Sagrada Familia by Kevin Cadwallender

A Mention of Honey (for Debs) There was some mention of honey, I resisted the urge to mention Petals floating on water. I believe candles were involved. For one brief epiphany The happiness glooped in Thick and sweet. You lost yourself in spiders, Webs caught your smiles Wrapped them up. I was somewhere in all of this. A voyeur in your garden, Just a man trying to Comprehend summer. There were wild things too Things that flew through darkness. The softest skin at your wrist And the nape of your neck Could not resist. Seeping in like fret Clouding honey.

Dionysus After Ariadne by J.L. Williams Starboard, women on dark ships, Swallowing light The sea hauls Stars under its bulk. Each woman impaled on red. None too share This shrine incarnate Ripped wide with blood. Shipwrecked, my darkness, Snakes swathed Around bodies Breaking on tides. They cannot hold me. No one can. Death’s widower.

After Strawberries When I read ‘Strawberries’ I think of you, I always think of you and our body’s juices Mingling before those terrible harvests. Red on red on a red towel, You will remember and laugh At the slaughter of our virtue (As if we had any left) We have done things to each other That don’t belong in poetry, Loved without care or regard For our own safety. And crashing together In real time, bruised Our bodies and fought So hard to hold on to Each other. When I read ‘Strawberries’ I think of you And the love that I gave you, that is yours And yours alone, and the pain I handed to you. My apologies red on red on red.

A Northumborman’s Guide to the British National Character During the festival where the Scotch Hide in their tenements with their needles and Drugs and copies of Irvine Welsh’s latest tome And the stairs ring with the various chibbings And murders and all the Rob Roys in their kilts sit At home drinking Irn Bru with their Broons albums Chanting ‘Jings’ with their Tam O’Shanter tea cosies, Russ Abbot wigs waiting for the Dreich newspapers Full of doom and gloom and Kenneth McKellar’s ghost Jigging in the toilets at Sandy Bells with Andy Stewart And old dead Rab being poked with poetic sticks at the Sacrifice of haggis to the great gods of Mel Gibson’s Wallace and deep fried old firm hatreds soak in salt And sauce and shortcake sweet as independence. Only worse Are the English stuffing their beaks with crumpets and muffins Unpacking their willow cricket bats and bowler hats for jolly japes After Oxbridge and being buggered senseless as fags and the rolling Arse of some fucking bint in jodhpurs bemoaning over croquet the Fate of the empire and the country going down the drain and the colonials Coming over here and stealing our poverty and all the Bertie Woosters In cravats at Jane Austen’s gymkhana with Daddy’s money and Mummy’s

Hats at Ascot and Golly gosh and Haywains parked in nostalgic biscuit tin views of cosy scrubbed clean Victorian idealism where hockey sticks and rugger collide in gentlemen’s clubs with monacled majors moaning over the marmalade mornings The loss of chastity and morals over port and cigars and ladies embroidering scenes with foxes and hounds and more horses over idyllic green and pleasant Jerusalem style Turneresque landscapes full of peasants and village idiots romantically being quaint In Thomas Hardy vignettes of noble savages and more horses plodding about wearily in great amalgams of yesteryear and bourbon biscuits and the riding crops going up and down on the vapid buttocks of John Bull in his union jack gimp mask. And worse still The Welsh sulking over Offa’s Dyke heads full of nonsensical words and rugby, talking every day about leeks and daffodils and nationalism and how to set fire to the English and spouting Dylan Thomas from the safety of male voice choirs and writing gibberish on road signs and pretending to be druids and Tom Jones with their Richard Burton brogues and Dr.Who chic and pits and resistance to the Romans who were really English anyway and ….. Don’t get me started about the Irish.

Andromeda Ethiopia in chains, Are all those images That brutalise the brain Fed to us by another oracle Of light and lightning? On Ammon’s word They gave their daughter, Turned her tears into stars Turned Cetus to stone. Are the chains of love As unbreakable in the heart? When will we free Ourselves from horror? The fifty unfair Nereids Slighted by vanity, Such petty concerns. The knee jerk reaction Of an easily enraged god. Are these people dying Guilty of something that we are not? When will we free Ourselves from gods? I switch off the TV Know that Perseus Has missed his flight.

Baz: The New Testament Baz’s Relict Julie has taken The time to become a widow, Peeling off the sun visor names From the windscreen of her memory. Selling his car watching a stranger Drive it away Clutching cash and a cheque. Tried to find her place In the nightclubs but felt Like somebody’s mother. Tried to get a job But the shirt factory Has closed down. Tried to tell her kids That she was okay But the floral pattern Dress and bright grin Of her afterlife Are a camouflage. She phones Sharon but Sharon only does superficial It is her own camouflage. She phones Debbie Who offers her money And asks her if she’s on facebook

She thinks about Tracy Phones the Samaritans Whose office is just across the road She says I don’t know who I am anymore. Baz’s Heir At the football match We spy Baz’s eldest, The game is a frenzy And the tackles fly recklessly I remember Baz hacking Down the opposition like a blunt scythe. His memory lingers As his heir apparent crunches Into shins, toe punts the Ball down field. Footbrawl Baz used to call it. Billy turns to me Christ Kev, did the lasses play football like that when we were at school? Susan runs past to get changed Hiya Uncle Billy, Uncle Kevin.

Baz Uber Dallas With the stolen shower gel From the posh hotel He washes the past away. Washes the merest of memories Washes down death As easily as a pint of Dark lager. Steps out into the glare of the sun Reflected on patio doors Bloody as a newborn And though he rubs As hard as he can Not all things have passed away. Julie, surprised at home By his key in the door Shatters her ‘Baz’s tart’ mug He gave her as a present That time he thought she Was having the affair. They laughed And now they cry, Her screaming waking up the other dead.

Baz and the Shotgun Wedding The Bride is no worse for wearing the white, The Groom has fallen at the first offence, The Bridesmaid is being taken from behind In the furtive imagination of the best man’s Uncle. Double barrelled names congregate At the bar to order Lagavulin, Discuss shotgun ownership And how to obtain licences and licensees. And as the affluence spills out of their pores The effluent of decadence does too And revolution has about as much chance As the tired flamenco guitarist who Plays Django as the hunt assembles and Charges to amex cards the blooding Of their young in the age old rituals Of money stinking money, The ripping apart of a quarry. Baz like brer fox cornered Invited for sport. Given away by his pernod and lime.

Julian & the Bible of Dreams Julian nurses a picture, A girl, the one who pilfered His heart. Cut off his love Like a scalp. I read the paper These are the poems she wrote for me He tells me The epiphanies we shared Are concentrated in form and verse. I tell him the poet laureate is dead. Julian wants to contact deed poll. I tell him it doesn’t matter now As both of them are gone. She will always be dead Herr Julian, I joke. Despair caked on him Too late to make Sylvia happy He is a lost mind Roosted in winter trees. I think I wrote the bible He remarks, Well. Parts of it. Thinly disguised autobiography I offer.

Yes but only Revelation and Ecclesiastes Ah the cheery bits then Yes he says Yes. Examining his thumb For a place to commit A homage. I show him a picture of Assia Wow, he gleams. Baz and the School Reunion I sent you a valentine When I was thirteen. I remember getting Some Valentines. Did you know it was me? I remember throwing them In a waste bin in the physics lab. You were very shy at school. Who are you again?

Baz & the Sanity Clause Baz put on the beard, The costume, the belt and boots And waited for the magic To enthral the children. Several hundred tantrums And demands for this year’s fashion toy Later he wear a holly frown. I really don’t exist he mumbles in his beard. As the factory lasses tumble in Ripe with innuendo and randy to be rude For a photo in a snowstorm. Santa will you empty your sack for me? Santa has Rudolf got a big red jingle bell end? It is all faux , Zuzu’s petals are sold. We all know it, prop it up. Every time a bell rings a fairy’s balls drop.

Baz Sacre Cochon Du Temp I once won half a pig And being a vegetarian and Ignorant of the etiquette Of matters meat Asked Which half? And I wasn’t purposefully Being sarcastic or clever at all But the gadgey who did The meat draw took it personally. What do you mean which half? You twat! And I was taken aback at that Until Baz took him gently by The scruff of his scrotal sack And explained Tell him which half Which admittedly sounded more like a command than An explanation. Any half he likes and Ooh me knackers (which isn’t relevant to this)

Squealed the man like the back half of a pig. I didn’t know they cut Pigs down the middle So I got the left side as it was the labour club Or rather I didn’t As I sold it to Kenny For a fair price (or so Kenny said) A man limped out At that point with The right side of a pig Lolloping over his shoulder Its trotter clipped the bandit And the doorman said How.

Tracy on a Milk Carton Her two boys never stopped looking Once they discovered who they were. Nice lads, lovely accents and manners Educated, doctor and a lawyer. They asked me, Do you know the whereabouts of our birth mother? Whereabouts is such a nice word. Isn’t it? Do you know what happened to our Mother? I said she loved them more than life itself, And I couldn’t say more, cos I don’t know But I don’t believe Tracy is still alive. I didn’t say anything about her whereabouts. There was drugs and that’s bad Drugs and booze and all that goes with it. You know, unsavoury elements. I stopped going ‘round She never called I should’ve gone round She never called I should’ve…. We just take people for granted. I couldn’t tell them I couldn’t tell them nice bairns She’s dead,

Well, I don’t know, not for sure But I think she’s not….alive. I thought she might have rang me once There was a phone call in the middle of the night An empty crackle, I could hear breathing I said Hello, who is it? Hello….hello. But then the money must have ran out and… Maybe she was alive then? Those boys she would be proud. Those little boys all big with money And nice cars and nice suits. They’ll never stop looking. I saw her on a milk carton In the supermarket, she looked pretty. I bought milk but I didn’t need any. Baz Ich bin ein Berliner Look at the state of that wall It’ll take a good brickie to put that right.

Billy and the Military Tattoo The not true blue snake Corkscrews up your forearm Taints the skin, burrows Into the temple of your heart. You are a working man You like to say this often As if saying this enables A knowing of one’s self A knowing of place? You hold powerful fingers Around the pint glass Choosing not to crack And obliterate, poised Like a breakdown Like a murderer. A swallow breaks Cover from the Ben Sherman Covet at your neck Choosing today to Crack a grin into The faces of strangers; Learning all the time, Noble, almost Warrior made to replenish shelves. Your tribe almost lost. The war that was written for them In blood on the old canon; The military tattoo Pegasus and other myths

Of Dulce et decorum est Pro Patria Mori That gather at the cenotaph That is the minimum wage. Sharon’s Choice (2) The last time Julie saw Sharon She was taking it doggie style In the back of a taxi. She had waved. You only live once She said the next day On the telephone He had a cock like a baby’s arm. Do you not feel guilty When you go home to your lad Julie said embarrassed’ That soft get wouldn’t notice if that taxi driver was tied to me like a fucking mutt. If he doesn’t want it a girl’s gotta get it elsewhere! Eh? To tell you the truth Julie I’m just scratching an itch Me sister’s a lesbian now. She did a night class at the college. Did I not tell you? How are you pet? Yer look canny.

Baz Eine Kleine Nacht Porter A job is a job she had said, And it wasn’t the long nights or The tedium of the same routine Night after night. They rolled in after their Expensive dinners and Demanded like spoiled Children, sandwiches which weren’t on the menu. Stinking of privilege and booze They rah their way through The crystal. Rolling out the clichés of conversation For all to hear and as the night drones on Murder sleep with sub karaoke acapella And songs from the musicals. And then to see Debbie serene amongst them And to hear her say without irony or recognition. You must hate people like us Left only one recourse Oh well, Baz Smiled If I must.

Baz Faction We ran the leg sapping sand Kicked at skylights Of long demolished swimming baths Explained keys to policemen With straight faces. One of us dumped on a doorstep, The legend of the Cack Man Who delivered to your door Fresh for the morning. Two of us fought in the muddy campsites. Ran away. Got engaged too many times, Had a regretted tattoo. Memory somehow appropriate Your daughters and wife In huge floral patterns, Appropriate for you. Let’s go into town said Kenny And get some lasses added Billy And…we all hoped and savoured What may or may not come to pass. And……Baz added gleefully Brandishing a Kukri, scoring The candlelight with a rainbow of steel Forged in the foothills of Nepal

And…. We held our breath And butcher them! Your sense of humour wasn’t always to everyone’s taste but your timing was immaculate. Your wife and daughters slaughtered Here today by your love for them And we your mates gutted. Baz Incidentally Baz, incidentally I ain’t putting you on, Today is the first day of the rest of a cliché If you sit here one more night in front of a domino board. Don’t refuse, we’ve nothing to lose She isn’t coming back and this night Will become a train wreck If you keep laying those tracks. Don’t drink, don’t drink at all Close your eyes, listen to Rod, This dream will pass just as fast as lightning.

Julian and the Choosing of Capes A hero must have a cape, The colour is important, Give yourself a name, A name that no one else would call you. Learn to fly like David Bateman, One foot after another. Close your mouth or we’ll gag you. Now trust us, step off this skyscraper Stop crying, trust us. Or we’ll push you. The grass cold against your cheek. Tears on a coat‐cape , Take off the blind fold We have taught you a valuable lesson about trust. Julian calls himself Reckoning Man And trust is the Same colour as Retribution.

Baz Rant So anyway this is how it is We exchange recipes ower the phone Spend our weekends at the garden centre Wanking ower barbecues, Have yea got the new Argos catalogue? Our Lass swears by Ikea Ah divunt mean swears like shoutin fuck nor nowt, Yerra funny twat yea. Yer ever gan to the footy now kidda? Bunch a pricks cept fer that black feller Well yer knaa I’m not a racist nor nowt But the Sun sez they’re every where And fuckin terrorists man Kev Ah waddn’t shat on em, Ah’m not racist Me hairdressers Polish and ah’d Fuck her, yer knaa international Relations. Yer workin or still fannyin’ about Wi that writin’? ah can hardly Write me name on a cheque, young ‘un Once stuck a pen in sum one’s heed Bout as close as ah’ve come to putting Words into someone else’s heed, Ahm on Invalidity Once the pit closed ah was fucked. Ah heard from Billy he got the clap Or lice or summat , not Aids though, He’s not a poof, ah yea a poof? Or no yee’ve got bairns an that Still Oscar bastard Wilde had kids Yer not a yer?

Is that yor lass? Canny. Where’s she from is she from foreign? Scotland ? looks nowt like a Jock! Aye. Why our lass is at yem, Still ugly as a bear’s arse like me We’re a pair. Good to see yer, marra , come down We’ll get off our heeds Batter some cunt. Ahm in the posh houses now. Baz Epitaph How can you look at the stars? This isn’t the gutter it used to be.

Better Days Put away The rag and bone past Of drowned kittens And hand me down clothes, Those skeletons will Not hang fresh in you head. The outside lavatories And poss‐tub drudgery Were squalid And if it seems That happiness was Nearer in those Shambling homes, It doesn’t make it so. Poverty looks attractive When labelled nostalgia. But all those lives sold To make our future What it should be or will be or may never be. Look back with the rage Of those men and women Who scratched out a living. Remember people not houses. Fill your head with hope Not museums.

For we should be or will be or may never be Better off than now.

Butterfly Liberator (for Adrian Mitchell) Being careful not to Damage the dust of wings, Carefully, gently, scooping The delicate red and black, A soul of some fluttering kind. You fall up stairs, bang knees, Rattle into stacks of chairs, We followed in your Lovely anarchic wake. Watched as you fumbled at the window latch the butterfly cocooned in your poet’s hand Launched out into evening A zig zag of colour, You paused not to admire Your humanity but to Recall the point of Being where you were On this unhappy planet. We paused to marvel At your utter kindness, Humility stirred to action, A political act of amnesty As always, as you were.

The audience impatiently Buzzing in the auditorium Unaware of the poetry That you lived to the full.

The Church of the Never Ending Word I work in the church of the word without end From the trinity Roger, Adrian and the holy Brian, I shake the poems out of tins of peas and queues In supermarkets, adding I to the smiles of check Out operatives as I like. I have stressed at the feet of masters, Moved monsters and wept with angels, Laid trails to divert the hounds from a generation of thought foxers. I am bic pen tamer with e.t. left out. I am sonneteer of the stage‐struck, Amnesiac memory man, Keeper of the Wevill and the Plath. I work in the church of the word without end. St. Igmata of the writers’ cramp, I release the meaning from the everyday Get my notebooks dirtied with life. And as they enter the church I have lived in all my life I know by the way they lean where they will sit. In the front pew for the privileged few, somewhere in the middle edging forward at every half chance At the back rebellious, rowdy but quiet as lambs When the big man says sshhh. I stand at the entrance to this Looking out, looking inward.

You will not remember me But I have your hats And will hand them to you As you leave. Attend the memorials Of your last word. The birth of your omega. Dog There is dark painted thickly onto the day and I haven’t the strength to clean the windows to another morning. You birds in air have no idea of the consequences of your flight. See me hollow‐eyed at a square of light pecking with fingers, The marks on white unmoving like dead ants on snow. There is a bottle in the larder marked ‘release’.

Old Gold in the October Trees (for Colin Donati) You text and then phone a dream of mice and autumn, Your bedroom fall, empty traps awaiting tiny hearts. I tell you to bait them with cornflakes. You are a gentle, determined hunter, Muddled and over thinking everything, worrying the sun from the sky, the old gold from the October Trees. I dreamt of leaves you said although I realise in the cold breakfast of morning they might be cornflakes.

I Donʹt Love You I donʹt love you until the twelfth of never. I donʹt love you like a red, red rose, I donʹt love you Yeah,yeah,yeah. I just donʹt love you. Because you know that love is not a many splendoured thing, Love is not like oxygen or a fucking violin. Love hurts, Love will tear us apart, Love changes everything. and I donʹt keep bleeding love, I donʹt only have eyes for you, I donʹt do everything I do for you, I donʹt even want to know what love is. Love is strange, Love is touching souls, Love comes in spurts, Love is a four letter word. and you understand that and that is why I donʹt, not Love you

Poeisis There will be a making in the old town tonight; Painted read by aficionados of the sullen art, There will be similes like nobody’s business, Twisted clichés and the silence around the words. There will be things unsaid, dots for pedants to rearrange, the odd metaphor creeping in all animal and roar. There will be things to think about, bad form and we will be as free as verse to leave when we choose. You will think this poem is for you, but it is for me there will be advice, criticism and references to other poems. There will be comic parody like the hot stink of socks And novelty like when I write key words sdrawkcab. It won’t be great, that is a promise, it will be adequate, filling in the hole left in the doughnut of the soul. Did I mention that some of it would be silly? There will be mild thinking involved and eroticism. Like when I mention body parts lyrically And use words that are full of sex, like er.. sex. This poem may contain traces of nuts

But only on the lines when I haven’t taken my medication. This poem will not have a lot of end line rhymes ever Although I might chuck in a bit of assonance for good measure The end will come, sit tight, fasten your metric feet belt Oh and puns, bad ones are best, linger longest. The end may drift off picturesquely into unattributed birds Flying off into idyllic, unspecified landscapes of wonder.

The Consequences of Dust Because it gathers I cannot be without you. As I am heading towards A dustbowl Like Woody Guthrie. I am wrapped around you. Though it may Not be in my best interests I am unable to deny the Consequences. I hoover up feelings Empty the bag Occasionally. It can’t be stopped Because it gains momentum. I am ready.

Three Fragments (for and after Kristin Dimitrova) Mr. Miagi’s Meditation on Hearing that Icarus had attempted flight too close to the Sun Wax on, Wax off. The Snake Freudian logic juxtaposed ‘Ho Ho’ I know the kind of Snake to choose envious of Serpents. On seeking a second opinion from a specialist The football rolls on I long for salad and goals. It is lonelier to be a spectator of you eating alone than a crowd in my own company.

Hangs up his smile on a hook by the door. Sometimes the clown make up is hard to remove, It sticks in places that nothing can quite reach. I find Leichner in the corner of my eyes Blocking tear ducts and turning to black gunk. The last time I was a clown, face painting At some village fete or fun day, was the final Time I put on my funny face. It was hot, my back ached from kneeling Face after child’s face and then his, Ten years old, excitement in his eyes And my own white‐ faced reflection. I took my time, did the best job I had ever done As the queues grew and colleagues cursed me. Touching his face, after all those years, when I had loved him as a Father should and then… Love doesn’t always last, I learned that. He calls someone else Dad now, And I am the clown who took too long But too little time Over the most precious face, grease painted Now and looking like his Father. I held the mirror before him. He said, Wow! And, thank you. I said, You are welcome.

What the fuck are you playing at? said Joey Grimaldi And I said I can’t do this any more. And ran away from the circus. Wooden Heart It’s only Heartbreak Hotel, I can live here, dressed in black Bellboy to the lonely. It’s only a Jailhouse I can dance with wooden chairs. It’s only a ghetto It’s not the cold that bothers me But grey is the killer. It’s only Suspicion Can we not build dreams anyway? It’s only a Dog That follows me Now and then. When you are not My friend. It’s only a Wooden Heart.

The Adelphi A coffee with more in the saucer than in the cup faded splendour was invented for here, a re‐enactment of the Titanic but that boat has sailed. The Beatles stayed here once and later TV crews embedded the place into our psyche. I am looking at the three legged table in the hallway the empty beer bottle in the lift three hours waiting for our room and it’s the smell that drives us out to do the tourist thing. Forces us the next day to the Marriot after a ‘veggie’ breakfast. What is the vegetarian alternative? I asked ‘Not eating the meat’ the waiter replied. Yet Liverpool wasn’t a faded place, despite ‘The Cavern’ having sidled across the street, and the faux yellow submarine and Macca’s place donated to the National Trust, and other soap impressions of listening to my brother’s Beatle records. Wasn’t everyone in Liverpool at school with Ringo? or in a band with John? In that pub with the fabulous toilet tiles down from the spaceship cathedral, we walked to the sound of cellos back to the deck of the dried up titanic,

Off the Road (for Eddie Gibbons) You read ʹOff the Roadʹ by Carolyn Cassady, the real life wife of that mate of Jackʹs who slept with Ginsberg when Jack wasnʹt and she slept with Jack and Neal died young mostly; the best howling minds of their beaten generation. Carolyn said, It was harder to stay put than to run Easier to be ʹOn the Roadʹ than off and to one side. What use were they to anyone but themselves? only useful as examples of an endless quest that doesnʹt include anyone over fifty. Old Rabbi Ginsberg chasing rent boys around St.Marks. Jack and Neal married to death and their children

in the gospel according to Neal All fucked up for good? Debajo de tu piel vive la Luna (Pablo Neruda) Your skin is mostly made up of moon, that is, the colours that moon is capable of. Unearthly colours, pale as the cold that comes from playing too long in snow. You fade in daylight, not ever as tangible as say a cloud. I cannot understand all of your mythology, your tide shuffling and the bruises you acquire so easily from making giant leaps.

Conversations found on a Train a) Executive Decisions We could do it for three mill! Yeah? Three mill sounds good. Well it’s one hundred thou gone but who is counting? It costs that per minute Really? I don’t know I might be making that up. The concept is good though Yes the concept is good. Yes Yes I liked it…..mostly. Mostly? Well is it talking to our market? You may have a point. No it’s good.

Yes, it’s good. We could save ten percent. Ten percent of three mill. What is that? We’ll get Susie to run up the figures. It’s a do‐able loss! Er…circa three thou… Three minutes! Really? Exactly…er I might be making that up. b) Non Executive Decisions I can’t peel tatties. You should go to Woolworths Woolworths? They sell peelers that last a lifetime.

I had cancer of the plankreas. The pancreas? Yes. I might have been dead, They gived me a choice; Be dead or have it operated on. I chose the operation otherwise I’d be sitting here dead. Six pund. What is? Potato peeler. Expensive. Woolworths. I might. I have money. I could get one. I can’t peel tatties. Woolworths! Yes. Do they sell mushy peas? No.

I like mushy peas and tatties and Tyne Brand mince and onion tinned pies. They should put homemade broth in a tin. They sell tin openers. Six pund eh? Expensive. I might.

Manuka and the Beat Generation In the vegetarian supermarket The William Burroughs’ look‐alike Is trying to pay for a jar of manuka honey, with Scottish pound notes that he has previously been caught shoplifting from the store. The honey, not the money, that is. His righteous indignation Is keeping me amused as I search For sugar free treats for my partner. His logic at the injustice being Perpetrated on him by ‘big’ business Is impenetrable and would be better Placed in a larger multi‐national. He shrugs at the Policemen Who arrive in standard body armour Clutching the honey in one hand And the notes in the other. I am thinking about Bees And how many it takes to make a jar of honey, The bees want William Burroughs to have the honey, William Burroughs wants the honey, The store wants to sell the honey. I want the police to arrest people For more important things. The police want to arrest people For more important things.

Bees are not buzzing outside Dead in the wintertime, What is the underlying cause Of stealing honey? What is William Burroughs hiding? At the till the girl is sweet I steal her smile with a mention of my new born daughter; Give it to William Burroughs’ ghost as I leave.

Windmills of your Mind Like a circle in a spiral like a wheel within a wheel, teleological and recurring like a sociology degree, like a condom in a blender, like a tampon in a bog, never flushing just revolving like a bollock licking dog. Like a blow job on a waltzer Like a cack in a centrifuge Like Charlie Manson’s Helter Skelter Like a Moulin that is rouge. Like the constant repetition of Friends on Sky TV Like the sound of one hand clapping in an audience of amputees. Like a hamster that keeps running in the treadmill of its cage, like a hula hoop gyrating ‘round the inches of your waist Like an amateur circumcision or a dervish spinning plates. like a mislaid menstrual cycle or the yo‐yo that is fate And the world is just a football in the Wembley of Space. As the filter tip unwinds on the yellow cubes That you find in the urinals of your mind. When you knew that it was over was it Catch 22 putting square pegs in round holes cutting corners off Rubik’s cube. Coins that jingle in my pocket

Will pay for jangling in your bed. Why did I come so quickly? Was it something that you said? Let us walk along the landing leave wet patches on the floor Is the sound of distant drumming just the bailiff at the door. As the toilet roll unwinds on the puppies that you find in the adverts of your mind As the bandages unwind on the mummies that you find in the sarcophagi of your mind. When you knew that it was over Were you suddenly aware That random images of circular motion Don’t get you anywhere.

Keeping the Tenor Bull under Lock and Key. Bulk‐bought in the graveyard freezer half a ton of bull, heavy as a minotaur, shrink‐wrapped colossus, snort‐less, thoughtless, inert on the roof rack of a shuddering corsair. We are making lewd references to beef horning out jokes to gouge our guilt. headless hunters of the garden grill. salivating at the memory of steak. Across the dawn and drawn by the body roped to our appetites. we sing the inane pop songs of the hour. before lapsing into reverie and dumbness. Sliding off with grunts and a dull thud bloodless cretan, man‐handled to a bench scrubbed clean, aprons and cleavers and would you say that butchery is an art? A little girl in pink dungarees drips ketchup onto her leg, smiling, gives a dog a morsel. The rest in the freezer in the roll top garage suspended, caught before a last disappearing.

Charlie’s Angels Once mesmerised by Teletubbies You recite their names A rote mantra; Tinky‐winky, Dipsy La‐la, Po Again and again and again.. Never tiring of the repetition. Happiest when fountaining knowledge; ‘Rabbit’ you alliterate ‘Rabbit’ And ‘Baby sun..Baby sun’ Dancing and singing in your Purple spotted giraffe pyjamas Everyday as days wear away like rusks. You are a moment of rapture embodied, Laughing like a devil Sleeping like an angel When the joy you generate Overwhelms your energy, When the teletubby sun is sunk beneath Astroturf and dark as an empty lot.

Communal As you shower, I think of your communion With water. You close your eyes, Sigh deeply, Keep breathing. The candle gutters Beside the laptop. I breathe out smoke And fire. In this cave Of constant dwelling, Book hoard. The darkness Switched off With light. The shadows At the fringes Of everyone And no‐one. I would be water Distilled, distinct Falling on skin .

Soft as light. Setting fire To the sea. Demeter’s Tain My secret in this mirror, A cycle of leaves Falling and twisting, Over the footpath Where a daughter Disconnected. Transfixed By opposition, Grace as a glamour, Spelled out on glass, A name I cannot Call to life or mind. I have bound my eye dry. Parched the world To barter for a journey. Betrayed by pomegranates.

Ectotherms I have never witnessed snakes. They have evaded or avoided me, Except in the tame bland pet shops Or the frozen rats in Nancy’s freezer. They lie discarded under heat lamps, Belts around branches, fat bracelets That exist for the same reason as dark; To balance something far worse or far better. You gather one of them to your arm A matched muscled vein undulating dry. Fascinated by their otherness Their defiantly not being us Of opposite temperature. We are prey too large to swallow, We are apes freshly peeled of hair. They are unchanging, single‐minded, Built for the purpose of providing death In exchange for a solitary life. They do not hate or go against their nature You can trust a snake not to be trusted, They are true to their own darkness, We know what not to expect and are never Disappointed.

Removed When writing a poem about moving house, One should not use bric a brac in anyway And discard the use of ‘discard’ and try if you Are at all able not to anthropomorphise your house. Don’t look back, it will look at you with sad square eyes Even the removal men are having trouble lifting the sentiment That is gathering in your head. Having moved once, don’t fall into the Trap of writing about it a second time The same old empty boxes and yes maybe Even tea chests (if you are moving in the Victorian era) Will appear and you will be forced to review your possessions As if they are metaphorical, They are not and stop thinking of similes for Unseen clocks ticking in boxes! Don’t you dare use words like ‘Flotsam’ And absolutely no to ‘Jetsam’. Lock all doors, watch the walls sighing. Don’t even bother reaching for a pen, When words like ‘nostalgia and memorabilia’ Are near. Get a ladder, clear the bird’s nest out of the guttering. Avoid titles like ‘Home from Home’ Anything but that or ‘Once Removed’ The slow decline into pun, (heading off into the punset)

Thank God it is over And brace yourself For the next time. Tell all your friends how stressful It has all been, milk their sympathy, Turn up your collar as you walk past The man with a dog in the shop doorway, The Big Issue seller that makes you deaf. The money in your pocket safe as houses.

Stake Out Dedicated to Pam Kindred

Not knowing where to begin is a great place to start Take your tongue out of my cheek and the stake out of my art. I’ll be crafty in my sullen room and sharpen up my stick With my psalms at the ready for the dead and the not so very quick. I’ll be resident and not at home, available and keen The life and soul of the library, heard and obscene, I’ll be running though your headlines and rhyming on TV Hot off the local radio the ventriloquist doll and me! ‘Poets’ you’ll say don’t matter poetry’s just for school Take your stake out of my art while I trash a few old rules, Poetry dancing in the clubs with the rightful owners of the voices Iambic in the back of taxis and rhythmic in the front of Rolls Royces. Bring me your sick your lame, bring me your huddled masses,

I’ll bludgeon them with the miracle of creative writing classes. A tongue in your cheek and a word in your ear A tongue in your cheek and a word in your ear I’ll be crafty in my sullen room and sharpen up my stick With my psalms at the ready for the dead and the not so very quick. Not knowing where to finish is a great place to end Take this stake out of my art and unzip another trend Shot right off the bookshelves squirming on TV Hot off the wireless the spoon bender and me I’ll be quick I’ll be quaint I’ll get the scansion right I won’t make the line too long and stick in irrelevant things about politics like other poets might. A tongue in your cheek and a word in your ear A tongue in your cheek and a word in your ear. Tongue. Cheek. Word. Ear. Stake. Art. Out. Over. Stake. Art. Out. Over. Stake Out…over and out.

GHOSTS I don’t know anything about ghosts. People tell me what they are. They say We are not ghosts They gather round to tell me about ghosts Even when I do not want to listen. They repeat things like Science has proved And God denies. I tell them I don’t know anything about ghosts. They say The dead are looking after us The dead are forgiven their sins The dead are wiser now Some say The dead are dead and only that. I do not want to listen. Even ghosts have an opinion They say they are what they are They say it is like this They say it is like that On the other side. They urge me to tell the world. I tell the world Anyone who will listen. I don’t know anything about ghosts. I tell you I don’t know anything about ghosts. I tell my dead Father

I don’t know anything about ghosts. I tell my dead Mother I don’t know anything about ghosts. I tell the dead And they say nothing. Hardly Literature Hardly worth mentioning At this stage of the game, Hardly proof of anything But our brotherhood of names. Hardly literature to those Who hardly care to look Hardly perennial in the throes of another book. Hardly on the TV Hardly on the stage Hardly worth listening to Hardly on the page. Hardly worth mentioning At this stage of the race, How much we hardly notice Time flies at breakneck pace. Hardly the same Hardly changed Hardly boys wrangling Pomes on the range.

JACKSON’S LANDING Feb ‘98 Drinking a slow coffee. The girl at the till has too Much make‐up on her top lip; Accentuated facial hair. Parcels of brown sugar, Circular foil ash trays For the solitary smoker. The old couple at the table Across the aisle are not Speaking. They communicate In gruff body language. He looks like Hugh MacDiarmid. She is swearing in a strong Teesside accent. I pick out Words like a seagull at a Chip packet in the February Street. Beneath my sole and heel There is a shop selling Versace shirts, Cut price designer wear. A pair of Jeans is normally a fortnight’s giro a family of four, today in the sale it is only a week’s. All the lost salesmen and Junk representatives Congregate to stare at water From their company grey saloons. And the beautiful waitress Mysterious as Java pours a refill And smiles into my eyes. The old couple are joined by a young couple.

The young man has a baby Slung over one arm like a coat. It cries in a Hartlepool dialect. The seagulls call to him An invitation to cull the shoal That breathes under the grey waves. MACKEM For Charlie I am carrying my new born daughter From the Royal to the car. I think she is one of the three most beautiful Things I have ever seen. My heart is a florists on Chester Road.

Colliery They have broken the backs And banners of the colliery, Tipped men onto the dole Like slag into the sea. The honest dirt ingrained on my heart, The dirt that forms my fingerprints, Has been removed. To make way for what? The clean hands of tomorrow? No. They have broken the backs And streets of the community For a few hollow victories In the mouth of the media. The wheel that turned the village Dismantled and preserved. Undermined we may be, Yet the people shall remain, Reclaiming the land In the hands and hopes Of our children.

Making Love (For Shabnam, Matt, Shani & Charlie) We made love. See it walks through our house Hoovering up food, Leaving its mess, Hairs in plugholes, Dirty clothes, Dishes in random rooms, New old problems. It mumbles in its own tongue Yawns, stretches, scavenges At the light of the fridge. It looks at us through the same eyes That beguiled us when love was new. Sooner or later it will Take its first steps, Reach for the handles of doors, Borrow money and cars and Forget to look back as often as we’d like. Soon it will be gone. And we will see, finally That making love is The only point of love And then we can leave.

Arc Welding It took them six whole days to build it, Disappearing to pubs and clubs on the Sunday. They built it with men at first then scaffolding and cranes. All the materials were kindly donated By people waving tax concessions and Vested interests. It was painted by Community service volunteers And the colours they painted it were Scientifically correct and in the right Order. It was duly photographed and awarded a prize, Mike Neville said , It looks uncannily like a rainbow. On the seventh day when everyone was at the pub it rained and the whole sodden enterprise dropped to bits, clumps of soggy newspaper Bleeding colours, swept down drains and polluted streams. When the rain finally stopped A rainbow appeared. There is no God but irony And snafu is his prophet..

The Barbary Coast a) ‘Sand’ There was once more sand than you could shake an egg timer at. Foreign sand for dancing, Silver sand blowing under the dorr of the ‘Dead House’. Wesley at St.Peter’s, ballast sand building a cartography of hills long lost like the sand slipping through the keyhole on Cage Hill. There was once world enough alright and tunnels filled with sand enough to make glasses for sixty pubs brimming over with ‘Dizzy Beer’ and Catty Allen’s gutless rabbits pinned out over her bed like flags of carnage, trophies from the kill. b) ‘I don’t think Ian Porterfield would like it’ says Rob to Gary eyeing up the Ambit sculpture jetsam’d in the river . What’s that about then? About a quarter of a million quid! I don’t think Ian Porterfield would like it Says Rob. What makes you think that? Says Gary He was Scottish muses Rob What’s that supposed to mean? says Gary

He scored with his right foot says Rob. Aye..Aye we all know that… Says Gary getting agitated . Well…that was beautiful says Rob Yes..yes.. says Gary And that isn’t! And as they turn to walk back up the bank He whispers triumphantly Sunderland 1 Art 0 c)Gates The ‘Always open gates’ are locked tonight Bars against trespassers, Art as a barrier, discuss. Metaphorically they transgress sense. Art is an illusion with dangerous pike tops, Jumping over them is like Walking through them. A leap of faith.

James Dean Made out of car, metal, hood, bonnet, Wheel, metal, fuel, oil on red blouson Macassar monument, iconography. Made out of celluloid, acid, developer, Fixer, red light, rodeo, Technicolor Romeo Voyeur in Steinbeck country. Dead as Goliath, public consciousness junkie, Crash, road‐kill, poster prophet/ profit Neil Armstrong’s Stuntman (for Tom Raworth) In the morning there is no opera Footfall on the sea of desolation Here they choreographed the flag Jump, hop, skip, weightless as truisms Neil had the largest trailer. There is always room for flags Waving despite the lack of atmosphere I told them, I did tell them The public wanted to believe anything Neil was on the big bucks I am driving another man’s truck.

Liza Minneli’s Mother Under the sod Like Bernard Manning’s wife Dreaming of scarecrows, Lions and tin men. And her daughter Holding hands with Mad Michael. But Life isn’t a cabaret at all, It’s a bad play done by amateurs In a god forsaken theatre On the fringe of the fringe of The outskirts of the borders of The sub fringe. Liza’s mam Under the sod Oscillating wildly. Waiting for the Re‐runs to resurrect her. .

Not Climbing Andrew I could not climb Andrew, his particular’s being unfamiliar, Preferring to remain in base camp examining and labelling dirt. Leaving the precipice to surer fingers that had never fallen, Watching others seeking purchase on the difficult north side I felt no fear crouching in an animal curve under his shadow. Seeing the ants gathered at his brow almost triumphant,I breathed so shallow as they disappeared from view I would know soon enough of success. A glint of nose‐stud like a signal to my stupor. I rose, and reaching warily at full‐tip‐toed stretch Pushed my hand above the ridge of cold, boot leather Where warmth dwelled like a brother in him.

Mine No it’s not for me They closed down the colliery village I was raised in two or three elections ago And I moved on, never looked back. It’s not for my children Their plans will always be On bank. It’s not even for my Dad Who exchanged pits for ships Who got out, never living to see His friends redundant. It’s not for my forebears of migrant miners Following the coal dust trails From Cymru to closure. Most of us knew it was over Long before 1984 And southern outrage Was too little too late. The rows of For Sale signs Are rows of gravestones. Happy hour in the Trust On Black Tuesday £1 a pint Why I’d be able to buy thirty thousand pints with my redundancy. Thirty thousand pints. Not enough to flood a seam with.

Pat Racist Pat, Racist Pat, Racist Pat And his white and white cat. Early in the morning just as day is dawning Pat delivers letters to his white anglo‐saxon protestant friends. Everyboy knows Pat’s a wizard in the Klan Politically incorrect views of ‘coloured’ people Lately, special deliveries include; Strange Fruit and burning crosses on your lawn. Racist Pat, racist Pat, racist pat And his Aryan cat. Although he’s xenophobic If you’re white you’ll get your mail quick, Pat says that we oughta have a New world postal order, A bright red van is better To wash the blood off letters, He takes out his frustration On anyone non caucasian He’s a postal worker Who hates women in burkas Pat swears he’s a patriotic man. Everybody in Greendale knows he’s in the Klan Segregates the mail by colour each morning Black, Brown, Yellow and just Non White, Find their First Class in ashes on the lawn. Racist Pat, Racist Pat, Racist Pat

And his white and white cat. Early in the morning just as day is dawning Pat delivers letters to his white anglo‐saxon protestant friends.

Prick (note to self) Is that Charles Baudelaire in your pocket Or are you just pleased to be posing with A book that will get you mugged in certain Stations of the metro? Do you believe that Charles Bukowski Is a suitable poet to be reading on a Primary school trip to the zoo And may I add in response to Your text you look nothing like Raymond Carver. What is it about Victor Noir That visitors to Pere Lachaise Would run the brass bulge in the trousers of his death cast? Was it you who left the lipstick On Oscar Wilde’s monolith ? Did I say that shade never suited you It makes you look cheap? Forgive me if I think there are Many more important poets than you, Is that copy of Mayakovsky in your Bathroom indicative of a mis‐spent Youth or are you just trying to show Those who shit in your luxury apartment You used to care about something More than money? If it comes to it, When they ask you

If you are a poet with a loaded gun At your temple will you peter out or Take it in the pan for posterity? Do you believe that life should be multiple choice? Do you believe in anything that isn’t linked to ego? Do you believe? And if you do, what do you believe? Is that Rabindrinath Tagore in your pocket or are You just trying to shag an Indian woman?

Tain You reflect And offer opinion. Behind glass And silence. These are your eyes And this is your voice. Using them You weep And wail But there Are other uses. In the songs We sang together, Great joy and tears of gladness. You reflect And offer opinion. Waiting for The day When looking Brings emptiness And the ache of loss.

The Flight of the Chapbook Here we mark the slimmest thread Spliced between volumes of the great and dead, Flapping down corridors of books Great albatross tomes heavy ‘round the necks Of too many cooks. In between the sheets where The librarian slam champion incognito Limbos his poetry under Pope Benedict’s Alfa Romeo. At the point of no return Books, pamphlets are bought and sold And bartered In the circle of firelight Where pamphleteers are martyred, Shepherds and shepherdesses, Wranglers and wranglees, The chapbooks flutter their lashes, The essence of poetic licence crashes And It’s only happenstance That brings us here to Calder Wood Where the Red Squirrels play on sand all day. We aim to please We aim to fail All day the clink of Nuts in may and may not, We are all diehards From the flick of SPL postcards

To the prolific poetry profligator Tony Lawrence’s scintillating Soporific sales sibilants. Not just moonshine but blue sky notebooks The body of the green girl on the boy who came ashore At the currying shop for a poetry supper and Scots love from the Makar press Those beetroots murdering sleep, Out damned typo! (we can dream) Reel to the fiddling family Reeves Revolve to ex Rebel inc‐ers, Tsunami butterflies; Chilly fireflies on coconut Christmas trees. Chap Man is a super hero this day We will Sally Forth with Rudy Awakenings, Santa Will And Wogan’s Togs, Callum McDonald’s bouncing bairns, Perjinks! We slim, beautifully McDermided creatures in Our paper finery; And every Baudelaire nouveau Tasted between marginalia inspires us At least to badverse (like this) Jealousy or camaraderie at worst. I blow up the sacred balloon of penfriendship Release the dove of poetry for peace In the city of dreadful night And Aberdeen Koos Buy literature with change From a tenner, A small press highlight. Tonight we shall jingle Lagavulin not Bells All the way to the downside up,

tapsalteerie motorways, We will curse with verse newgrange developers, We happy few, we hawkers and roosters Bringing our chuck books to market in boxes. A far cry from Bloodaxioms, Picadors and their bull, The gnome pomes of Faber & Faber; All for one, one for all and buy one get one free, We pamphleteers, we happy breed, We poets failing to avoid cat poems We www.poets.scotland.com zài jiàn Poem written in 2 hours at the 2008 Poetry Pamphlet Fair .

Ugly Glass slippers Soaked in blood. You would cut off your toes To fit in this bloody world. And dancing to death At the end of days Remind me of love And its fortress, Built from remnants Of past conquerors. Your smile cut short With remembered pain, Igniting the corners of Your mouth, strickened By romantic lies. And all the Princes Who have shattered Your heart with fickle Swords, leaving Proud scars on flesh. Severed toes on green grass And vair gashed vermillion.

Four Plots in search of a Novel a)Half This time, Remembering one half of me would regret it . I murdered a pint in cold blood earlier I had only managed a murder of passion. Newspapers rustled at the edges of my consciousness and conscience. They said VICTIM in a robust bold font. Which was half true. b) Angel A heavier sigh than death. Unfurling in the clouds. I can’t remember a time when her face looked so beautiful, gazing up, astonished. Like that time when I first saw her in the Catholics church. Roaring into our souls we held hands tight as lovers. ‘Amen’ , she sighed. c) Crystal Everyone Loves you. She said with ease not recognising that her three words were not the ones I had wanted to hear or maybe realising too well. She held my gaze with those eyes like port in crystal. She heard me say, Not everyone. I am sure she did.

d) Undead Chris has brought a dead rabbit into the bar, ‘Fifty pence’, he says, ‘a bargain mate’. ‘Sorry’, I say,’ I’m a vegetarian’. ‘A what?’ he asks incredulously before scowling off thunderous to the snug. A week later he finds me. ‘Cauliflower’ he says, ‘Fifty pence for two’. ENGLISH MARTYRS Saints are difficult, Martyr means ‘witness’ in Greek, I am thinking about York And how that relates to The only Catholic secondary school in Hartlepool. I pick up a rosary, count its beads My Mother is a Catholic and my Father was a Protestant. I am a witness to miracles. Small ones, of children Who exist with grace, Without knowing Or caring that they Are miraculous. Beads are prayers, Prayers are seeds.

Saints are difficult, Get in the way of us mortals, Us sinners, stop us witnessing The beauty of the commonplace, The glory of the everyday. Camera flashes in our eyes We blink through the big picture, We are witnesses to innocence lost, Our own and others, Martyrs to our catechism And creed. Saints are difficult On this estate ‘The Catty’ has changed Its name to ‘The Shakespeare’ Fish have sprouted Outside the ‘Red Admiral’ And the ‘Pink Domino’ Is definitely not a gay bar. Saints are difficult Sinners are easy, Count us all in. On the tongue The wafer fizzes Like sherbert bombs. ‘Saints ! huh! What did they ever do for us ‘cept get themselves done in.’

THE MONSTER MASH I was working in the lab late one night (Bobby ʹBorisʹ Pickett and the Crypt Kickers) Commissioned for Durham Literature Festival 2003 Stuck in Dr.Galigariʹs cabinet with my Elsa Lanchester hair Got a hangover worse than Frankenstein in Nosferatu’s lair. I could hang around for Vathek but I think heʹs round the bend , not me , I’ve posted a video tape to all my dear ex friends. Itʹs like a Hitchcock movie down at the Bates Motel, Theyʹll be polishing the cutlery off and Janet Leigh as well. With his mother in the rocking chair and those shrieking violins, Wail until old Alfred cries cut ! as the clockwise blood begins. I was waiting for the red masque in my ʹBoris Karloff ʹ trainers, Bela Lugosi dentures firmly fixed by Transylvanian retainers, There was Madeline Smith for starters and Joan Collins dressed as lamb, I was waiting for Vincent Price to arrive,

I like a bit of ham. There’s a party at Brenchleyʹs red house, a vampire rabbit on the prowl, Lon Chaney Junior and Jack the Ripper reading Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Howl’ Why it’s the deaf next door neighbour at 11 Rillington Place ! Peter Cushing has threatened to leave if Dr.Jeckyl gets off his face. Like Alucard without sexual repression , Like Buffy without a stick Doctor Praetorius without his ‘weakness’ , Linda Blair without her sick, Like Cronenberg without the gore or Barkerʹs acupuncture bloke, I was put together from bits of the read and made as a bit of a joke. As Crowley looked like Uncle Festa, So the devil became Peter Cook, We all bite the silver bullet and go for one brief morbid look, At chainsaws, at ʹScreamʹ masks, at Freddy and Jason’s horror schlock But without the release (as some Greek said) weʹd all end up in the dock. Like Conrad without his helmet , Like Fay Wray without her screams. I was made from all the by products

of Eddie Poeʹs bad dreams, As dim as an Ultima Thule, as oxymoronic as the Living Dead I awoke to find myself half man ‐ half wolf in Jenny Agutterʹs bed. Like Christopher Lee pre Saruman , Like Van Helsing without a stake, From dusk till dawn I stalk the form like De Richelieu at a wake. And everyone is Jonathan Harker and everyone is Lestat And weʹll all die and thatʹs the horror, not even Angel can save us from that! Oh Horror of horrors! A festival, with its demons both ancient and new The Claypath Golem and Shelleyʹs boy , the Mooning Demons of Peterloo, And if the Ouroborus chases its own tail it was the catching that made us whole Stories to keep the darkness at bay when it is half of the human soul. And Mummies are failures to preserve us and the dark gift is no gift at all, And the zombies are not much for giggles and possession makes intellects small, And I donʹt want to get too deep in the shallow grave of Twi‐light verse, but horror is best consumed as fantasy. I’m done, send for my hearse.

Clavering Sounds like a verb, ‘to claver’ derived from cleave or it’s a Scots noun for idle talk. Oh , I see; Old English for Clover Field. Children sing skipping rhymes, Variations on ‘British Bulldog’ Dance routines from the pop charts. The playground is the storm Before the quiet of poetry. We cleave infinitives together. They wear harts on their hearts A stag on a crest, Herne the monkeyhanger. Golden embroidered antlers. This is where I was born Though I have lost the root of my voice. The day fills up like a classroom chattering Rises and falls like a teacher’s voice. Rumours are being distilled. A seagull pecks out morse on a skylight. The children won’t like this poem It neither rhymes nor is funny. I find clover at the edges of tarmac Count its leaves. Some days are luckier than others.

MY BURGER GENERATION People try to put us down Just because we like the clown the burgers we eat are inedible cold I guess I’ll die before I get old. Why don’t you all have that with f.f.f.fries and don’t take the piss when we upsize. McDonalds breakfast are fit and lean Bagels and salad are squeaky clean. I don’t want to cause a big s.s.s.s.sensation or talk about nausea and constipation, Heart attacks and cholesterol isation Talking bout the burger nation. Why don’t you all buy one get one free There is no link from fast food to BSE Unless you count the cows we kill Don’t think about it’ll make you ill. People try to put us down just because we love the clown Talkin burger generation Talkin methane generation My generation baby Burger Generation Baby

Edible Landscapes i) apples Bite this only once, Taste what the world tasted like Before we fell. White blossom blushes pink Falls like Spring snow, At the core of us Is the link with all living things. Herne is multi‐purpose, is the Green Man Is the guardian of the trees. Unlikely to race for Atlanta But could easily be Hercules. Here comes Diana, Titania herself The secrets of the faery shoes, The rain falls in attendance Homer muses over half clues. The children of the eaves Race eagerly out of school Pick flowers enough for funerals. The scent of pineapple weed, Gravity and The ghost of Isaac Newton.

ii) Gooseberries St. John’s berry , the baptist; Bearded green and crumbled On a plate for Salome. iii) Cherries Deep red like heart’s blood Stone heavy and hard wood. Finches cue at the branch Counting the days to fruition. Taken for granted in Asda The Morello named for nightshade. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor Counting stones at the bowl’s rim. iv) Pears Doyenne Du Comice Pre‐Raphaelite Prizewinner. Former glories Before it all went Pear shaped.

v) Plums ‘either a plum or a plumstone’ Something or nothing We are prunes in the rainwater Plums in the sun. Our skins blush Rich man , poor man Beggarman, thief. Turquoise A century when you shake it releases blues and greens That fall autumnal on sketches of the present. Dark storm of denim ripped from the sky Lichen green chain mail is nature’s armour. The sultry sea folded like cloth on the skin Falls in tides over arms and legs and bodies. Deep petrel wings in riddled weave Where copper textures mark the nap A tessellation of bruises every uniform is a tattoo. Torn architraves rendered softly In the pigments of space and ocean Slang colours swear onto The cult of slashed time.

Waiting for Brutality Seeing my Mother tottering through this busy December shopping paradise frail and lost like one button off her coat, bought no doubt as a bargain in some charity shop. It is hard to imagine her in Egypt or Port Said on the arm of that sergeant who became my Father and vital in all things and these monochromes of Singapore seem at best to be faction. I romanticise of course she is less frail than I suggest but still teetering on the edge, by virtue of age, of the precipice that my Father fell over first and this baby dandling on my Mother’s knee followed. I often get sad like this. I tell my children to love each other, I love them with no qualms or doubts, Waiting for brutality.

The Fuschia Diaries a)26th of Never When my Father died I ran to a red telephone box With an A & B button With my brother who phoned And ambulance. This was before you were born And I tell you this and add And my brother is gone too. Now you mention in a poem My Mother as she suffers and wilts Before she joins them (someone else you never met) She will be glad no doubt that You have written her into the world, She will be glad that your poem gives her meaning. As if your own warped parentage wasn’t enough to plunder, I haven’t the energy to hate you, But pity I can do. b)Blonde on Blonde After the reading You text, You and Aidan Raised the blonde quotient tonight.

I text back Kettle, pot, pot, kettle. It reminds me of that time When you told me that people shouldn’t hide behind pen names and I said, but your name isn’t your real name You acted hurt and spluttered But I changed mine by deedpoll! (like peroxide doesn’t come out of a bottle). So what is your real name? And who do you think you are? c) Fuschia Analysis: The first step for the anal And the final refuge of the banal. Every meeting with you Turned into a therapist’s couch, Self obsessed to the point of parody, Fixating on anything that gains you clarity The pen poised in your moleskein head. In bed mostly you sucked, My ex says I was good at blow jobs Funny how you couldn’t see That might be a turn off I am wet thinking about you

You text. Why were you were waiting to be hurt?, A selfish fulfilling prophecy then? I am not a Jungian You knee jerked angrily And paused to analyse And offered to discuss It further. I rested my glasses case Next to my mobile. d) Match Funny how You didn’t take the Failure of matches to ignite Time after dropped time As symbolic of anything. Everything is symbolic If you let it be, You wave a sparkler In your back door It stings your hand But you will not let go. Go on , I dare you. Consider it.

And whilst you are waiting For something to happen That you can manipulate Into future poetry, Don’t forget to pretend That you are out of control. Your support group will Love you for it. e)Stalker You text Thinking of you , no need to reply I text back Not replying You volley Not not replying I lol. I continue to drink soda water With an old friend. You text I don’t know how much longer I can take you pushing me away! My friend leans forward to Read your message, says, Is she a stalker?

f) I Am Not a Stone On Marsden Beach Throwing stone after stone But I expect to connect nothing. You text me, I tell you where I am You arrive inappropriately shod Stumbling over pepples. Throwing stone after stone, I find a piece of soft slate And write my name On a pebble, Throw that too, The sea makes a show Of ignoring it. You ask me to write Your name on a pebble, Which you throw. The sea breathes in and out Indifferent, Rolling stones after stone, Not looking for any single stone, Just knowing them all. I continue throwing stones, You talk some more, A poem already forming In your head. But I was in my moment Like the sea knowing stone after stone and sometimes though you choose

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different, a stone is just a stone. Andante Follow me, I shall resist the urge to run. I will hold your hand and we will not speak in words. This is my Schubertiad although Happiness has eluded me, from this Day on I shall make my movements Pizzicato and liberation at my own pace Va, pensiero.

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Grip They are everywhere under beds, In long forgotten books falling As they did from your hair. In the shower embraced by strands I find another, shiny black as new. They haven’t changed at all. I think to pun the word grip And almost succeed in not, You hold me as always. Strong , unbreakable hair grips Falling out like us, easily.

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The Least of Sorrows For Shani , age 2 She has manipulated these tears and even now uses each careful trickle to twist the blade. She is careful never to overstate the grief. Preferring the slow single tear; The sad abandoned look, To outright weeping. Jesus wept, But never with such guile. I hold her in my arms and pray for the least of sorrows.

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Postscript He ripped a page from a diary threw it in the general direction of the fire; She can burn in Hell! He muttered, Though he knew that angels such as she were seldom expelled from Heaven. Abandoned, yet remorseful at some time later, when sense had been restored. He sellotaped a crumpled hand‐written goodbye into the foolscap of memory. Warming his hands on photographs blistering on the hearth.

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Newton’s Cradle The actions of two bodies upon each other are equal but opposite Every time he hits her, She bruises and the harder he hits the more it hurts. Every time he tells her he loves her and he’s sorry there is an equal but opposite reaction. She tells herself that the love she has given; the support, the children will balance out in the future. Will all come back to her .. one day., but until then.. she must not rock the cradle, must not push too hard, must not keep Newton’s third law. Every time he hits her. The urge to hit back grows stronger and the harder he hits the harder it gets to resist. Cornered in the bedroom, children crying, She cuts the strings of Newton’s Cradle, feels resistance dissipate in blood... Swinging free... Swinging free.

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Aaaargh! In the beginning was the word Unfortunately the word was aaargh AAARGH it said Look at all this darkness and floaty bits AAARGH it said Look at all this water it is too wet AAARGH Look at all these fishies crawling out of the water AAARGH That’s evolution that. AAARGH Look at all this void, what’s the point of void, it’s well…void. Strictly Speaking , said a cliché, You are not a proper word! AAARGH said the AAARGH I am not a proper word Well you’re not in my dictionary AAARGH said the AAARGH I am not in the dictionary, then He paused, What is a dictionary? Ignorance is bliss, said the cliché. Humppffh said AAARGH Who was being deliberately onomatopoeic AAARGH said the cliché not to be outdone by a non word. In the beginning was the word And the word was God Said a noun , That’s not a word said AAARGH You’re just making that up.

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And he floated off looking for adjectives To describe himself. Preamble The birds were writing Hitchcock scripts Under certainly cartoon clouds. You gathered seaweed and tassled Your handbag with its salt. Puffins and Eider ducks bobbed, A boat trip a season too early. A precious link to living, your hand Through my arm and I Still love you for that, although I Would never be careless with words, Enough to let you know. I am your friend. Your heart as usual elsewhere And mine as usual, a wreck Seaweed strewn, drying out As tides change.

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Conflagration (for Herbert Parker) A clean fortnight into the autumn he died and was buried though I was not allowed to see him wax –skinned. Leaves chase the foot of the bonfire that they built out of my great grandfather. Flames lick the ribs of bellows on that squeeze box that was hidden and played when he was alone. The musk of pipe and the pitman’s helmet he wore on his red and white velocette and I stole on the day we desecrated his memory and still keep, though my young fool painted it gold. A crackle of reed and a sigh of leather Musket, Northumbrian Pipes and Drum, I stood on a white clay pipe and shattered its bowl like baked skull or worse like chestnuts between brass. The last vestige of him this memory of a single electric ring to boil a pan when the kettle sang at the grate. Nothing to say to anyone about guilt. His Daughter and Niece sweep up the love he left in corners, a cloud to the fire. I add this debris to the pyre.

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Does Elvis Moonwalk in Dawdon. Based on recordings of conversation with teenagers and other residents of Dawdon. DISPLAYED WITH PHOTOS BY DAWDON YOUNG PEOPLE AND PHOTOGRAPHER ALAN SILL AT DAWDON COMMUNITY CENTRE AND VARIOUS OTHER VENUES. Excerpt from a conversation in Dawdon Community Centre ‘Someone told me Michael Jackson died straining on the toilet!’, ‘Someone told me that Elvis died sitting on the toilet eating a hamburger,’ ‘That’s Elvis not Michael Jackson’ ‘Elvis had big flares and big hair and went ‘thanguverymuch’ ‘Did Elvis moonwalk?’ ‘Who’s Elvis?’ ‘Michael Jackson isn’t dead!’ Does Elvis moonwalk?

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Through the streets of Dawdon, Do miners mojo under ghostly banners? Does Elvis moonwalk ? Through the speed inhibitors, Chicanery and tarmac doing the pelvic twist And waltzing through These empty doorways. On building sites and in take‐aways Ginger Rogers trips the light fantastic, In homage to this place’s better days And walking on David’s water The King is down from Gracelands Where Dawn is singing and dancing along the wall like an ordinary girl Underneath the Co‐op’s faded glory. ‘I want to be a dancer I can’t do that I want to be a singer I can’t do that I just want to be on the telly!’ Sweaties, Goths and plain old Charvers Skaters are all on designer boards, And the chairman of the utterly bored, As Kylie said as she sucked a lovebite On Robbie’s neck, though Iggy wrote it best Dancing in the latest Dawdon chic In the gaps between houses.

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There are monsters. ‘They sent the police round, there’s kiddie fiddlers And they shouldn’t let them live here, they should build a wall.’ The worst kept secrets in open view, The hidden shallows at the deep end. ‘This place is like what’s left of a body When you chop the heart out, Someone just left an arm unattached And that’s us’ ‘Private Landlords can say what they like It won’t bring yesterday back.’ ‘They should compulsory purchase everything and bulldoze it’ I love this village and I don’t want to see it die, But poetry won’t save it nor money nor you nor I. Castlereagh’s masque returning with shame And vanquished lions given neither rest nor slumber Are chained to the past’s idolatry. Monsters of nostalgia and ‘coal not dole’, The colliery banner folded and forlorn.

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This is where new labour promises roost In shiny new community centres, In monuments to lost schools, In the everyday heads of children. Sigourney Weaver and the Bells on the Blast Beach Taking out the devils that pass from Bessie’s Hole. There are heroes in every inch of brickwork. If I had one wish I would wish for more wishes. If I had one wish I would wish for more… At the Blast Racing sewerage to the sea, ‘Thomas fell in it he came out with a winnit on his heed’ When you walk down To ‘Bessie’s hole’ to be polite Because what the kids call it really Is a secret that has been passed down Like rare swear words. ‘There’s crabs in Bessie’s crack’ and we all laugh like drains. Follow the yellow brick road into Dawdon, ‘The topic of Dawdon is boring!’

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The ghosts of theatres and isolation hospital The Londonderry street names and treachery, The pit pond and Nose’s point. Theresa was shafted here. ‘I wish the pit pond was still open They blew it up when I was little.’ You were allowed to go and watch! ‘Do you remember like?’ ‘Aye!’ ‘Liar!’ The Role of honour unfolds over Frank Watt, over the old swing bridge over Beatrice Webb and Manny.. the silver band plays a requiem over the people who are gone tucked up ‘til kingdom come. These sepia photographs are added to the new Children captured in the camera’s fib, lost moments of joy and happiness. Before growing up intrudes, Statues in celluloid, snapshots of excrement From family pets and beyond the veneer Of street talk and bravado, decent kids

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Making statements, (and not for the police.) ‘I took some photographs but not with a camera’ The long terraces sweep from foreground to Background, the boarded eyes and legacy of history. What do the children want? A return to glory? No, just the usual suspects, ‘I would’ve said knock the flats down but they’ve gone I would like a ‘Pizza Hut’ and a pictures, and a skating rink And a bowling alley and swimming baths, a dance floor…’ ‘You don’t want much!’ ‘ I would settle for somewhere to stay dry in the rain’ ‘….a hockey pitch with Astroturf, a youth club, a school with nice toilets..’ ‘The school has toilets like prison cells.’ ‘Have you ever been inside a prison/’ ‘No, but I’ve seen, ‘Bad Girls’…………

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‘……lots of shops, parks, stuff for us to do…’ ‘You said the ‘F’ word’. ʹFʹ for frustration. In the dark, dark village In the dark, dark night A man with a rottweiler Died happily ever after. The Dawdon dragon is safely in the office At the feet of secretaries and sweaty socks, Let it fly and spread its sculptured wings and limbs Across the air and into exhibition space. Over the Green Drive Suspension bridge Let it fire its breath. ‘What’s an expedition?’ ‘They build all these houses for the miners but we ain’t got any mines’ It’s when you go to Silksworth Ski slope. ‘They should build us stuff for once’ ‘When you stand by the phone box the police move you on and when the people in the houses see you they chase you away and if you make a noise the people in the houses call the police it’s not fair……………’

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A far cry from the Basilica church of Hodgson‐Fowler and Wood Built on a North South Axis because of mine workings below, Remind me, what is a colliery again? something of legend, of myth… but the King has left the building site and re‐entered the charts ‘a little less conversation and a little more action…..’ The people of Dawdon know what he means. ‘What exactly is a jubilee?’ The Queen might trip over as the pavement’s a bit rocky……. Or picnic in Dealla’s Vale with Witmar, Bede’s theign and soldier of Christ. Or stoop to pick up litter The smell of paint on spring air. I don’t want much just somewhere to enjoy life. They drive out in cars to photo the distance Wrap it around themselves like comfort, like escape. You should be proud of your children, Who despite adversity are optimistic, Are fresh as newly cut coal, Are moonwalkers to the last,

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Dancing on the bones of history Like their mothers and fathers did, Negotiating this world we have created Like salt sea sailors beyond their years. And the party is on Elvis, Manny, Bessie and us A gaggle of giggling girls, The past and present crush together, Dive and pike, Coal and benefit books, Elvis moonwalking. Thanks to Kay Fotheringham at Groundwork Trust, Alan Sill and the young people of Dawdon whose voices are heard in this piece. to David Angus and James Oates And everyone and anyone else that I have forgotten. Laura White at the Sunderland Echo and Seaham Library and Librarians.

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Climate Change On misreading the card I instantly resolved to change my climax as soon as I had re‐negotiated the tricky environmental situation that is known to the inhabitants of the blue planet as a relationship. Whilst writing this there has been no noticeable change in climate although the Lit and Phil is indeed a seriously challenged place in terms of relationships and indeed climaxes, exciting though the reference section is. Bow your heads now it’s either an ice cap melting or God’s last climax.

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Born in a Field Shivers down the spine Wood on metal as the skateboards grind, Born in a field, born in a street We are no better than anyone we meet. (We are so much better than everybody we meet!) Waiting Waiting all day long Singing our Grafitti Song. We jump the fence we jump the fence We jump the fence, we jump the fence. A clutch on a motorbike sounds like nowt Siren on the bypass, spray paint, smoke snout, The best car in the world is a Mitsubishi evo, Tearing up the road at one one zero. Front and back brakes, man stop you on a bike 360 on a spine ‘til the policeman’s spike. How, Calm down ! , say the people on the street, ‘Me baby, me baby is trying to sleep’ Once and twice we’ve heard you plead Mini motos screaming in the back of me heed. Gravity sucks but me mongoose is high Bunny hop and kickflip catch me in the rye Gravity sucks but me mongoose is high Gulls flip and surf in the skatepark sky. I’m a street fightin’ boy when the signs are toy Bomb it with a can fron the ‘montana’ van I don’t know any words, I don’t believe what I’ve heard I haven’t got the time I haven’t got the time to make this rhyme. Waiting, Waiting all day long

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Singing our Grafitti song. Scope is the one who always wears a cap Bizzies on the beat can’t catch him on a lap, Cold as nitrogen, faster than a fist Twist in the mist a flick of the wrist. We jump the fence we jump the fence We jump the fence, we jump the fence. Soul is in the bowl we draw and soar Seen to be seen we’re slick on the draw. Aggressive blades sparks the marks Blitzes away from his painting Aggressive blades sparks the marks New moves we’re creating. Sniffin grass, snidey falls Noise from the yoovs makin phonecalls and Text..text messages We jump the fence we jump the fence We jump the fence, we jump the fence. Shivers down the spine Wood on metal as skateboards grind. Eye of the fly Born in a field born in a street Born in a field born in a street WRITTEN WITH THE YOUNG PEOPLE WHO ATTENDED EYE OF THE FLY WORKSHOP WITH KEVIN CADWALLENDER

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Occupied Territory And that was all it was a grief stricken heart pinned on a six inch nail And they said write this and write that and we will buy you off This system has never been known to fail. Give us any anger you might have at ‘so called injustices’ and we will Give you a carpet to sweep them under, Give you an expensive lightshade to cover the glare of that bare lightbulb, We will train you to do the tricks you need to do, when to howl And when to keep your mouth shut, when to beg and when to wait. Show you how to recognise the hand that feeds you Show you how to act in public Show you what to say in our meetings. Show you what you need to sacrifice and who not whom And we will never call you a collaborator We will never bother you with the old fashioned agendas Of the left, after all what is left of the left? We will show you how to be right We will show you how to be right for us. for In occupied territory the poets are colonists not liberators Suppressants not anti‐depressants, They come to feed at the oasis, drawn by clear water And the promise of easy pickings.

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(Hey at least he’s not bitter) What on earth would we have to be bitter about? Us regional types. Shepherded to pens by wolf‐trainers. In occupied territory the class lines are drawn You must learn the lessons of humility and humus You must learn that crudités are raw root vegetables and not swear words, You must learn that all you believe in must be watered down Must become a stock for the soup that you will be pedalling. Don’t ask me how I know this, I exchanged dinner for lunch years ago, Accepted the duvet over the continental quilt The lounge over the living room I have been sleeping with the enemy Too long to remember. What the world was like before Garden Centres And home make over programmes gave me my opinions. Some days I know , I, am my own worst enemy.

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Girl in a UVPC Frame She is perched on a window Face cupped in a grail of fingers Eyes reflecting a squalid sky. Thoughts, away with it Cumulus, air and water, Fire, at this moment doused. Downstairs the voices Lack perspective to a Backing track of daytime TV And granddad’s ancient clock. Caught in this portrait By the eye of the Rington’s tea lad, Her hands flutter until her Head flies away out of the Gallery of her dreams back To the hubbub of how We pass our days.

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Libretto Familia The oratorio begins With children jumping Off the nearest available Tangent, dissecting words Over cornflakes and Orange juice. Radio one is apparently Breaking frontiers, I recognise the frontiers From when I was twenty, Caught in replay Like the death rattle of vinyl. Empty bowls in a dish The hint of sour milk A still‐life looking For an artist. Now, all washed up. Moving in the space between mealtimes I fill in blank waiting. Home from school Full of the cutlery Of education, they cut Into the clean afternoon Air, devour the sunshine with their little spoons.

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A crescendo, Metal falling To cushion‐floor, One fork sticks upright Amidst the clatter. Opening the cat food I take the top of my thumb off Think about Mrs. Hughes And children sealed and unsealed.

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ANGELUS SEPTENTRIO I rolled on thunder in my birth cortege I am steel seraphim, rooted in earth and sky, Haloed by sun and moon God of the Toon and the Tyne, Gateshead Giant , The Colossus of Bowes, Half plane, half dream, Cloud Watcher Counter of Lost Sheep, Guardian of Low Fell. Rusted and Ribbed Gabriel Arc welded archangel. They roll like cannon fire Fireflies in red and white At night and crawl slowly sticky cars in jam procession. The Man in the Iron Mask Crow and Magpie’s perch, Draped in my Striker’s shirt, I am light and dark, Icarus Icon, Phoenix of the Team Valley. Hated and loved, Black and white, Gormley’s ogre Thunder rolls across my brow Dot to dot at my feet the upturned faces Aching to fly like me, making vows

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Love’s feathers float up to me, My eyes fixed on the horizon. On bank near the old collieries, Sunk deep in coal dust, In the Great North Forest The lair of the worm, The passionate people, The Geordie Nation, The Jarrow Marchers, I embrace them all, Encompass you all.

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Etcetera (for Ellis) You reflect me And the woman I love, It makes me smile. We urge you To stay Breathe Sleep Feed Etc Your feet are too small For footprints. Our heads are too full Of you to not feel Your little weight. Etcetera is a better word Than others I might use. We are yours if you want us. When you don’t need us Let us down gently Without the need For lies and etc.

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Queuing for Chantelle I love her she is so talented …and clever Like she really is and so beautiful And she’s like Paris Hilton only common I mean you know working class like me I want to be really famous like her One day. ‘What for?’ ‘what do I wanna be famous for?’ ‘Don’t know what you mean?’ Like Chantelle, you know She’s famous for… I love her she’s really talented… and clever She married Preston. Like she’s really beautiful And so beautiful…and er like clever. Chantelle oh sorry she’s so last year I love Chanelle now…but wait what’s this Slouching towards the camera to be adored.

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abandoned ship, went for a Kevin Keegan in the café with the bikes hanging from the ceiling. And at a poet’s flat in Gambier Terrace we unpeeled everything scouse drank to its red and blue heart and purple wheelie bins, loved it and left it with its Liver Birds. Squawking as we crossed the Mersey and ourselves with that song played every day so many times. And you on the train full of crack saying Liverpool was not just a city of life and death it was more important than that and we rolled about and smiled cursing another away defeat. JARROW ELVIS Waiting for a bus to the gig. With a red electric bill in his sequined pocket. Smokes the only drug he can afford; fame In its hideous form. Gyrates in front of bus loads of nurses. Who should know better and is exploited as his namesake for cash on the barrel.

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2 Poems 4 Xmas (i) The God squad are knocking. Footprints in heathen snow. Singing Wenceslas And Holly crowns. I suck my humbug. Cribs are for rappers, Mistletoe for the old gods. A holocaust of poultry. A windfall for the too rich. The meek inheriting debt And here I am Opening my presents Giving and taking My cut of joy and goodwill. (ii) December shading Hieroglyphs of starling’s feet On snow stacked branches. Here is the star Muffled by winter These two thousand years. Here is the legend Cloaked by shepherds And kings and sheep. December shading Hoar frost on a white beard.

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Woody Guthrie’s Guitar (for Adrian Mitchell) They still run over the truth. I hear the bones break everyday Ever since the accident I’ve learned to crawl this way. Che Guevara’s beret Woody Guthrie’s guitar The war continually rages the t.v,’s on all day Between the internet and play station I shut reality away. Yuri Gargarin’s Banjo Che Guevara’s beret On a planet under some stars Woody Guthrie’s guitar Everytime I shut my eyes bodies go up in flames Everyday a tsunami claims a million faceless names Yuri Gargarin’s banjo Isadora Duncan’s scarf Che Guevara’s motorbike On a planet under some stars Woody Guthrie’s guitar Starvation’s rife but I still feed on this consumeristic creed God bless the third world far away and keep it far away from me.

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Yoko Ono’s Beatle Yuri Gargarin’s banjo Isadora Duncan’s scarf Che Guevara’s beret On a planet under some stars Woody Guthrie’s guitar Cyclones come and cyclones go we’re in disaster fatigues Digging through debris to find the senses under crushing greed. Jericho’s non existent walls Weapons of mass deception Yoko Ono’s Beatle Yuri Gargarin’s banjo Victor Jara’s hands Isadora Duncan’s scarf Adrian Mitchell’s poetry On a planet under some stars. Woody Guthrie’s guitar.

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Liza Minneli’s Mother Under the sod Like Bernard Manning’s wife Dreaming of scarecrows, Lions and tin men. And her daughter Holding hands with Mad Michael. But Life isn’t a cabaret at all, It’s a bad play done by amateurs In a god forsaken theatre On the fringe of the fringe of The outskirts of the borders of The sub fringe. Liza’s mam Under the sod Oscillating wantonly. Waiting for the Re‐runs to resurrect her.

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In the City of Infinite Rain In bed after nine days of rain The boisterous wind barracked The window in that cold Room off Lower London road. You lay belly up watching Kicks with delight The football of our Lady in waiting. I had shuddered to a halt Breached by despair And the presence of The black dog. Approaching my Father’s age I balk at the grief of memory My hand cupped over the life We gods had moulded. Dismantling shadows Folding them back into my head Saving them for a dry day In the city of infinite rain.#

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Salamander Street Building higher, new tenements Blocking out cloud and sky, ‘The Dockers’ is emptying, Knocking over planters, Avoiding dog‐earth, where Andy Chung has sung. Behind Burns’ back Who prefers the view Up Constitution Street. The girls are out in force, The heat brings them Out early to their fall. Under the neon moon reflecting Our own dying star They burn, promising To pay the bearer on demand, With sex. Salamanders of lust. The rain falls like a broomshank Pushing at the underside of a canopy Filled with storm. Deluvian Dunedin. I watch from my ark, Two rats for company. Love washes away along the sets Cross hatches orange street lamps. In the aftermath the streets steam,

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Low level clouds drift like ankle‐haar. A woman lights up a cigarette Beneath a billboard, her face Lit like the adoration of the shepherds. The Dundastardly. Dundas! You are above us On your stick of Edinburgh Rock Namedropped on that archipelago In Canadian colonialism. Mock emperor on your victory column. Dundas, unlike Trajan never replaced Despite the rumours & that Nasty business concerning slavery. On Stephenson’s solid assurances Stuck up negli‐gentleman, An admiral crow’s nest, Viscount Melville of Dalkeith Nearer to heaven than us But not the pigeons who Anoint your head. Dundas, If you looked down As we looked up Then you might be More than a man of rain & stone.

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The Lost Art of Catching Trams In Edinburgh They are digging up the Ghosts of trams, Channeling memory With a scale model Of what it will be like. Opinion divided Like a points system. The woman with The blue rinse says Eighty million. Rumours are lively More active than workmen. Meanwhile we are diverted By the shadow boxing of Contractors and council. Taxi drivers moan Tourists cruise the Ground zero of trams. A sign on Leith Walk Says Edinburgh Trams Ripping the heart out of local business until 2011, (a conservative estimate.)

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Pensioners rehearse The lost art of Catching trams, Through a loophole In memory. Under Princes Street A turning station rusts.

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Twenty One Mice on Salamander Street (for Colin Donati) Twenty one mice on Salamander Street, Bred on Irn Bru with Scottish squeaks, Veggie haggis samosa in their beaks, Holyrood juice in their cheeks, If theyʹve stayed here a day Theyʹve lived here a week. Twenty one mice on Salamander Street. Twenty one mice on Salamander Street, Street girls and polis play hide and seek, Deep fried pies, macaroni and meat, A Burns supper hen wi tatties ʹnʹ neeps, Caught them red‐tailed when the weather was dreich, Nibbling holes in tartan trams Pure dead brilliant tres chique, Inheriting the earth for the small and the meek. Twenty one mice on Salamander Street. Twenty one mice on Salamander Street, Not three, not blind, not unable to speak, A parliament of whiskers in the gathering sleet, Twenty one mice Twenty one mice on Twenty one mice on Salamander Street. Outside business is brisk but less than Greek,

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Kerb crawling gadgeys and assorted freaks, If theyʹve been here a day Theyʹve been here a week, Twenty one mice on Salamander Street Twenty one mice on Salamander Street The sun chucked up outside as day was complete, Even the mice have liaisons to keep, Political asides and protective sheaths, Twenty one mice on Salamander Street. Twenty one mice on Salamander Street, Hard to get rid of and harder to keep, Of mice and men and the smell of yeast, Twenty one mice on Salamander Street, Twenty one mice on Salamander Street.

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ILLICIT STILL If you sit for long enough in Princes Street Gardens You will see the sun rise and sink The litter bins fill and overflow The statues come to life and ceilidh The nor loch seeping into the socks of your soul The commuters streaming out of Waverley Station The tourist buses idling The gulls and crows at breakfast The tartan of droning pipes The pubs drinking The grass growing The moonset Your heart stop The dead rising.

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Tapsalteerie Above the noise of tourists Above the old town Above Mary’s Close Above the Water of Leith Above Morningside Ladies Above the lovers On Calton Hill Above the dead volcano Above Fergusson’s grave Above Clarinda’s cameo Above the pubic triangle Above Rankin’s city Above the tattooed castle Above the death masks Of Burke and Hare Above Greyfriars Bobby Above the Heart of Midlothian Above the dreich days Above the Trams Above Scott’s monument Above the new town Above the Nor Loch Above Festival clowns Above the one o‘clock gun Above Holyrood Edinburgh is under and Above all of that.

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Brideshead 61 Revisited God said to Evelyn write me a book Something set in an England With some upper class fucks Eve said ‘When?’ God said, ‘Now!’ You can do what you like but the next time You see me coming you better run. Eve says where do you want this plot undone God says out at Brideshead 61. Well Kingsley Amis had some muddy prose Loathed Dylan Thomas in his Anglo‐welsh pose They both drank hard, they both slept around They both ended up under the ground. Kingsley said write it quickly Eve ,cos I gotta run Dylan just pointed with a syllabic gun, said Kingsley You’ll be out written by your own dear son. Evelyn just smiled cos he had Auberon Sniping the aristocracy out at Brideshead 61. Well Jerome K Jerome put three men in a boat Said I think P.G.Wodehouse is gonna be king Don’t answer the phone Jeeves and quickly bring Me a cool white spritzer at the sixty first ring. And Jeeves said Sir, I think this can be easily done I’ll phone the supplier at Brideshead 61. Now E.M. Forster on the second night Wrote to vex George Orwell with untenable delight As Evelyn pulled at Dali’s facial fluff Attempting to confirm surrealism was more than a bluff

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Pablo said, ‘No’ Sal never spoke Evelyn just satirised And married the Pope. God said we can get your marriage to run Just write me that book , Brideshead 61. Now the Royal Horse Guards needed another cap Randolph Churchill said I know just the chap So he wrote the book at the end of the war And said I never wrote this kind of thing before But yes I believe it can be very easily done Just squeeze the rural trigger on Thomas Hardy’s gun And drop the whole shebang down at Brideshead 61.

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The Dalek’s Flyting You miserable fuckwit Time lord Out facing us with your transformations, You mongrel many faced lucky bastard We should have slaughtered the lot of you And nearly did. You scarf wearing twat In your anachronistic box, You immortal quip ridden lunatic, You two legged monkey man. Next time, no negotiation Just a quick negative moment And all your bleating will be over. You sad liberal loser With your dimwit sidekicks And sonic screwdriver. You regenerating degenerate With your saviour complex. You namby‐ pampy nemesis You faux foe. You no named non‐human life‐form. I bet you’re not even A proper Doctor.

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The Doctor’s Flyting You jumped up dustbin race With your gear stick eye and sink Plungers, you pathetic little lumps of gob Stuck in your tin can like sardines, You think anyone cares? Or hides behind the sofa anymore? You letters scrabbled on a fridge You scrap metal bath tubs on castors, You think that voice like a cheese grater Scares anyone? You repetitive metal mickeys You megalomaniacal mutant morris minors With your pathetic flashing indicators. You Davros dumpsters, tinpot tyrants, Fuck off back to Scarro with your wanky Little cults and supreme power jingles, Get a life or a body, Don’t come ‘round my neck of time, Sod off before I chuck a cardigan over your head and push you off a cliff, you anachronistic bunch of coffee percolators, you watering cans, you squat sissy hairdryer‐headed Nazis.

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Lilith Night in all of the folds of your skin Screeching out babies from a demon womb You glare from branches constricting The naked bodies of Adam and Eve. Here you are again, cunt full of fire Owl eyed concubine in the lies of myth Wedded to disease and fleeing before The pursuit of three sibilant angels. The famine of a century a day of grief Children swept away like leaves For retribution and reward are cousined On the amulets of the holy. Of clay and equal, the horned head And aborted wings cursed, godless Goddess of the dark moon Handfasted to Lucifer’s snake.

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Dot.com I have so little to remember you by, The random collection of fridge magnets, The clock, the broken lamp at my bedside. The photograph of a waltz we laughed through, Your defiant last walk to the car For the very last time from your home. The laughter and the tears of your death, The aftershock of your life Unravelling as I gave your Beloved ‘Catherine Cooksons’ To charity. Your clothes in supermarket Dumpsters with all the sparkle that you Gave them snuffed out. I miss you so much, I dare not face the truth that I believe, And wish for God and all that guff To exist so that I might find you one day, Lighting a cigarette or trawling the town Centre for trinkets. My beloved Mother, My beloved friend, Gone for more Than it is possible To ever believe.

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That I could remove The barb once struck. Love at once aflame Consumed my strength And my aim.

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Elegy Written in a Roker Churchyard The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The seagulls cry in from the coldest blue, School children homeward plod their weary way And leave the world to darkness and to you. Prior’s vision in magnesium limestone set , Solemn, splendour,a pre‐raphaelite house Legends of art and craft in every transept Gill and Morris and Wells to Thompson’s mouse. For thee, who mindful of the honoured dead, Dost in thy lines their artful tales relate, I stand in awe by lonely contemplation led, At the ‘Adoration of the Magi’ or beneath the Lych gate. I mourn and praise you at the stained glass beasts By the Lady chapel and the egg‐tempera seas By Bucknall’s burnished iron cross and Macdonald’s Eve, I mourn and praise the treasure of artists such as these. Andrew was a fisherman who knew the net and reel, In this shipwrecked cathedral, this upturned keel, We are cast adrift souls under a buttressed dome, Flooded by light and colour, sailing to kingdom come, Large was their bounty and their souls sincere Heaven‘s art a recompense for all who visit here, In the quiet lawns at Roker famed for other roars, The beauty of the craftsman’s art behind these heavy doors.

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