the daily grind

in this room they all sit
clucking in cliques,
repeating the same shit
week after week.

someone's nicked my cup again!
as if the world might end,
and time after time,
they refuse you a smile.

they clutch misery to their chests
like textbooks,
the young ones are
actually the worst.

still twisted up by teenage tantrum
and bitchy comments,
which are a bit rich, to be honest,
coming from them.

from school to the staff room
and some stay here forever,
it's particularly painful today.

i sit in my windowless room,
the artificial light like 'cynthia',
reminds of the first artificial form of life,
created in america last night.

yet even here, i feel energy like
moving music, bubbling, rising,
effervescent as the fields, the hills
and the sunshine outside.

i might just go and do a sundance,
sticking two fingers up through the window
and smiling at everyone in sight!

a tragedy this morning

basking in the warm blast of my hairdryer, i observed her,

peacefully buzzing, juddering, low-flying.

i smiled from a happy heart, 'this space is equally yours',

i thought, proud of my own generosity.

i would not have fought to rid the room of you, small creature.

i would not flee; a fearful, irrational human.

i felt love for you from this pantheist heart i have,

before i went back to the warm blast of my routine.

i was disturbed by the sound. an electric-sizzle,

a juddering, low deathly buzz, sinister in it's similarity.

i was immobilised for a (dramatic pause) moment,

before i flicked the switch. in silence, listened to her twitch.

i hurled an expletive at the god of small things.

i was torn in two - to before and after almost certain death!

i witnessed a tragedy this morning. whilst i was yawning

her brain was flicking switches, off, one at a time.

i decided to stand back, at least until i had to leave for work.

i said a little prayer for her that she would fly again, took

a look at her resting place - shocked to find a brother or sister there.

i said a little prayer for them for the third time lucky.

as i basked in the warm blast of my hairdryer once more,

i observed my thoughts on this incident.

i worried that this would set my day off on the wrong foot(!)

along with bad hair days and getting out of bed on the wrong side.

hot air swiftly blew away my sadness and i almost forgot entirely.

until the noise again ... bzzzzz bzz bzzzz bzzz bzzz.

she was ever more juddering in her rumbling bumble!

i gave a round of applause for this miracle,

and went back to my hairdryer.

festival-love

can be found in the 70% cocoa, dark chocolate
that we ate with magic mushrooms yesterday.
it's in the prisms and patterns of kaleidsoscopic
colour that we splatter with mud for extra effect.
it can be found in the satisfyingly round, spiral sounds
as we contemplate science in frantic ecstasy.

epiphany, anyone?! entangled particles describe
our hearts and we were all created from stardust!

it's there in the dancing and panting,
the prancing with earth between exultant toes
as there we stand, foot to foot with those
toes we love. shrunken amongst tall trees
and mingled sweat, never regretting
the sweet scent of you and i.

the joy of three days without washing,
and i still 'see' you, as though for the first time.
the sleep in our eyes crystallising,
our mud warrior stripes;
my dirty knickers are in a twist for you, as ever.
your mischievous eyes are fireflies in the festival night,

reflecting light displays of enchanted forests, more eyes,
grass-green seas and purple skies.
like plain paper, morning rain washes
away the excess of yesterday.
i can't say i feel fresh as such,
but you are the freshness.

no matter what playful concoction i ingest with you,
i never lose my grip on the space-time continuum.
"have you seen a bunch of old hippies
in 3D glasses mate?" he's obviously trippin',
but i wonder why we bother - wide-eyed
with love as i am, anchored by alice in wonderland.

small, decorative objects

I have an unhealthy obsession
with small, decorative objects.
Quirky, artistic; with patterns
intrinsically pleasing to the eye.
They extract a pleasant sigh.

Such superfluous items worry me.
I'd like to survive on only what I need?
Images of children with distended
bellies rat-a-tat-tat in my head,
knocking on the guilty door,

I know it is not the desire for
a fat car, cigars or Beluga caviar,
but my addiction holds it own vanity.
Disparity is debatable, always.

It's the box the cigars came in,
made into a bag.
It's the girl smiling in sepia,
from the hood of a classic car,
in an antique photograph.

I don't know her. She's no relation
besides the quaint sisterhood of
my love learned from books on
compassion. I liked the way
the light fell on her 40's pin curl,
 was appreciative of the sly curve of her lips,
her promising hips, all fashioned in
a cupid's bow.

I have so many small objects,
trinkets; I am a secret delinquent.
A collector of detail professing
simplicity, simultaneously
hoarding a trove.

how to be an old-school consumer

pick each item up,
shake it, stretch it, test it.
hold it up to the light
check for holes or stains
and extort a discount
on force of pain.
let the shop assistant tut,
sigh, roll eyes to the sky,
or maybe she'll cluck -
proud of the display of
bargaining skills, which she
had thought lost.
at all times barter!
hark back to a world with
-out tills and microchips,
when coffers were filled
proffering goods or services
direct. buy only secondhand,
but not just vintage ladies!
get stuck in to rooting,
searching and looting,
not that i'm suggesting theft
(well, maybe from tesco's!)
steer clear of banks
as much as you can,
avoid the mobile phone,
and watch only re-runs of
very old programmes.
be at home in your own
old clothes and those of others.

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.