into the same unit
and shipped out to the front
Shared the same lousy rations
became buddies all through the war
Two guns are better than one
that’s what buddies are for
We fought the enemy side by side
and occasionally fought eachother
When they gave us hell
we gave them more
Cried after the first battle
that’s what buddies are for
Then peace broke out
and we sailed into the orangeblossom sunset
Wondered how long it would last
once we were safe ashore
Now you tell me we’re having our first baby
that’s what buddies are for
un
the baby
fourteen months
to the month
moans in the heat
of a summer, come late
with a vengeance.
2 a.m.
and allover the city
bodies sweat
and tingle, the wearers
dancing, wending home,
or fast un asleep.
Amateur traumatics
When you starred in my play
you were just right.
I gave you rave notices
night after night.
But you wanted bigger and better parts.
Upstarts
sent you script after script.
You counted your lines
then you flipped. You just flipped.
bravado
and you still havent ironed
the trousers of my s.s. uni
form. The baby you say
will grow to love a new
father. Someone will come
and do my job properly.
Someone not closed.
beneath the sheets
i pick my nails
and flick
dirtpellets
soundlessly
into the darkness.
Bravado.
Vandal
at first
we had a landscape to ourselves
Then the vandals moved in
deflowered the verges
put the carp before the horse
and worse
chopped down our initialled trees
bonfired the bench
on which we’d had our first kiss
threw stones
and chased you away
This morning
one of them was caught
He turned out to be me
I am due to appear in court next week
Charged
with emotion
Bulletins
We sit in front of the wireless
waiting for the latest news
on the state of our affair
You knitting socks for our footballers overseas
me wishing i was there
The bulletins are more frequent now
they are broadcast by the hour
The headline in the Echo reads
‘Love turned Sour’
Trenchwarfare
after the battle of the Incriminating Loveletter
there came an uneasy truce
We still sleep together in the same trench
but you have built
a wall of sandbags in between
somenights
gutsy and fulloffight
rifle in hand
I’m over the top
brave asa ram
and you’re always waiting,
my naked sentry
‘Halt, who goes there? Friend or lover?’
‘Lover’
‘Advance lover’
in the morning
whistling ‘itsalongwaytotipperary’
i trudge across the duckboards
to the bathroom
McGough’s last stand
First Reel
it can’t just end like this
no one to witness my plight
no sense of history
not a photographer in sight
broken promises lie thick on the ground
and i’m down to my last keg of nostalgia
tears running down your warpaint
you close in
screaming:
‘white man make love with forked tongue!’
Hurrah! here comes the cavalry
End of First Reel
Second Reel
Oh no!
it’s a platoon of exlovers
led by your first husband
(saturday morning matinees were never like this)
it’s all over
the Battle of Shit Creek
At sundown
on an upturned wagon
a lone bugler plays the Last Post
i ask you for a dance
you give me a belt
to my scalp
THE END
Cake
i wanted one life
you wanted another
we couldn’t have our cake
so we ate eachother.
tigerdreams
i go to sleep on all fours
ready to pounce
on any dream
in which you might appear
Claws withdrawn
i want you live
the image fresh as meat
i want you live
the memories flesh to eat
Every nightmare it’s the same
prowling through forests
growling your name
until the alarmclock cracks the first twig
and lifting the blankets
i collapse
into the undergrowth
tightrope
at 7.55 this morning
the circus ran away to join me
there is a lion in the wardrobe
and in the pantry
the clown
goes
down
on the bareback rider
the seal in the bath is wearing my hat
and the elephants
have shat on the cat on the mat
my wife (always a dwarf at heart)
juggles naked for the ringmaster
who lashes her approvingly
i stagger out of bed
to shew the tightropewalkers
a thing or two.
Hash Wednesday
last wednesday
it all clicked
you only wanted me for my loveandaffection
my generosity
and my undyingfaithfulness
(to you my prizegiven rosaries meant nothing,
my holy relics, merely relics)
Begone oh Belial’s daughter
I wash my hands of you in holy water
next year i will live alone
and breed racehorses
in the attic
The Mongrel
When i came to live with you
i brought a brighteyed pup
and as our love matured
so the pup grew up
you fed him and you trained him
asif he were your own
you pampered him looked after him
until he was full grown
then you went away
now he’s uncontrollable
inconsolable
mistresses they come and go
look pretty much the same
they pa
t his head and stroke his back
and say they’re glad they came
but he’s no longer interested
in feminine acclaim
and when they try new tricks
he tires quickly of the game
he skulks around the kitchen
looking old and slightly lame
at night he howls at the window
asif the moon’s to blame
and with every sad encounter
i realize to my shame
that my sadeyed mongrel
answers only to your name.
10 Ways to Make a Killing on the Stock Market
1
Get out of bed early and frequently.
Remember, punctuality is the investor’s best friend.
2
Resist the temptation to dress too gaudily.
3
Keep your figures neat and your columns orderly.
4
Avoid fatty foods.
5
Whatever you do… Whichever way we… I mean.
6
Your face. I think of your face. Your body.
7
Enfranchise non-voting ‘A’ shares through a rights issue.
8
Pain. The tears. But the laughter. We must never forget the laughter.
9
Not too late. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave…
10
All Over bar the Shouting
It’s all over.
Almost a bar-room brawl.
Shouting does not become you.
Becomes you not at all.
It becomes me.
Shouting becomes me.
I become shouting.
I shout and shout and shout.
I shout until shouting
and I are one.
You walk out.
Leave me lock-
jawed in shout.
Dumbstuck.
Into the bar
the ghosts of years come streaming.
It’s all over,
bar the shouting. Bar the screaming.
The Perfect Crime
The sword-swallower
stabbed his unfaithful
wife to death
Before disposing
of the murder weapon
in one gulp.
Last Lullaby
The wind is howling,
My handsome, my darling,
An illwisher loiters
Outside in the street.
The pain in your breastbone
Tightens and tightens
And you are alone,
My treasure, my sweet.
Gone is your lover,
My angel, my dearest,
Gone to another
To hold and caress.
Could that shadow you see
On the curtain be me?
Of course not, beloved,
Goodnight and God bless.
Are they not gentle,
My naughty, my precious,
These hands that will bring you
To sleep by and by?
Sweet dreams, my sweetheart,
Hush, don’t you cry.
Daddy will sing you
A last lullaby.
Daddy will sing you
A last lullaby.
You and I
I explain quietly. You
hear me shouting. You
try a new tack. I
feel old wounds reopen.
You see both sides. I
see your blinkers. I
am placatory. You
sense a new selfishness.
I am a dove. You
recognize the hawk. You
offer an olive branch. I
feel the thorns.
You bleed. I
see crocodile tears. I
withdraw. You
reel from the impact.
40– Love
middle
aged
couple
playing
ten
nis
when
the
game
ends
and
they
go
home
the
net
will
still
be
be
tween
them
No Message
At first, picture postcards
Next to my address:
A blank stare
The occasional letter
Envelope torn open to reveal:
An empty page
The late-night phone call
I recognize the intake of your breath
But no voice
Washed up on the beach
by the morning tide
Pulling out the cork
I remove the slip of paper
In your handwriting it says:
‘No Message.’
A golden life
We live a simple life
my wife and I. Are
the envy of our friends.
We are artists. Skilled craftsmen.
I am good with my hands
She with hers.
I am a goldsmith
She a masseuse.
I design and make
gold lockets that cannot be opened
necklaces that will not fasten
ornate keys for which there are no locks.
Trinkets to buy and hoard
toys for the rich and bored.
Things useless, but beautiful.
Compared with the objects I make,
I am dull.
My wife is not dull,
She is exciting.
After a hard day at the parlour
or visiting hotels
(I do not pry)
She comes home
tired, but exciting.
I give her something golden
each evening something new.
It makes her smile.
She rewards me with her golden body
which I melt and shape at will.
Fashioning, with consummate skill,
the precious metal of her flesh.
We live a golden life
my wife and I. Dream
golden dreams. And
each golden morning
go our golden ways.
Make golden dreams for strangers.
Golden nights
and golden days.
P.O.W.
it wouldn’t be wise to go away together
not even for a weekend.
A few bouts of neocopulation
in a Trust House in the Midlands
would not be the answer.
I commit my sins gentle
Prefer my adultery mental.
Though we feel the need to escape
sometimes
The need for a scape-
goat sometimes
You my muddled tunnel
I your Wooden Horse
We’d only keep running all night
then give ourselves up at first light.
You see I don’t love you
And though you’re as beautiful as she was
it wouldn’t be wise to go away together.
My sense of duty would trouble you
I’m a semi-detached P.O.W.
Three weeks ago we decided to go our separate ways
Three weeks ago we decided to go our separate ways
not overnight, but whenever was convenient.
There is a fragility now
about our lovemaking
asif each time might be the last
The finger tends to linger
where once it hurried past.
And as the end of our relationship looms
the excitement of the start it assumes.
There are new awakenings
erotic as in a dream
With ea
ch sacrificial offering
the more virginal we seem
Old scars become new wounds
when kissed overmuch
And memories longhardened
now moisten to the touch.
Love is a circle
we’ve completed the course
Now we savour the honeymoon
before the divorce.
And with all we’ve discovered together
And with all the experience gained
that final
mad
sad
fuck
will achieve the perfection
that only the first attained
That final
mad
sad
The Rot
Some years ago the Rot set in.
It began in a corner of the bedroom
following the birth of the second child.
It spread into the linen cupboard
and across the fabric of our lives.
Experts came to treat it.
Could not.
The Rot could not be stopped.
Dying now, we live with it.
The fungus grows.
It spreads across our faces.
We watch the smiles rot,
gestures crumble.
Diseased, we become the disease.