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.

Butterfly in a Northern Town

Step out,
head over heels,
dressed in colours
that show well
in dark places
and on each face
the red-brick blush
of tomorrow’s eyes.
There’ll be no goodbyes
just an awkward flush
when she is crushed
like a butterfly
on a millwheel.

The Cure

I am so vile
in your prefabricated mind,
storehouse of shields and mirrors.

I am the beast
in your temple,
the fly in your wine.

What weapons will you use
when God
spits in your eye?

And in the dark glass
you see a reflection
of what you will become

when you’re cured
of what you’re dying from
and dying from the cure.

Precious Things

Catch the colour
before it drains
to monochrome
and touches
every corner
of our home,
before the rhythm of the day
calls time.
We draw the blinds,
kiss goodnight
and sleep deeply
knowing our precious things
are locked tight.
And unlike our fathers,
we dream of making it
through the night.