Part of the fungus.
The part that dreams. That feels pain.
We are condemned.
Things dying, that flaunt their dying,
that cannot hide, are demolished.
We will rot eachother no longer.
From the street outside
comes the sound of the drill,
as men, hungry for dust,
close in for the kill.
Head Injury
I do not smile because I am happy.
Because I gurgle I am not content.
I feel in colours, mottled, mainly black.
And the only sound I hear is the sea
Pounding against the white cliffs of my skull.
For seven months I lay in a coma.
Agony.
Darkness.
My screams drowned by the wind
Of my imperceptible breathing.
One morning the wind died down. I awoke.
You are with me now as you are everyday
Seeking some glimmer of recognition
Some sign of recovery. You take my hand.
I try to say: ‘I love you.’
Instead I squawk,
Eyes bobbing like dead birds in a watertank.
I try to say: ‘Have pity on me, pity on yourself
Put a bullet between the birds.’
Instead I gurgle.
You kiss me then walk out of the room.
I see your back.
I feel a colour coming, mottled, mainly black.
Mouth
I went to the mirror
but the mirror was bare,
looked for my mouth
but my mouth wasn’t there.
Over the lips had grown
a whiskered hymen of skin.
I went to the window
wanting to shout
I pictured the words
but nothing came out.
The face beneath the nose
an empty hoarding.
And as I waited, I could feel
flesh filling in the space behind.
Teeth melted away tasting of snow
as the stalactites of the palate
joined the stalagmites below.
The tongue, like a salted snail,
sweated and shrivelled.
The doctor has suggested plastic surgery:
a neat incision, cosmetic dentistry
and full red lips (factory fresh).
He meant well but I declined.
After all, there are advantages.
At last I have given up smoking,
and though food is a needle
twice a day, it needs no cooking.
There is little that I miss.
I never could whistle and there’s no one to kiss.
In the street, people pass by
unconcerned. I give no one directions
and in return am given none.
When asked if I am happy
I look the inquisitor straight in the eye
and think to myself… (”
Holiday on Death Row
1
new dead flowers in
living room. First
Wasp of Spring. Time
for writing. Sap and
dying. Ashes and seed
lie scattered etc.
In kitchen, Wife
cook sunday dinner
for herself. Upstairs
Husband push drawing
pins into scowling
mouth of penis.
2
Wife is out. Has taken
clichés to launderette.
Husband, withdrawn, stare
overlong at photographs
of himself, in hope
of being recognised.
In front of mirrors
he bob and weave,
turn suddenly to catch
reflection off guard.
Reflection always on time.
On occasions, lying in wait.
3
Wife, downstairs midnight
putting cholesterol in his
Flora, decide their life
together has become anathema.
Stuffed toad in birdcage.
Husband, upstairs writing
poems she will never
read, decide holiday
abroad would be best
thing for both of them.
Next day he leave for Anathema.
Wife give toad kiss of life.
4
with drawing pins, swagger
into kitchen. Unimpressed,
Wife snarl matteroffactly.
‘You rat a tat tat
rat a tat tat
Take that a tat tat.’
Wife is pinned against wall
like fading Wanted Poster.
Husband pack away
empty shotgun and return
upstairs to collect reward.
5
she hang on his every word.
Pull, pull and pull.
Hand to his mouth
he fight back. Wife
drag him to floor.
Words cry out in pain:
‘Words, we’re only words,
we don’t mean anything.’
Wife release grip
and return to kitchen.
‘That what you always
say.’ She say.
6
in Husband’s dreams, her
stockings burst at seams.
She is centre-fold
of all his magazines.
Pinned up each night,
she disport herself
as he befit. As he
thought she used to do
or might have done.
Prickteasing series of
saucy pix. His memory
playing safe, playing tricks.
7
except for sound of their breathing.
In bed Husband mustn’t touch.
Put arms around body he
helped shape. He fight impulse.
Do what is not natural.
Keep his self to himself.
Nerve ends tingle. He become
Electric Chair and move in.
She asleep on Death Row.
He wonder what would be
her last request. Chair
get erection. Chair know best.
8
Wife hoard hazelnuts
in cunt Husband
train squirrels to
fetch hazelnuts. Wife
keep fox in petticoats
to chase squirrels. At
break of day, Husband,
in coat so gay, unleash
hounds in bedroom to catch
fox. Wife join Anti-blood-
sports League. Husband join
Anti-nuts-in-cunts Brigade.
9
Wife want life of own.
Husband want life of Wife.
Husband hire hitman.
Hitman hit Wife.
Wife hit back.
Hit, hitman run.
Wife run harder.
Hurt hitman.
Hurt hitman hit Husband.
Tired Husband hire second
hitman to fire first hitman.
Fired hitman retire, hurt.
10
Husband keep live rat down
front of jeans for rainy day.
One rainy day, drunk on
cooking sherry, Wife slip
hand inside Husband’s jeans.
With brutal strokes she
skin it alive before
pulling off its head.
Wiping blood on pinny
she return to cakemix.
Husband bury dead rat
for another year.
11
upstairs, Husband wrestle
with major themes. Wife
in kitchen putting
two and two together.
Always
Wife in kitchen.
Always Husband wrestling.
On kitchen table is
flour, water, drawing pins,
salt, blood, ashes etc.
On desk upstairs,
major themes (or parts
thereof) lie scattered etc.
12
photographs of hitmen.
Hazelnuts for rainy day.
Dead flowers in fading
penis. Clichéd toad
bursting at seams. Empty
shotgun in birdcage. Holiday
on Death Row. Words,
we’re only words.
Husband, upstairs, painting
out light in painting
of end of tunnel. Wife
in garden, digging up rat.
Goodbat Nightman
God bless all policemen
and fighters of crime,
May thieves go to jail
for a very long time.
They’ve had a hard day
helping clean up the town,
Now they hang from the mantelpiece
both upside down.
A glass of warm blood
and then straight up the stairs,
Batman and Robin
are saying their prayers.
***
They’ve locked all the doors
and they’ve put out the bat,
Put on their batjamas
(They like doing that)
They’ve filled their batwater-bottles
made their batbeds,
With two springy battresses
for sleepy batheads.
They’re closing red eyes
and they’re counting black sheep,
Batman and Robin
are falling asleep.
P.C. Plod at the Pillar Box
It’s snowing out
streets are thiefproof
A wind that blows
straight up yer nose
no messin
A night
not fit to be seen with a dog
out in
On the corner
P.C. Plod (brave as a mountain lion)
passes the time of night
with a pillar box
‘What’s 7 times 8 minus 56?’
he asked mathematically
The pillar box was silent for a moment
and then said
nothing
‘Right first time,’
said the snowcapped cop
and slouched off towards Bethlehem
Avenue
P.C. Plod in Love
Sergeant Lerge put down his knife and fork
and turning to Plod, said
‘Yummy yum yummy, yummy yummy yum yum’
and began to lick his lips.
‘Stop licking my lips’ said Plod
and moved further down the table.
The sergeant apologised. ‘Sorry constable,
forgot myself for a minute… bad habit I got into
at police college.’ And muttering something
about the way the light from the canteen window
brought a magical softness to Plod’s cheeks,
he stood up and flustered his way out.
Plod, his appetite gone, pushed away the remains
of his sultana pud and went into a brown study.
Five minutes later there was a knock on the study door.
‘Come’ said Plod. In came the lovely Policewoman Hodges.
‘Sorry to disturb you constable, but I believe
I left my handbag on the chair behind you.’
Plod stood to let her pass, and as she did
he felt her serge with pleasure.
This was the moment he’d been waiting for.
‘Er… I was wondering if… er… spare ticket for the… er…
Policeman’s ball… er’ He stumbled over the words.
W.P.C. Hodges helped him gently to his feet.
‘I’d love to’ she said, and without another word
(except ‘Tarra, see yer Saturday’) left the study,
closing the imaginary door firmly behind her.
The Sergeant gets a handsome deal
‘Quiet tonight’
suggested Sergeant Lerge
seeing P.C. Plod in Boot’s doorway.
‘As a truncheon’
was Plod’s reply (rich in simile).
‘Anything at all?’
‘Pair of drunks and a drug peddler Sarge.’
‘Drug peddler eh. I trust you
apprehended the villain?’
‘Indeed Sarge’
‘What was his cargo?’
‘Marijuana’
‘What kind?’
‘Congo red.’
‘How much?’
‘Twenty quid an ounce’
‘Reasonable. I’ll take a half’
‘To you, thirty bob’
‘That’s a handsome deal Constable’
‘You’re a handsome sergeant, Sergeant.’
P.C. Plod versus the Youth International Party
P.C. Plod had just come off point duty in Yates Wine Lodge
and was making his way back to the cop shop for a meat pie
and a liedown, when he suddenly realised he was lost.
As was his custom in cases like this
he looked for a member of the public to assist him.
For purposes of this poem,
the one nearest to hand was a Yippie.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you sir, but would you be so kind
as to direct me to the nearest police station?’
‘Pig’ said the Yippie, ‘Pig.’
Plod smiled, ‘Perhaps I have not made myself quite clear…’
The Yippie produced a water pistol from his handbag
and directed a stream into Plod’s good eye.
‘Pig’ said the Yippie, ‘Pig’ ‘Pig’
‘ ’pon my soul’ muttered the peeved P.C.
and moving with the speed of a man twice his size
drew from beneath his policecape
a sawnoff potato shotgun. The Yippie blanched.
‘Pig’ he hissed. ‘Badger’ retorted Plod
and with deadly aim, let go four and a half rounds
of King Edwards. The youngman fell in a heap.
‘Silly place to leave a heap’ thought Plod
as he bareheaded to the nearest barrowlady
to refill his helmet with ammo.
On the Road
Getting on at Notting Hill
A baglady. More or less.
Big, sad and grey.
Late thirties at a guess.
Change at Euston
for the Marrakesh Express.
Elastic-band bangles,
sandal-length dress.
Layer upon layer
of embroidered tat.
Smoke-blackened mirrors,
large floppy hat.
A mucky pup
(Afghan hound?)
in hippy best.
(Morocco bound
with Crosby, Stills and Hope.)
Lamour?
Whatever happened
to l’amour?
Kohl-black eyes downcast
flutter now and then
at men who fast
avert their gaze.
Neil Young, where art thou now?
Donovan, T. Rex?
Those incensesensual days,
Sweet nights of sex.
She puffs hard her cigarette,
Lets loose the ash.
Dreams about l’amour
and Graham Nash.
Birmingham
Auschwitz with H and C
Seven a.m. and vacuum cleaners
at full throttle. Brum Brum Brum.
Grey curtains against a grey sky
Wall to wall linoleum and the
ashtray nailed to the mantelpiece.
Sacrificing breakfast for semidreams
&nbs
p; I remember the days we stayed
at the Albany. Five Ten a night.
I was somebody then (the one on the right
with glasses singing Lily the Pink).
The Dolce Vita.
At 10 o’clock the Kommandant
(a thin spinster, prim as shrapnel)
balls me out of bed. ‘Get up
or I’ll fetch the police. Got guests
arriving at midday. Businessmen.
This rooms to be cleaned and ready.’
i Kleenextissues to be uncrumpled and ironed
ii Dust reassembled
iii Fresh nail in the ashtray
iv Harpic down the plughole
v Beds to be seen and not aired.
In the lounge my fellow refugees
are cowering together for warmth.
No gas fires allowed before 6.30
in the evening. Verboten.
We draw straws. The loser
rings the service bell. ‘Tea! Tea!!
I’ve got more to do than run round
making tea at all hours of the day.
Tea!!!’ She goosesteps down the hall.
A strange quirk of feet.
When the bill comes there is
included a 12½% service charge.
We tell her to stick it
up her brum. La dolce vita.
Wolverhampton
spiders are holding their wintersports
in the bathroom. Skating on the
lino, skiing down the slippery
slopes of the bath. Burdened
with my British sense of fairplay
and love of animals, I shower
on tiptoe, water at half-throttle.
I try whistling a happy toon.
The walls, painted in memory
of some longdead canary have
cloth ears: grey cunard towels
folded frayed-side in. Outside
the town too is taking an
evening shower before going out
for the night. Less sensitive
than I to the creepycrawlies
creepingcrawling round its aching feet.
Bradford (i)
Saris billow in the wind like dhows off the shore
bus drivers whistle ragas above the traffic roar.