Five Hours

Prologue - Helmand Province, Afghanistan

The Artery Opens

Sleep-scented farmers,
small among your blooms,
too poor to grow food,
it’s time to feed the fat man
and his greasy gun,
to kiss the ground he walks upon,
good rich dirt
soaked in honey sun.

Heavy seeds sink in seas
of red and white.
Lest we forget, you remember
the flag-pole rag of your surrender.

On trade winds
spiraling smoke turns,
'time is the fire
in which we burn.'


The First Hour - 5 a.m. Bolan Pass, Baluchistan Plateau, Pakistan

Threading the Needle

North-East and down
capillary canyons,
a blush on brittle skin,
on folds of ageless flesh.
Following the track marks
worn into the earth.
Dirt and stone,
finger to thumb
pulling the thread
through the eye of the needle.

Wash the dust
from linen brows,
one by one the voices rise
in the yawning dawn,
fleeting graffiti chatter
hangs off smooth curved walls.
Blood and bone,
wind and sand,
following the life line
in the palm of God’s hand.

The coast tomorrow,
South-West and up
into the dusk dimmed
womb of the world
to let loose your souls
in small wooden boats.
Kneel and pray
for wave and crest,
each safe journey
is worth its weight in death.


The Second Hour - 5 a.m. Ararat valley, Armavir, Armenia

A Young Man on his Horse

Across the gentle
shake of green,
billowing rise

a young man
on his horse,
rides.

In the purple
shade of
mountain side

the tango
rhythm
races by,

a young man
on his horse,
rides.

Flaring hair,
staring
eyes,

with this run
he’ll eat
tonight,

a young man
on his horse,
rides.


The Third Hour - 5 a.m. Moscow, Russia

A Matter of Honour

Sleep now,
your blood is flowing with the river
and fear slips with the rippling wake
as it probes the shore
for one last place to break.
It’s the way of things.

Sleep now,
no-one will be expecting you home,
the shutters are locked, the door is barred
and silence fills the rooms
where you once lived.
You know how family is.

Sleep now,
the market will still be open tomorrow
another hopeful will take your place,
looking for a new angle
in an old trade.
Business is business.

Sleep now,
your worries are over for good
never again will they weigh you down,
unlike the concrete boots
you're wearing now.
It’s a matter of honour.


The Fourth Hour - 5 a.m. Helsinki, Finland

A Rusty Boat Just Above Sunset

Just above the sunset
in shallow colour
and watery light,
the freezing sea
keeps us clean.

Now and then,
a hull balances
on the horizon,
a straight line
through weaving
silverfishing boats.

The untroubled
bar glow flickers
in the harbour
as we watch
the rusty boat go by.


The Fifth Hour - 5 a.m. Amsterdam, The Netherlands

The Old Canal House

By the banks of the Grand Canal,
in shoes of tar the old man sleeps now.
Dark bricks brushed and high hooks slung,
dressed for the Queen’s birthday in the morning sun.

There’s an ache in the belly
of the old man, a tight clenched fear
for the rancid meal that sits there
undigested, souring the air.

He creaks as he breathes for the stitch in his side
is pulled tight to the end of the line.


Epilogue – London, UK

The Artery Closes

Sleep-scented dreamers,
small inside doorways,
too poor to buy food,
it’s time to feed the need
and the greedy dealer,
to kiss the ground he walks upon,
cold damp dirt
soaked in neon sun.

Heavy seeds sink in seas
of red and white.
Lest we forget, you remember
the flag-pole rag of your surrender.

In five hours
the journey's learned,
'time is the fire
in which we burn.'






('time is the fire in which we burn.' has been reinterpreted from 'Calmly We Walk Through this April's Day' by Delmore Schwartz).

Dies Iræ

Principa – Thirty-eight weeks from a single cell

This is where we start,
this, the alpha,
the day.
So we will depend,
the beginning is the end.
You will breathe for me
and I will be,
living due to you only
and now.


Principa – 9.8 metres per second, per second

Off centre,
thrown out, awkward,
loose your balance,
it’s the only way forward.
You must learn to fall
before you can walk.


Principa – Never Advertise on a Left-Hand Page

The fundamental problem
with humanity is,
by definition,
it must include humans.


Principa – 95% of all creatures on Earth are insects

Are you safe, ape child,
in the world you created,
with your sky of technology
and ground of pages?
CD,
DVD
HD-TV,
time to feed your young,
ASAP.
Is your bi-cam-ni-camcorder order on time?
Are you on-line?
Love the ‘try-now pay-later-on-in-life’ style,
got to make a pile,
then live in it.
Get the X-factor-max-ex-lax,
you’ve got to own one,
then choke on the slogan.
Check the rear view,
objects may be closer than they appear,
is it just fear...
it could be you.
Time to take a paranormalcetamol,
they work gut meltingly fast,
what a blast.
Are you ready, ape child,
in the world you created?
Tomorrow could be the day,
dies iræ.

Principa – Dust can travel halfway round the globe on trade winds

It’s quiet now
the wind had died down
and the oceans are still.
There’s life
in amongst the dust and rubble,
soon the rain will
wash away every trace.
There is tranquility here
and grace.

Still

In the cool small morning
I grow into the night.
Out, past the soft swells of traffic
and far away planes,
past wind whipped trees
to the sleepy suburbs of my senses.

Where dog-bark bows
play strings of thin air,
where night owls and early-birds
pass under damp hedges,
their mumbled greetings softened
by distance.

In the cool small morning
I grow into the night
and I am,
still.

It Looks a Lot Like Like Rain (variation on 'It Tango' by Laurie Anderson)

It’s good,
it’s good to see,

it’s good to see you.
I’ve done the dishes
and let the cat out,
we’re alone.
Do you ever get déja vu?

I thought,
I thought you might,

I thought you might like a drink.
I could put some music on,
all my discs are in order,
alphabetical.
Do you ever feel you’re going in circles?

I hoped,
I hoped you’d drop,

I hoped you’d drop by.
I've been thinking about you lately.
Do you ever sense you’re repeating yourself
over and over?

I wanted,
I wanted to tell,

I wanted to tell you something.
The sky's getting darker,
it looks a lot like rain,
again.

Kicking Stones

Between the concrete walls
where everything was somehow different,
where the kicked-stone laser ping would ring
and the smell of cheap meals dangled
in the lazy summer air like balcony washing,
between the gooey gum-dots
on the tarmac trail that led to heavy doors, she lived.
Dancing sideways through the gaps in a world
that took more than it would give.

She was the first angel I ever saw
in her white nylon dress and trainers,
just as I had learned the first flush of shame,
a fool, inadequate and pale.
In my dreams I joined the dots
and we were cool.

I watched with longing as she bloomed,
suggestion by suggestion,
until they formed an idea that seemed new.
A way to escape the endless dry summers
and fumbled attempts at adulthood.
There, where the chalk marks had faded,
innocence was traded, fair and square,
and she evolved into something warm and rounded,
a comfort to those around her.
She found meaning between the concrete walls.

Now, my angel has left,
moved to the city,
and the streets we once knew
are empty,
except for stones
waiting to be kicked.

Smacked-up Celebrities on Chat Show Sofas

Tonight’s show contains material
that may make you feel
uncomfortable,
or make you laugh uneasily,
queasily,
at the dysfunctional.
Tomorrow,
we will repeat these scenes
in tabloids and magazines,
special editions,
crack-up back-up.

Tonight’s show
may be unsuitable...

Sometimes

Sometimes,
I am electricity
sparking arcs of blue fire,
arrogant corona
cocked to one side.
Turned-on,
plugged-in,
jacked-up,
impaled on every spike.

Sometimes,
I’m frightened by the sound of thunder.