Bird Strike

We need them to arrive like moving ink from the sky

We need them to gather tiny bits of us in their beaks

We need them to be all shapes and sizes, fights put on hold

We need them to grab our clothing, hair and skin, it´ll hurt

We need them to pull us up from the streets of the yawning capital

We need them to carry us up above the trees and the continuing windows

We need them to keep lifting, so that we see all those towers from above

We need them to carry us out of the smog and over our building sites, up to the aeroplanes

We need them to carry us, screaming and laughing, no doubt wetting ourselves, along through the sky-smears of vapour trails

We need them to make us hover near great twirling engines, make us hear that great noise, see a middle-aged man chomp on a sandwich, he hasn´t been lifted into the sky by birds

We need them to teach us what it means to shit over the land whilst riding the invisible concourse of thermals, waves and particles, differing slabs of curving land not as important as the sea, not from up here, no, and we forget our guns

We need them to take us up and along and through the most terrifying party we have ever been to, us, all of us who happened to be on the streets of London at that particular hour on a Tuesday morning, a party that will stay beating in our breasts long after the birds have wiped our memories and set us safely back down, sore, pecked and confused, beating in our breasts til we die

Two poems about throwaway objects

Chewing Gum Wrapper

See that chewing gum wrapper
With its metallic sheen,
Its papery underside,
Its serrated edge,
See it down there on the cobbles
Neighboured by fresh dog shit,
Discarded paper glinting in the Seville sun.

If it were an animal,
It would be a kind of lizard,
One leg stretched towards the light,
Warming its blood perhaps
Or frightened by my presence,
Both standing there, staring, free of will.
A glinting lizard under the sweating sun.

If it were human,
It would be in dire need
But instead, it suggests an owner
That I almost want to hate.
This rejected scrap, baby shadowed,
Dropped by a hand that simply doesn't care-
Shoes tapped away from it, human heads unturned.

The lizard catches my eye and winks.
The humans have their money and concerns,
Their losses too.
But me, I've got a lizard.

......

Contact

'Is this a contact lens?'
The shock of seeing it there,
Curled upon her fingertip,
An approximation of sight,
A small transparent skin,
Plastic, peeled from the eyeball
And resting against the swirls
Of lines that show who his wife is.
A symbolic eye spying
On their marriage. A shock
Of memory- the strange woman
Snapping at her own eyes. Needing
To get something out. Like she was
Being bitten. The lens tells of mascara,
Splayed lashes, puffy faces on a hushed
And secretive morning. The nausea.
Lick the eye and remove the fly.
Is his wife doing that now?
'But neither of us wears them.'
Her fingertip blinks.

Acceptance

The greying woman stands in the shallows, her shoes wet.
Waves play cold liquid games with her legs. Clouds curl.
A fish swims up. It wears her lover’s face.

When she awakes she puts the radio on. Voices, cold light, no music.
She showers, chooses her clothes. Imagines changing her hair.
Appearances almost matter. Her car is clean.

In the classroom her face is caressed by an occasional sea breeze.
She stands at the board and remembers numbers and lines.
There is a boy with the face of a fish. She carries on.

Rain

or

I Think My Repeat Prescription's Getting Damp

May I speak to you, rain? Will you grant me an audience?

There are confessions to be made, rain. Down on one knee,

head bent- will you listen to me? Oh rain.

You see, rain, you have been mistreated. I shake. You have

been mocked, oh mighty moving water. And will you please

listen to me? Even if only briefly? Oh rain.

Games are played with your name, rain. You give us a drop

and we call it a shame. We make short rhymes and tell you to

go away. And there has to be another day. Oh rain.

We cliché you, rain. Can you countenance this? We cat and dog

you; we say that you pour; we say that you piss. Take yourself away

and it’s all quickly amiss. We dance and kill. Oh rain.

Names are given, small categories. You are light and heavy, shower

and drizzle, spits and spots, deluge, monsoon- cloud-riddles. We

quiver. Can you be tamed with a name? Oh rain.

I’ve heard at burials your visit can bring luck. To others you’re a reckoning,

come to destroy those of us stuck in sin, so bad, rotten within. Each of us due

to drown like a rat. We made up a story about that. Oh rain.

I could point to your homophones: holding horses and toddlers, guarding

thrones. But, rain, I’ll desist. On one knee, I’ll insist, just a few seconds

more. The cascading depths, the awe! Oh rain.

You see, I know what you feel when you let yourself go- little mankind

rushing to, rushing fro, as if we actually had somewhere to go. And dreaming

of control. You splash us awake and let us know. Oh rain.

When you come, rain, the earth smells good, it really does. You celebrate

the frog, unearth the worm. But why the rumble, now? Do you think I am trying

to assay you? On the sodden street, outside a law firm? Oh rain.

Rain, all the chemists are closed. Are you something I dream up in the sponge

hours imposed this Sunday, bloating and thick? And please, one more thing

to say. If I rhyme you with pain, will you wash it away? Oh 

Brocced Up

Brocced Up

Last night I was a badger.
With a hot mouth
Of sharp teeth,
I steamed
Against the moon,
And ran.
I felt cold, ploughed soil;
I ran in dips and grooves;
I didn't know
Where I was supposed to go.
Heavy feet
Shook the ground.
The chase was on,
My blood was up,
My mouth was gasping
In the night.

Today I can still feel it-
A trace of badgerness
Held inside my suit,
A badger taste
To things.
Straightening
My tie, I feel
Bristled, newly furred.
Colleagues sniff and
I want to growl.
In the office
I can sense
Cold earth
Around me,
Moonfed nighttime
And death.

There is something grubby
Moving in my
Toasted panini.
There is cool
Mud on my tie.
An itch
In my ear
Brings crumbled earth
To my finger.
My sides
Dream of the
Safety of the sett.
I'm sitting in my car, the day done,
And I don't know
Where I'm supposed to go.

Marksman, dog, hatchling, hedgehog... where's home?

            Departure

            The earth hugs us to it.

            The sky is a blue force

            Turning our days,

            Pulling the sea,

            Dragging the globe

            Through its circles,

            Making our blood move-

            And the earth holds us close.

            The trees hold us in.

            The sky isn’t blue:

            It’s black and white,

            It’s birth and death.

            Sometimes we feel

            Like we’re in the sky,

            Slowly diminishing in size

            Balloons lost from children’s hands.

           

            The sky informs our dreams,

            Our aspirations.

            We paint it and angel it.

            Heaven’s up there,

            God, gods, the good

            And the universe too-

            Vast stretching answers

            To our tortured questions.

            When we trip up

            In our dreams

            And our heart

            Wakes us up,

            Our body jumps

            Out of death.

            It jumps over

            The gap, the space

            The emptiness

            That nearly took us-

            The big blue sky.

            We hold each other in place.

            In the departure lounge

            We sigh and tut

            But in the aching space

            Above the clouds,

            In the infinite idea of blue-

            Hands, unearthed, clutch hands,
            In the cold truth of the endless sky within.

Never Talk To Strangers On The Train

What's in the box?

In the box? 

Down there.

Down here?

Yes, the box with the chains.

Oh, you mean the casket!

The casket?

The casket with the chains and the window.

There's a window? 

Yes. On the other side. It's only small.

What's in it?

In the window?

No, in the casket with the chains.

Oh, in the casket. Why, there's a baby in there.

A baby?

Yes, a baby.

Why a baby?

It's too spectral for out here.

Too what?

Too spectral.

Too ghoulish?

No, too ghostly for this air.

And it sleeps in there?

Oh, it exists in there.

Can I see it?

I wouldn't dare. Not yet.

What does it look like?

Colour or shape? 

You choose.

Well, when it breathes in it's purple.

I see.

And when it breathes out it's green.

My my. And the shape?

Well, it fits pretty snug.

Has it got all of its bits?

It's bits?

It's limbs I suppose- it's fingers and toes.

Oh no. It needs none of those. It's got a mouth, though.

Do you feed it? 

Feed and water through a tube.

Through a tube?

A clear rubber tube through the window you see.

Has it got eyes?

Oh, big bulbous things. But not much light. There's no need.

Is it yours?

Is your question real?

Did you make it?

I found it after a swift sleep.

When you awoke?

After a tunnel like this. We were near Paddington. It was raining.

Like today?

A thin drizzle, yes. I was going to the hospital. I found it on my knee.

You were ill.

I was hearty.

I'm sickening myself.

Hmmm. Yes, I see, I see.

Are you my consultant?

For that lump thing that's constant?

For my throat that's tumescent.

Indeed that is me.

And the baby?

The baby?

Will you let me see it?

I already told you it's not quite the time.

And the chains?

What of them?

Is it appropriate for an infant whose committed no crime?

But it couldn't just sit on my knee.

Too ghostly.

Too ghostly by half.

Is it getting any bigger?

The baby or the lump?

Is my lump my baby?

No, I can measure it with my thumb.

Is it you that will help me?

Are you forgetting to breathe?

How many more tunnels are there?

Do you want to cry, my baby?

The windows are warping.

Breathe in, yes, breathe in.

I don't know what the colours are.

Purple my most protected.

Are my eyeballs bloody bulging?

Exhale for your daddy- breathe out green.