Deep red gorge with white river.
Her knee cut down to bone.

Black and white dairy cows.
Jigsaw pieces.

See-through slice of pig.
This veil.

Mottled shadows of leaves.
This is theatre.

She always kneed the glass door open,

until it was briery bloody edged.

 

Lake shivers.
You blow on a cup of tea

Distant galaxies.
Rain on tarmac.

Green clouds billow.
They are trees.

White trees shake their leaves.
They are clouds.

()

Aye up, Queenie

They’ve pushed a tube
through my innards

and chucked water down it
to clear my backed up waterworks.

Heard the gurgling from 67
to 106. Mrs Heavenly

stopped pegging out
her washing to hear it,

and scarpered in holding up
her petticoat. Moments

later I heard the flush.
Blackbirds on my ridge tiles

are copying ringtones, again.
Young lad at 23 kept answering

his. His mates pissing themselves
as they supped cans in his backyard.

Heard from High your 69
had front door splintered

in drugs police raid. You’ve
often said you get high

on the fumes from that.
Might get your Victorian

terraces renovated then
you’ll be up and coming

my love. Regenerated.

Love you.

King.

*******

( Queenie to Canal)

Alright Cocker,

Wish they’d dig your bottom
out so you could be posh.

Have water sidling past
your windows, and boats

moored at your side.
And in summer, perfume of sweet

waters, full of dragon and damsel
would drift down my road.

And all my windows would open.

Keep your pavement clean,

Queenie

PS Mrs Higginbottom’s cats had twins yesterday.

*******

(Canal to High)
Hi High,
I know your the main
thoroughfare, like,

and been here yonks.
Right from when it were

a village, and you just
had fields for company.

Back when it were two sheep
and a goat and lots of sheds.

How d’ya get used
to your buildings being demolished?

Change, change, change. No
sooner do you get a new shop,

it closes ‘cos of austerity. Your
Town Hall is now a pub called “The Town Hall”.
No Trespassing,
Canal.

*******

HIGH’S NOTICE TO ALL STREETS

I hear some concern about change.
We’re no longer covered in grime,

the fields no longer dry flax,
the heat of the bottle maker’s

does not warm our insides. Streets
have been knocked down, but,

we are still the same basic shape.
Even more estates are being built,

so we grow. New industry will come,
and go. Folk want genuine, independent

shops, not chains. Let us
accept this as inevitable.

Times of grief often usher
times of great change afterwards.

Let us take the blows, then, fill
in the potholes, remortar the bricks,
resurface the road, rebuild the walls.

Beware of the dog.

High

()

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear A,

Dust everywhere, since builders
elected to leave. Fetched dustpan

and brush. They say they clean up
afterwards but surfaces are covered.

I’ll be wiping them for weeks. Major
restructure always causes grief. You

pick yourself up. Look at the mess.
Heave a sigh and begin scrub

and polish. Find places where they
failed to fill in the holes, or left

jobs half completed. Of course it’ll
not be easy, but we decided to employ

them when lads in the village didn’t
want to get their hands dirty, because

they thought they were above such things.
G’s funeral was a quiet affair. Rain

kept off for once. Red, white and blue
roses from the Polish deli. Bless.

Zest for life,

Z.

PS Can’t miss grandkids charity dance tonight.

I wrote two letters to you Z. just in case.

ONE

Dear Z,

Sad news. It was hoped G

would rally under the new

treatment. It was hoped the light

would glimmer in her eyes

once more like two stars. It was hoped

I would not stand by her graveside,

delicately lay her favourite flowers

on the cold grey stone. Her son

says he will never wear his Union

Jack suit again. He says “It’s betrayed

him.” He did not want to be independent

of his mam. She was his certainty.

The rains have started again. We have

a loose tile. H says it is a faulty baffle.

The Polish deli sent flowers

and a get well card. Nicely done.

Yearning still,

Y.

PS Gonna slap that bloke with wheelbarrow coffin silly. Knock the bastard into next week.

TWO

Dearest, dearest Z,

Blessings come few and rare. The new

treatment worked. She’s in remission.

Her son, the terrorist clown says

he has lot of stuff to work through

with her. Life is not going to be easy.

He says he betrayed her trust.

The rains have stopped. Thank Christ.

We can get replace the absent mortar between the bricks

and get the askew guttering

straightened out. Thank God G

is fine, if not G as in Great.

Yay,

Y.

PS Seems wheelbarrow coffin bloke

has gone.

Alan argues Adam allows awkward

awe amongst alphabetically arranged

arrogant allusive artists

all asking arrogantly ” Aye? Aye? Aye?

Acute adolescent, asinine adult admires

apples and appearances.

*******

Belies belief, Bill briefs bloody boys
black bright bloom blues blighted

brackish breath. Bacon breakfast
brilliantines Bill’s belly blossom beneath
billowed bouche. Born backwards,
battled bullies.

*******

Clever Cedric clears chocker calendar.
Carefully calculates choices. Chosen
chaps collect clapped cars.

Colic child chivvied chastised. Clamoured
closeness. Clerical cadre chipped. Chases
clubbable classy chavettes

*******

Dementia Dennis dilly dalies dribble

drawn duck down drills dark drips dog’s dinner

dignity dangles dazzle dour dims days, destroys

daughter’s delightful dream, dad’s dappled destiny.

*******

Echoes epistle ears. Enter entices entry, envelops

entropy. Engorges, eludes, emerges entranced,

embroiled, enhanced. Exist enjoyed, enjoyable.

Eye eggs erupted exit eaten.

Empty. Ennui. Enlightened. Enraptured.

(W to X)

Dearest X,

G is afeared to go out.
Hospital braised her liver

when they scalded the growth.
She needs to piss, a lot.

She’s weak and dizzy. Water
inflection. Thin as bamboo.

I can’t concentrate on this
refundum. I’m all fret.

Wishes,

W.

*******

(X to Y)

Dear Y,

Watch out for your mam.
She’s in fault finding mode.

G’s son catapulted
back from Amsterdam
by news of his mam

taken in ill. His Union
Jack cozzy held up in customs.
Thought he’d packed drugs

in bulldog’s nose, and them
massive hands and feet.
He don’t need drugs. He’s already

away with the fairies, like his dad were.
He’s at her bedside now. You’ve got to ask
when, where and how he got

message she were badly so quick,
like as if he knew already.

Xcell my dear,

X.

PS As with all elections feel like everyone’s signing my name by proxy. Ha ha ha ha.

put my leg in boxer shorts,

the wrong way,

pick up my wife’s toothbrush,
and use her toothpaste,
oblivious to both.

put on too many clothes when it’s hot,
too few, when it’s cold.

chivy as plastic bottles tumble
down the bus aisle,

see young folk ride their bikes
on the pavement,

or push into a queue.

I have underpants with holes
in the crutch through wear not design.

laugh at books and signs full
of epigrammatic phrases about

growing old, living with someone,
the habits of cats and dogs.

remember when I was younger
saying “If I ever get like that
shoot me.”

T to U)

Dear U,

Green and pleasant
becomes patriot and traitor.

Civil War, roundhead, cavalier,
Lancastrian and Yorkist.

Families split, blood divided.
We need to find commonality, man.

Step out the door, a lottery ball.
Speculate to accumulate possibilities.

You’re ball rolls by chance not design.
It might be chosen. Who really knows?

If you stay is it same old, same old?
Elect a step out the door into whatever

rain or sun decides to fall. Vote
either way the future will happen.

Try and trust,

T.

*******

(U to V)

Dear V,

Grief rubbishes all but day to day.
All books, tv, newspapers are gust,

here and gone. Close your eyes. Listen.
What does your intuition say?

More control in who goes where,
and why. Who has the control?

What is powerless when whatever
government imposes from above?

Choose what you wear it is either
too little or too much. Choose

where you go depends on how
many chinks in your pocket,

flaps of paper in your wallet,
how much swipe on your card.

G tells me she’s had the results.
Her cancer has appeared again.

Her decision whether they remove her insides, stop it spreading further.

Undecided,

U.

*******

(V to W)

Dear W,

After the vote the grass will still
be cut, borders weeded.

Shops will sell what they can get.
A will battle B over A to Z.

The government will always be in doubt.
Europe will always be pilloried

for sticking it’s nose into our
business, and markets trade

with whomever they want. NHS
continue to be privatised. City

always bets on the roulette economy
desperate to be confident. Green

and pleasant encroached by brick
and tile. Big business find loopholes

and badger politicians for boltholes,
all the while saying they’re your mate,

and can be trusted to pay back
whatever they owe, blag you dry.

Then use your cash for foreign
holidays and no forwarding address.

Vote sensibly,

V.

PS What folk have died of voting?