I am
as I hold
my blade to your gizzard
simplified
as to the reason being
my belief
that my God provides
my nafah this Occam’s Razor
you are
as I hold
this blade to your gizzard
complicated
as to the reason being
your belief
your God provides
your ruach
and must be removed
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passed from old age
through adolescence
to quiet child
cuts squares out of new
curtains with scissors
empties food cupboards
wraps it all
in newspaper
puts it in
her neighbour’s bin
stuffs paper
into electric plug-holes
runs taps
floods her house
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new hours
of grind
not yet comfy
arse fidgets
till it finds
a settled place
for cheeks
then they change
your shift again
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Arm on the bar of the pub
after
the writer’s workshop
I order the group’s drinks
a girl at the bar slurs
‘What time is it?’
A boy behind her, lit fag
in hand, curves round
the girl, slurs, ‘It’s our lass!’
A sear of pain
under my eye,
he pulls the hot stub
from the surface
of my lower eyelid.
I take the tray
of drinks back
to the group.
“Why dint Tha lamp
him one!” they ask
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It carries us through the night. The idea that there’s more than meets the eye. Life flashes on dead corneas. Random encounters on the freeway. People humour when conversation runs dry. Permanent separation. Idols fallen like leaves on a stream. The slicing and dicing of willpower. A sewing machine salesman stitches himself back together again. I’m grotesque. A mess of nerves and anxiety. Collapsing always, a waste of talent drifting among stationary vehicles on a cold January night. The moon is dead. Dead just like the rest. Safety in a writing desk. Lost at sea. Drowned beneath century old icebergs. Mothers tongue ready for the haunt. Seven circles of hell around erect nipples. Grey buildings between plump thighs. Ready for the calling. Ready for the hushing of inquisitive minds. Chambers of sickness either side of where we sleep. Worlds come and go as we figure out where we went wrong…
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fetch day in from the porch
it’s had enough
of cloudiness
and going to blazes
send night over threshold
let it mess
with flesh
and turn it’s blind eye.
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quietly lifts
feathered grey cumulus
stretches cloud out
until aloft
a silver spear
then folds dark skies
into a perch
stabs the oblivious
fish of day.
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witches ride this polished barkskin
while stag beetles skitter across it
babies are passed through this mother hole
rooted in three worlds of water air and fire
Limbs wear helicopters or keys full of samsara
that spin down to unlock moist earth
dog’s mercury wild garlic dog violets
coronet, brick, centre-bowed sallow
and privet hawk moth haunt these leaves
barkskin for spear for axe handles tough
hardwood that does not splinter
but burns to warn off to charcoal heat
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Thas gonna mucky me forehead
wi old codgers ashes what we burned
yonks since as if it could remove
our guilt and sinfulness for doing so.
As Tha finger paints a cross on me bonce
al see our ancestor crinkle and pop
Like it were fireworks and watch all
harshness and fret go up in smoke.
Al have to go mi sen a wesh afore
a sees our lass else it’ll get her
all wonderin’ an we don’t want that.
Don’t want folk pryin’. No need.
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Manvers Morning
The Wombwell Rainbow 