What is the point in trying to hold onto the choking of tears Or trying to just stay choked Keeping words to that effect alive It is to address the ghosts of my sister and my father I waited not long enough for both to be here I was always in a hurry And missed …
Category archives: poetry
The Courtauld
Why am I crying when there is nothing else I can do? Entering a room two vast wooden chests with clawed feet painted with scenes of medieval war castles, nobility, succour pregnancy perspective and a little sign saying Do Not Touch He should want to climb in there and return to the place he’s a …
Chests
Two days before his son had top surgery He dreamed he loved a young man with a flat chest laced with a vine tattoo He told his son who smiled sweetly
Das Traum
Spider he was called and when he came it was alright I was allowed I didn’t need to pocket a knife “Star cave hin man” pendjoum Like a memory of pride My wife is there laughing and Hej! It was the Dane, the blonde one but Spider had moved on and I had to counter …
On beauty
It’s not that I don’t want to be seen It is that I don’t want to see
Jazz at the Lescar
Moore Pope Hunter Imagine you’re playing to the OAPs At the Jazz in the Tuesday lunch club in Torrevieja My father there eating his Roast beef Mash Carrots He doesn’t spill the gravy But hears and taps his feet He’d do that even as the citizens start at the sounds of chaos; Birds squalling over …
I saw you this day, man with a ponytail and beard, whose face I should have recognised, talking in a language I’m learning. I thought suddenly automatic your words, apprentice automaton that I am. My eyes like a breeze and you blink, slow down and glance beside me. Briefly, the air settled, my mind your …
missing the bus
“It’s some thing connected to meaning. An oblique waking up. Or a guilty secret. An automatic self disgust. There are whole sets of impulses that have pushed me. Chemically induced ones. Natural body exuberances and later self-inflicted. I just can’t capture anything about this in words. It’s about meaning. A really joyful sitting with, walking …
Jesus mum
I’m on my way home now It’s not quite getting late But I’m getting quite tired Someone’s been singing about how I put a golden comb in your black hair Jesus Mum I’m sick of you being dead
in Wells
As I walked through Wells this evening I saw a man leaning against a car. Who is that walking through town? He thought. I’ll keep an eye on him. This town is bloated with money yet nobody is spending enough to keep it happy. Across the road a figure stands Like those dry appearing higher …