New Poetry

leaving games  - July 07 -

  i watched moving shadows on the bedroom wall as you packed your bags to leave the shifting shades of grey and brown the rapid movements

  in the faded sunlight twisted your elevated

  outline into deformed bitter demons

  your blue shirt was hurled crumpled to the floor left presumably

  to remind me that it was the gift from me you never wore

  afterwards when the door slammed as the taxi arrived

  in the driveway

  i turned on my side and faced the wall curving my knees to cover my belly

  protectively smothering my tears beneath the heavy duvet

  a long time later in the dark evening i dressed and walked these streets

  not wanting to sleep in our bed alone

  knowing

  you are out there somewhere still seething still planning

  still calculating exactly how long to punish me for

  this time

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Christmas in bed

we shared a Christmas in my bed one day

i remember you bought me a Swiss Army Knife

with your phone number on it;

said it was the only thing i’d ever need in my life

can’t remember what I bought you

which is odd as it isn’t all that long ago

the wrappers rustled beneath us as we made love

and i do remember bringing us breakfast-in-bed,

the full monty, crisp bacon and deep orange eggs…

the other day i turned the house upside down

looking for that knife, that phone number,

but it’s lost, like you,

and i remember now

that it wasn’t even Christmas

.

so much more than the pain

which can be smothered…

is the emptiness

the sense of

non-existence

that pervasive belief

that already

i cease to be

time moves like glue

and glue

inhabits also the gut

sucking at that image

which i try hard to steer away from

pushing the heart rudder

each time it looms large

and yet so much more than the pain

it insists on shuddering to the surface

forcing its way from the gut

through the heart

to emerge like an oversized egg

from the throat

…so much more than the pain

…is the fear

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the myth of time

Dec 2008

time-future does not

and can not exist

the myth is a projection

based on false assumptions…

time-present is

a divisible line

which moves

neither backwards

nor forwards

but amoeba-like

divides infinitely

we live always

  by surveying time-past

  which is dubious,

  subjective

  and receding

  at an ever increasing s p e e d…

  all that we remote

  viewers of time

  ever see

  is an extended

backwoods glance

  at a moment of

  appearing…

all that we ever envision

is a projection

leading to an

  end…

  in a fabled

  future time

Poem for the new Poet Laureate 2009

  (the ‘official’ poet of the Monarch proceeding

  Shadwell, Cibber, Warton, Pye, Bridges etc)

…as we knew she would

  she accepted the

  royal instruction

  to be reined in on a leash

  selling her alleged ‘talent’

  for soap-opera sentiment,

  and a few tubs

  of plonk-sherry,

  following the long

  snail-like trail

  of talentless

  sluggishly creeping

  motion

  that preceded this

  countess of cliché

  …thankfully

  despite her kind

  some elements

  of worth

  persist

  here-and-there

  on earth

Will

5th March 2007

)alpha

no point at all

in participating

in the life

debate

)darkness will  descend

  at noon

save the breath

that nurtures

our cell culture

shells

)nothing will  occupy

  all

savour all

that we have

and experience

love

)light will  cease to

  be

ashes to dust

dust to ashes

nothing from nothing

nothing to nothing

where lies the

debate

)emptiness will  occupy

  everything

)omega

T*****

15th February 07

at the end of that

final session

i suggested a diary

or if she preferred

some brief notes

to measure mood swings

the day after they

discovered her body

i sat alone in the

counselling room

when a photo-image

arrived in the post;

to one side of the head

on the bedroom wall

three vertical chalk marks

stood in solitary rank

the slogan above them read

‘Good days’

to their right

27 vertical chalk marks

slashed through in fours

with six diagonal slashes

and above them was scrawled

‘Bad days’

beneath her heavy

shadowed empty eyes

she had written

in vermillion lipstick

‘I did as you asked,

 it didn’t help.’