The fire.

There was always menace in the myriad

of colours dancing in the fire, the blues

greens, multi-oranges and yellow-reds.

Those clicks, cracks, pops and snaps.

The sudden shifting, falling of embers

and ash, framed in this dark fisted silence.

And those shadows convulsing on the wall,

a haunting raving of arms and heads.

Eyes protruding from emaciated heads.

He spat into the fire after a deep clawing -

harvesting the phlegm from his congested

lungs. The contagion - his poison exposed.

Gritty

This poem was motivated by a comment from a friend when we were discussing the qualities of Charles Bukowski's poetry....... she said she didn't like his poetry, that "It was too gritty"

And as a lover of Bukowsi's work I wanted to hit back (lol) I do hope it makes you smile....

Gritty.

“I don’t like your poetry” She say’s

“Too Gritty!”

And fucks me with her tongue -

Golden flecks in her eyes

hypnotic.

She grips my buttocks with

crisscrossed ankles

tearing into my back with her

filthy nails - there’s blood.

She wrings my insides

pulls her dirty knees

up for depth and smiles.

She holds the back of my

neck tightly.

“your poetry - brat boy

is shit -

far too

Gritty!”

Scarlet shoe.

You run through

unseen lanes

of

my mind

trampled nettles

wild primroses

why

back so

soon?

I taste you

still from

before

on my lips

in my

throat

like

a cough.

Time’s blowing

through the

tree tops

as I search the

sky -

you in

some other

country

I’m

laying on

damp grass

observing

my loss

in winter’s

other

sky

so cold-

so empty

That aura of

youth

dancing in

auburn hair

now lies

a

single scarlet

stiletto

dismembered

in a

ditch.

Her room.

The

heavy beat

of the

clock -

the missing

plume of

cigarette smoke

gentle rising –

no fire in her

grate.

An

empty chair

sits soaked

with her

form

its

threadbare arm

from a

million

gentle strokes.

Dust burdened

bookshelves

stand

ridiculously redundant.

Her radio

silent

whilst cheap-

priceless trinkets

parade from

some other age.

She had chuckled

“I eat no more then

a Bird now

Son…….

no more then

a bird”.

No welcoming

kettle rattling

on

cooker tops

no

imperceptible

twitching

of nicotine

net

curtains.

Outside the

still

sky stands

waiting-

waiting

whilst

homing pigeons

circle-

and never

land.

Fairy Steps.

She put a wall around her

garden

to keep the strangers

out.

Wore a shawl around her

shoulders

to keep her warm

inside.

Always wore a smile

yet deep inside she

cried.

She shuffled little

fairy steps-

was careful not to

stride.

She cuddled with herself

at night

and kept her hurt

alive.

A miracle.

You sit a salt and pepper

pot away - the late summer

sun lighting up your face a half smile

teasing across your lips but

this is not a miracle.

There’s something in the

way you hold your glass

offering it in slow light steps

toying, playing, yet

this is not a miracle.

You subconsciously wipe the

wrinkles from your summer

skirt and cross your suntanned

legs, lift your face to the fading

day and I know

this is not a miracle.

Night slowly chases away the

day and we climb in bed together

and I search inside your eyes

once more as we dance our dance

and I know this is a

miracle.

How tall the Trees.

How tall the

Trees

forgiving of all

fate’s

seasons

How tall

the

Trees.

How quiet the

Stream

meandering,

cutting

shaping,

the landscape,

how quiet that

Stream.

How empty the

Sky

today,

unthreatening

yet, always

tomorrow’s canvas

those blue

empty

Skies.

And Time’s

shadow- heavy

laden

on the wall

waiting-

waiting

Time’s aching

shadow.

And how incredible

the cry of the

newborn

baby

how wondrous

innocent-

beautiful

that cry.

And Tomorrow-

Another day

flowing into

us,

across us,

beyond us,

upon us-

just

Another

day.

Summer rain.

Summer rain

breaking the heat

lightly caressing your

skin

the soft lush grass

pushing between

toes

as the

image of you

lifts

me -

lifts me.

Honey hair

a summer

smile a

brassiere strap

falling onto a

shoulder with a

promise

the shimmering of your

pleated skirt

inviting

inviting.

something in the way

you move…..

capturing me -

capturing

me.

White steps

I never actually saw my mother with

a cock in her mouth, but I could have done –

Arms in Belfast sinks full of pots - hour

after hour - clothes boiling on the

gas hob – the smell enough to tarnish poverty

itself.

I never actually saw her like

that - but remember her fingers burning

on that cast smoothing iron the spit zipping off.

Ladling plate after plate of porridge

to hungry mouths – sat around an open

fire – like birds in a nest - vests stretched over

scabby knees broken fruit boxes burning

too swiftly and gone – ashes.

I never ever saw her like that - yet

life dealt her and her kind an evil hand -

drunken men in every house whilst Bairn’s went

hungry - wives painted white steps in their

back-to-backs while the secrets stayed behind

closed doors and minds were ruined - twisted for-

ever.

I never saw my mam with a cock in

her mouth – not with my eyes anyway.

Just the rats scurrying in rain filled

gutters feeding on the rancid vomit

of man.

True Soldiers

Pull the string – flick the switch

True Soldiers never did this

No Virgins - just your head over

There

a look of startled surprise

Killing women – little kids

True Soldiers never did this.

Warriors – crusaders – martyrs

Pick your tag - put you in

A body bag

Then clear up your murderous mess

True soldiers never did this.

Pick a cause – any cause

Like cards out a pack

Listen to the clever one’s rant

Poison your mind while you

Suck them off

Then walk slowly to your wasted death

True Soldiers never did this.

And the tomorrow of another

Fool - certain of everlasting life

Is waiting in your steps

To once again slaughter as many

As he can

True Soldiers never did this.

A small death.

There was no wailing

screaming

groaning

no precipice

just some small death on

the other side of

town.

A sad silent

loss

anonymous -

quietly slipping

away a lost

footing on

a cobbled street.

Death - a sad sack

the

last heavy breath

now the

hopelessness

of

a cold touch - on his

headstone

Names engraved

on cold

marble an

immortal script.

An empty vase

sits whilst

somewhere

nails screech on

a

blackboard

A small death

the other

side of

town.

This.

I’m sharing your night as the

secret rain pains across open

windows

your eyes hold on to me

as your fingers try to get into skin

my chest - my back your

sad, lonely, eyes already

there.

Together, alone – between us

just

the dark - we are soothed by

the hiss of passing cars

on cold wet roads,

yellow lights slowly dance

around the room and on your

honey skin - you

sigh and I know this

- this.

Thoughts, hopes,

chase across a void

some empty mind - I

tremble while cold alleys

echo

we hold each other

still. I feel your ankles

crisscross my flank

as I soften inside of

you.

Together we share each

other –

this

feeling

a slow pealing scab

from healing skin. You

me and the night –

This.
This.

And a single

Tear.

Dorset girl.

You’re with me

down lonely lanes

the sweet scent of

wild Honeysuckle -

Pink Foxgloves

tip-i-toeing

‘look-at-me’

you say –

you’re with me.

You’re with me in

the soft collapse of

every breaking wave

a light mysterious

breath -

caresses me a

gentle kiss your

crystalline reflection -

you’re with me.

You’re with me as I pull

the lonely crumpled sheets

across bare shoulders

while quiet shadows close in

a strange moonlight lulls

me to sleep-

you’re with me.

You’re with me at night,

Pink Valerian dreams

as we love again in

fields of Meadowsweet

you’re with me.

Episodes of you.

I lie with my head in

your lap where all my

dreams are met

where your rose water

moves you in circles

of delirium.

Where you push

back against me

where my boy-

hood got mixed up

with life.

The sky outside

is crying again

as tomorrows

weeping children

lean out of the shadows

of brutality.

Episodes of you -

battalions

of you engulf me

wave after wave

like

medieval battles

hand to

hand.

And you defeat

me

push your

lance right

through my

heart

and now I

look up

my

head in your

lap –

defeated in love.

Imprison me

Imprison me in May where we

meet in our secret lane

you - beautiful and naked under your

simple shift dress.

Hold me hostage in this moment where

arms crossed you slip out

of your clothes - creamy skin

the treasure of your breasts.

Capture me as I pull off my jeans

tear off my T – Shirt naked

ready for us as I lay

you down.

Make love with me amongst the

Dog violets and Cecile

Where clouds of Hawthorn blossom

meet your heavenly gaze.

Remember this always as

unhindered by your everyday -

life – you laugh and slumber

in this our sultry dance.

Linger in this stolen moment as fertile as

the month - walk away from

me full of our love with new life –

our own white cloud

growing within.

I drink at the Altar of you.

I drink at the Altar of you

Your back arcs in ecstasy

As thunder clouds hide behind

Ancient Mountains

Your eyes glorious Gazanias

As the nib

Of me navigates you

Searching – searching

I scallop your bottom

Thirsting in this

River of my desire

An arid lusting

As Jets leave your nail marks

In the sky

And this is for me a

Selfish sustenance

My cravings - this lascivious hunger

For you my love

For you.

Callow Top

Your waiting on the ridge

of Callow Top swaying in

the Holt.

The new Moon caresses

you with a promise

of tomorrow.

The sweet smell of your

blossom enriches me -

enters me.

As the blanket of our open

meadow unfolds for -

us.

In the darkness - snowy

Whitethorn embraces

Laburnum in nature’s

hustings.

Whilst even the virgin

white flowers of Nettles

entice me in.

Was that you?

Was that you

the low morning

Sun, shimmering in the

glade,

smiling?

Was that you

a chill chasing up

my spine, a wild Orchid

in the breeze,

swaying?

Was that you

a brilliant

Red Admiral

fluttering

just two inches

from my face
dancing?

Was that you

my little

girl

always

nine years old

nine years old,

was that you?

Gin and Knitting Needles.

There was violence in her legs

it resonated up her spine fed the

synapses in her brain fell from the

edges of her mouth shot from her eyes.

A stifled suppressed violence

blanketed by darkness and lore.

‘With my body I thee worship’.

She had no choice but to endure

this violation –her husband’s

want – he reads her signals all wrong

the anger. Something else she hates -

the way her body reacts wet lubricated

but reluctant-willing? Animalistic even?

He rolls off - farts and wipes himself on

grubby sheets while she quietly weeps into

her pillow, pulls down her nightgown her

knees up, as his semen runs from her and she

wants it out of her;

OUT! OUT! OUT!

This the night of my conception.

Weeks later she attempts to kill me.

Gin and Knitting needles a red hot bath

stabbing, piercing, lancinating through her

cervix, a devastated crying, weeping drunk,

sweating in bloodstained water, those long

cruel devastating, size six knitting needles.

Can’t even afford the two pounds for back

street Annie.

Yet I grew on. Another nine months gone

and she’s so very scared as Aunty Pat wipes

the sweat from her brow as this - a simple

berth in some back room naturally takes it’s

course….

“It’s a bonny lad Edna…and he’s

all right - he’ll be alright Edna, he’s ok – fine,

he’ll be alright….. he will!”

And I’m number five child, one other

dead - stillborn - there’s two more to

go and many more nights of violence

and violation. But never - never again

knitting needles or hot baths. The

occasional Gin though – call it survival

also helps with the guilt call it anaesthetic.

**“Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, in sadness and in joy, to cherish and continually bestow upon him your heart’s deepest devotion, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him as long as you both shall live?

Magnolia blossom

The rain gently patters on the

Windows-

Whispering your

Sweet secrets as

Our long afternoon seems

Stalled in beauty-

This Beauty of You.

And your smile is a

Chorus of all

Your wondrous being

Singing just for

Me-

Just me.

So if I could capture our

Moment in some Jar

Screw down this moment

For us – for eternity -

To re-visit again and again-

Then I would.

Instead of witnessing

This beauty like the

Delicacy

Of Magnolia Blossom

So enriching and yet so

Fleeting

And duly

Gone!

She’s got it.

She’s oblivious

of her beauty

what it

does to me

bringing me her

femininity -

her grace -

spring buds of

love.

Her hair the colours

of corn fields
flowing

like a river

shaping her pretty face

a gilt
frame - those

brown eyes

just a hint of

sultry

desire.

She brings me
Strawberry afternoons

where the Sun kisses
our skin

as we lay in the

arms of each

other.

She brings me

old love songs

with new

meaning -

the

rich promise of

tomorrow’s

nirvana.

She’s unaware of

her glamour her

style her elegance-

her

felicity.

and me?

I sit in

the cobwebs of

my dark afternoon

and watch her -

observe her

in my

mind.

And we’re

dancing – in her

warm - sultry

enchantedness

we embrace as

she smiles and turns

my insides to

custard.

She’s blind to

my love as

another day slips

over another

empty horizon

yet - she sings to me

in her smile

in her

movement

in her aura -

in this

her

dreamy

seduction.

Tracks.

Another missed train

pulling out of the tracks

of your mind boy

rattling, rattling - over

your joints

every joint –

boy.

You missed another

journey boy

another chance to

escape the

smoking chimney stacks

scared streets

screaming, screaming

hopeless children

empty days

empty days.

That train was a

chance boy

a chance and

what do you

do with chances

boy

you talk, talk, talk.

to yourself

like some fucked up

automaton

Miss the next one

boy the next

one

listen to your

lonely

masturbatory

voice boy

death rattling

through your

mind boy

like the tracks

like the

fuc*ing tracks

of life.

Room 9.

It was never meant to start like this a

seedy hotel – room number 9 that thread-

bare carpet – walls and shadows echoing

our guilt.

You had gripped my hand tighter as the landlady,

fag hanging from her lips, no teeth - had said

“ Mr & Mrs Jones I expect ?” and pointed to

our room.

Passion made us short of breath, yet somehow

the smell of dead dust mixed with the scent

of us added to our excitement.

You undressed hanging your clothes over the

back of that single chair the light from passing

traffic chinking lines of orange glow on

to your camisole – On/Off On/Off teasing me.

As you slipped under the cold covers our

skin seared together our first stolen moments

as you whispered “ Undress me Rog – undress

me”

Today I drive past our ‘Ritz’ and

remember that night me and Mrs Jones

made love amongst the stars and dust of

room number 9.

As today, somewhere else, you lay in the

arms of another, warm, and dust free.