Thursday 27 February 2014

Metal head


Clad in leather and fur
I hold the devil's hand

I can see inside things
their bone and ligament

see my rock skull grin
I fly the black flag

my lucky charms
are my insignia

of freedom from fear
and from life itself

I’m a pirate of the road
an ectoplasmic skeleton

I surf the grave like an airwave
with my top hat and tumbling dice tattoos



Friday 21 February 2014

Our world


Helpless dolphins are herded to slaughter
the sea runs scarlet with their blood
most of Purely is underwater
sinkholes are threatening Hemel Hempstead.
The jet stream is weaving crazily
the changing climate gives a sense of dread
life’s undertow, a vague insecurity
dark presentiments trouble our bed.
Each morning brings a new anxiety
competition for oil, water or food
species lost, a toll of war and poverty
the Miss Waldron’s red colobus is dead.
We would exit our planet if we could
and leave its spoil and beauty to our god.

Wednesday 19 February 2014

Childhood


The large house was silent and cold
I let myself in with a latchkey.
Rarely chastised, I did what I was told.
There was no lively clamour at tea.
Father made it clear that I
would never meet his expectations.
He never praised or encouraged me.
We spoke ill of our relations –
we preferred it if they stayed away.
We played no part in our community.
We were a middle class family.
We conducted our lives stoically
on our glaciated isthmus
like ice statues, exchanged cards at Christmas.

It is because of you


















It is because of you that I walk past
the humming glass and the tower cranes
through this island, this sanctuary
this garden, shadowed by London planes.
The small brick church is industrial
it speaks of utility not beauty
you would have liked the flowers
you would have named them for me.
I seek the humility of repetition
in this world of beeswax and prayer
time out, memory, reflection. 
Wax and pollen decorate the air
A tiny candle flickers your memory.
It is because of you that I am here.

Friday 7 February 2014

Tadpoles

Cambridge ‘irresponsible’ for dropping apostrophes from new road signs



They are signs of omission or possession.
Some seek them everywhere – pedantic souls.
They pursue their strange obsession
like pond dippers hunting for tadpoles.
They perceive in the misused apostrophe –
a faulty plural or mangled contraction –
a sign of their superiority
not just a grammatical infraction
but a signal that order is breaking down
an ineluctable moral decline
at least in the poorer parts of town.
It doesn’t matter. But I’ll keep mine
in the right places. I know where they go
and where they don’t. Or at least I should do