Power

The blankest face
A snowdrop could conjure

Sits absently in court,
Licking at the bit.

Outside a gardener
Whistles ‘Jerusalem’

And her cab drives on
To her solicitor, whose

Secretary is working at the tights
Around her thighs,

Laddered, more laundered
Than her knickers,

Last night’s surprise
Still borrowing her eyes.

Somewhere in her womb
Another lies in wait,

Like the letterbox
Just feet

From the dozing
Husband’s couch,

Motherly, enveloping,
Genuine leather.

The happiness of late

After the party
Balloons wheeze quietly, stoically embrace
The soon departure of their lungs;
The silence is so great that
Pulling open doors
Brings rushing in a life of sound
Like time rewound on tape,
And staler than a kiss at three am.
And we are left, like witnesses
To clear and scrape, and weigh
Our part in this, to search
Among the cans of memory
The happiness of late.

On Primrose Hill

On Primrose Hill
The snow-globe city and a can of lager
Within reach, the stars veiled and coy,
Fading like film in your grandpa’s attic.

A little back from us a galaxy, a group of men
Revolving energies, chanting or dancing,
Fighting maybe. The pulse flared out.

And then, through the long grass
Like low-riding meteors
Men dressed for Friday prayers
Appearing from the night.

Underwriting

I was thinking how good it would be
To have an option on mobiles
That said subliminal, so that underneath
“I’m busy” it would flash, “I just don’t want to
Anymore”. Imagine neon black
And yellow letters.

And then I got to thinking - what if nature’s
Been sending them to me, like the smell
Of snow on a clear wind
Or the black flash of pain
Shuttering the first glimpse
Of bright sunshine on wet pavement.

And as I thought, there grew the rolling thunder
Of a red hot hatch, blue leds for eyeballs
And one dark window down. Inside a face, condensing
Out of bass, mouthing “Wanker”.