Collected Poems Read online

  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

  Finally, the bottle

  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.