kintsugi

twenty years ago or more
Phil lived over the road
I’d see him smoking by his door
and I’d stop to say hello

he’d had a difficult marriage
did something in mechanics
he’d built a kiln in his garage
taught himself ceramics

I bought a saki cup he’d thrown
glazed in white and purple
the image of two fishbones
swimming in a circle

eventually we moved away
I lost all touch with him
till I saw him out in the street one day
and I called out: Phil! It’s Jim!

he said It’s nice to see you friend
and – sorry if it seems bizarre
but I drank such an awful lot back then
I’ve no clue who you are

eventually I read by his face
he couldn’t stay much longer
I felt like a sad, insistent wraith
he hadn’t the strength to conquer

                     * * * 

a few months later, tidying up
thinking ten things or more
I accidentally dropped Phil’s saki cup
and it shattered on the floor

I thought I could glue it together
so I collected every trace
and noticed for the first time ever
the letter P on the base

grazers

this is a poem about an elephant
a bit on the thin side but still in development
written on a chromebook
a bougie kinda notebook
(my old one was shit;
you could barely manage a
dumb haiku on it)
the desk is made of walnut
all but
firewood
any buyer would
say no to an appraisal
but at least it’s stable
with a bit more character than an Ikea table
(I bought it on eBay
paid him via Paypal
I said can you drop it round
he said yeah okay pal)
it looks pig ugly but it’s sturdy enough
with a coupla drawers to store my stuff

so then
this elephant
which stands looking at me
suspiciously
but seriously
what do you expect
my writing to reflect
the truth about elephants in a scrappy bit of text
I don’t know
leave me alone
I can write what I want
in arial font
idly grazing on random grammar
just like you on the goddam savannah
but with grass not words
and me on my own
not in herds

homo commuteris

across the road in scavenged boots and hat
past slanting signs, rusting cars and that
to a grounded train in an overgrown station
a mouldy notice with old information
if you see something that doesn’t look right
which you do when you light your fire each night
to toast your toes and roast your rat
and fight to keep yourself intact
while nature yawns and slowly rises
tired of the lies and compromises
finally ready to close the doors
and commute you like the dinosaurs

lives of the poets

what you need is an old time poet
with latin and greek who loves to show it
velvet cloak, creaky boots
big slouch hat, musty suits
tragic voice that’s just the ticket
eyebrows like a bramble thicket
who writes all day and goes all night
on moonlit walks round the Isle of Wight
for a nod from the Queen, a purse of guineas
seats on luminous literary committees
at Ulysses’ seat we bow to thee
dead of consumption at twenty three

what you need is a modern poet
in a two tone t-shirt
says
no go mango
shit
fuck
you made me
mother was a
moment
a west beach witch
her
teats
a tethering point
last gasp
gutter gimp
lov-e-lee
KKRRRAAANG
infinite
meal metal
mmmm

love beast trio shocker

King Kong, Godzilla and The Kraken in a throuple
They admit it’s niche but it keeps them supple
The key is planning King Kong explains
and it’s not as tough as swatting planes
I was sceptical at first confesses Godzilla
I was always what you might call vanilla
Kong gets mad when his paws get wet
so we compromise to avoid upset
Mostly we just hang, play with trains,
decimate armies with uprooted cranes
The usual stuff monsters do
It’s just we do it in a three not a two
And the key to their happiness? That’s so tricky!
Kong’s quite hairy! Kraken’s slippy!
Godzilla admits to occasional flaws
sometimes reverts to fangs and claws
but they’re always open and try to talk
forget devastation, go for a walk
meet up for lunch with a hot bus or silo
stomp down the streets of New York or Cairo
Will it last? It’s hard to say
They wasted Acapulco yesterday!
There’s no such thing as a permanent structure
but they definitely feel stronger: paw, claw and sucker

Pilot detective pitches

Raquel et Le Grub
Raquel joins the agency
from the chorus of the Folie Bergere
Grub gets saved from vagrancy
after Ecol Militaire
two Parisian cops at night
punchy, en pointe, pissant
doing their best to make things right
in the arrondissements

Clutterbuck and Piggs
Clutterbuck lives for bourbon whisky
Piggs is a dry ex-monk
Clutterbuck likes things nice n’risky
Piggs reads books in his bunk
Clutterbuck drives a 4 litre Audi
Piggs an 82 Buick
together they keep things real n’rowdy
on the mean streets of New Yuick

Katz and Doug
Katz is a psychic sailor
Doug a retired deputy
together they live in an airstream trailer
in the wastes of Thessaly
they spend their days on ancient cases
Doug using logic and jokes
Katz sees ghosts in unlikely places
in boiler suits and cloaks

Langley and Ylang Ylang
Langley works for the FBI
Ylang Ylang – Versace
Langley uses maths and pi
Ylang Ylang Fibonacci
together they run the numbers game
from Williamsburg to SoHo
and the closing quote is always the same
Are we done here? I should Coco

poem for mrs cox

I love poems
but can’t remember them
like some people do
to quote, on cue
not that you have to
to get a laugh
with a line from Billy Collins or Sylvia Plath
I love to take a dreamy stroll
through Patricia Lockwood or Sharon Olds
John Cooper Clarke, Carol Ann Duffy
brilliant artists, nothing too stuffy

despite all that
I’m just no good at reciting them back

but to be fair
if you stood me on a chair
and said look you just stand there
until you give us some lines
of whatever kind
and if you don’t we’ll FINE you
for all the crimes you’ve
committed against poetry
you say you read it but you don’t actually don’t know any
so – no hurry

then incredibly
you’d see me
close my eyes dreamily
and speak with proficiency
these beautiful lines from Samson Agonistes:

O loss of sight, of thee I most complain!
Blind among enemies, O worse than chains,
Dungeon, or beggery, or decrepit age!
Light the prime work of God to me is extinct,
And all her various objects of delight
Annull’d, which might in part my grief have eas’d,
Inferior to the vilest now become
Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me,
They creep, yet see, I dark in light expos’d
To daily fraud, contempt, abuse and wrong

Mrs Cox taught me that in ’72’;
fifty years later I’m reciting it for you