sports and social club

the union jack flaps in the sunday breeze,
it's threadbare and almost transparent.
next door, the roof is lower than the rest
and 'this building has 24 hour CCTV'.
it's a private club - members only,
and the members are smokers.
fag ends float in brown foam,
preferring the drain to the ashtray.
it houses the three-fold joy of quiz, bingo
and races on thursday nights.
it's here you'll find the disco,
and live sport on the big screen.
an escapee blinks his way out
wearing a t-shirt: 'if found, return to bar'.
he asks 'what're you doing, love?'
and i chance a truthful answer.
'there's nowt creative to be found
in there', he snorts,
as he steps inside the house next door.

still life at tan hill

just after sunrise, in the sticky sweetness of a tent for two.
there'll be no need for an umberella this weekend.

the remanants of a fire; burnt carrot coals cooled to ash
and smouldering with memory.

memories of kinks of ink black hair and careful caresses,
of drinking cammomile tea with the stars,

these two seekers of secrets and lovers of solitude;
settled, for a weekend in wilderness.

surrounding green envelops, an ampitheatre for peace
and new love. there are only the bleats of sheep for company

and the landscape is bleak, and beautiful, but never, ever twee.

harvelin park, stoodley pike

would this stone-finger waggle if it could?
residing as it does atop lumps and bumps
that cry out to be discovered, covered
in boot-clad feet, made for walking in bogs.

the standing statues magnificent,
juxtaposed with the tractor-hum
at seven pm on a sunday evening;
stillness and movement is simultaneous.

there's an aged house here on the hill,
where he peeled damp,
flowery wallpaper as a child,
found expletives hurled at the walls.

who would scatter swear-words
at the inanimate?
take the time to inscribe
them in fat black pen?

in the shadow, stansfield view.
cold coats and white cells
quarantined madness,
but when was it catching?

such black histories lodged in the hillside.
the toy-town homes are sore in the
twilight sun, such man-made creations
unwelcome in nature.

in the morning, you hear nothing
but the birds,
and his mother's
roses really are my favourite scent.

salento

a stop sign advances
by the power of unison.
abstract wings are
cock-eyed and ramshackle.
libertarian-crows fly
across the stage,
where a back arches
like a vicious bridge
(not made for crossing).
that same spine
is a shoal of fish,
creating time
for spiral highs
as salento lifts.

distance

above,


your full weight
brought to bear
upon me, who is
a 'delicate creature'.

even as you
lay     there,
i feel you

disappear

inwards, folding
like a sphere.

this fear
becomes
and grows
and can
go nowhere
in this L-shaped room.

L for love                
becomes one I         
and another,             r
yet you're just          e
around the               n
                          c o r

he burrows a hole,
head bowed
into myths and
literary criticism.
i want to ask,
'what have you found?'

but my words are
dr
       ow
             ne
                    d
in self-sabotage.
it's that damned
vishudda again.

i need to scream
and gargle
with salt-water,
sing a song
to the oceans
and splurt
hurt into sinks.

this poor frog                    s
in my throat;                    t
time and again               a
have i washed              o
him away,                   l
but the bloody thing  f

the strangled kitten
manifests as laryngitis
and ineptitude of
expression.                      
i may be sensitive,               v   e
but i don't want to call it  o         r.