Collected Poems Read online

  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

  Husband, penis loaded

  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.