When a newly-charged toothbrush
groans like a dying calf in my mouth
and the light of a head-torch
is snuffed in the aura of my hand
and relatives pecks shock me
as does the touch of thigh-rubbing
acrylic wearers, and petting
our sister’s cat on a stone flag delivers
a blue crack to her little wet nose
and a tooth viability test administered
at the School of Dentistry all but shoots
me, Bond-like from the chair
I think of your friend who cannot walk
down town at night without streetlights
dying in a domino cascade
and I know that all my efforts
are not nearly enough
to bring me back
into your favour.
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Vacuum Plea
Made by Space Bag 6 Piece Vacuum bag set: easy to use for packing bulky soft items and very effective at squashing them down to minimum cubic area.
Prostrate, face buried
in the puffed-plastic cube,
you lift your head fractionally
on your out-breath; exposing,
from my vantage point, your bald
patch to maximum humility.
I reach for camcorder, unconsciously
honing in on a sequence of latent potency.
Then your son gets down too -
Let me try Dad, and the LCD shows
his unruly blond gosling head
bowed to what, in this passing
moment, has become The Source;
your head beside him,
a larger nutmeg. And your son
reaches up, pressing together his palms
in a simple peak above his head.
And I see the two of you face down
before the Great Mother, sending
numerous, silent petitions
with the same root:
that the same woman
your ex-wife, his mother,
might one day give an inch.
Prostrate, face buried
in the puffed-plastic cube,
you lift your head fractionally
on your out-breath; exposing,
from my vantage point, your bald
patch to maximum humility.
I reach for camcorder, unconsciously
honing in on a sequence of latent potency.
Then your son gets down too -
Let me try Dad, and the LCD shows
his unruly blond gosling head
bowed to what, in this passing
moment, has become The Source;
your head beside him,
a larger nutmeg. And your son
reaches up, pressing together his palms
in a simple peak above his head.
And I see the two of you face down
before the Great Mother, sending
numerous, silent petitions
with the same root:
that the same woman
your ex-wife, his mother,
might one day give an inch.
The Matrices of Loss
The barren woman is trying to return, unnoticed to her
mother’s house through the mouth-like hole in the brickwork
stopped up with the fine grey pashmina that used to
mummify her throat.
Her sister is standing on the newly turned over vegetable patch
describing the wonderful christening gift she’s got her.
she holds up a tiny Prussian blue velvet dress
with silver writing on the bodice.
The barren woman moves into a doll’s house, to share with a large
owl. He shadows her menacingly leaving droppings everywhere.
She becomes an apprehensive twenty-four hour chattel.
The dark haired girl returns
She’s brought the Tobiano rocking horse with her. The barren
woman rode it through her childhood across deserted overseas shores.
Its asking price is on a cream trunk tag they use to sell antiques.
The girl’s face shows signs of scalding.
The barren women pulls the Turkish man by the hand to the duck pen
the ducklings are darting around like blobs of soot. She’s wearing a violet
Disney t-shirt with animals on. He gives her a bedroom kiss.
She reconsiders the mumsy look.
Unlocking her bike outside Woolworth’s the barren woman overhears a
woman telling her seven year old girl: ‘You look like you’re already on
IVF.’ They turn it into a song and spout forth like the Von Trapps. Silver
boots lie on the pavement like rats.
mother’s house through the mouth-like hole in the brickwork
stopped up with the fine grey pashmina that used to
mummify her throat.
Her sister is standing on the newly turned over vegetable patch
describing the wonderful christening gift she’s got her.
she holds up a tiny Prussian blue velvet dress
with silver writing on the bodice.
The barren woman moves into a doll’s house, to share with a large
owl. He shadows her menacingly leaving droppings everywhere.
She becomes an apprehensive twenty-four hour chattel.
The dark haired girl returns
She’s brought the Tobiano rocking horse with her. The barren
woman rode it through her childhood across deserted overseas shores.
Its asking price is on a cream trunk tag they use to sell antiques.
The girl’s face shows signs of scalding.
The barren women pulls the Turkish man by the hand to the duck pen
the ducklings are darting around like blobs of soot. She’s wearing a violet
Disney t-shirt with animals on. He gives her a bedroom kiss.
She reconsiders the mumsy look.
Unlocking her bike outside Woolworth’s the barren woman overhears a
woman telling her seven year old girl: ‘You look like you’re already on
IVF.’ They turn it into a song and spout forth like the Von Trapps. Silver
boots lie on the pavement like rats.
Tuckers Grave Inn
Tuckers Grave Inn, Faulkland, Somerset, was named after Edward Tucker who hung himself at nearby Charlton Farm in 1747 and was buried in unconsecrated ground at this remote crossroads as was the custom for suicides.
You’ll find me at a dark crossroad, near Charlton Barn
where they found me, the only sound after your engine
cuts being your feet shuffling blindly over my remains.
You might think me shut, for my shutters betray
no light, but knock upon my short brown door
looking beyond the curious eyes behind my grill.
Advance along my flagstone corridor and a stable door
to the left will bring you into my tap bar where the latest
hand will pour you a tankard of Butt, Bidecombe or
Thatcher’s gold straight from barrel and drop an egg
pickled to a taupe straight into your crisp packet the
opening of which you thought was your prerogative.
Craning you head, take your libations, into the Rose
Room: my snug bar, and find yourself a chair if all settle
benches are taken, as was the pattern of my life.
Allow me to guide your fingers, whilst sitting easy under
stringer beam, the fire aflame, chestnuts roasting,
Labrador dosing, to pick my tale from mantle.
I Edward Tucker, did willfully end my life by rope’s
choke for the corn laws that did rend me beggar, and
for hearing the bans of Mary Barwell already mine.
You’ll find me at a dark crossroad, near Charlton Barn
where they found me, the only sound after your engine
cuts being your feet shuffling blindly over my remains.
You might think me shut, for my shutters betray
no light, but knock upon my short brown door
looking beyond the curious eyes behind my grill.
Advance along my flagstone corridor and a stable door
to the left will bring you into my tap bar where the latest
hand will pour you a tankard of Butt, Bidecombe or
Thatcher’s gold straight from barrel and drop an egg
pickled to a taupe straight into your crisp packet the
opening of which you thought was your prerogative.
Craning you head, take your libations, into the Rose
Room: my snug bar, and find yourself a chair if all settle
benches are taken, as was the pattern of my life.
Allow me to guide your fingers, whilst sitting easy under
stringer beam, the fire aflame, chestnuts roasting,
Labrador dosing, to pick my tale from mantle.
I Edward Tucker, did willfully end my life by rope’s
choke for the corn laws that did rend me beggar, and
for hearing the bans of Mary Barwell already mine.
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