My God

I saw a man in a robe

with a comb in his hair

and his hands were open

like a book.

There was a woman

sitting cross-legged outside

a supermarket,

her ears plugged with phones,

and everyone passed her by,

eyes sucked into their screens.

She might as well have been alone

and her friend was sitting slumped

beside her;

he was like a mudslide made flesh.

His hands were all worn,

fingertips nicotine yellow;

his shoes were a mess.

The man sat between them both

and calmly held out two hands;

he took one’s hand, then held the other’s.

The three 

were like a wedding band.

And he removed a single earphone

from her ear and

placed it in his own;

the woman stirred.

He looked her in the eye and

without a word

he smiled fully, without smiling,

and the noise that he heard

was an ugly concoction

of fear and pain,

and doubt, laced with thunder

and pouring rain.

There was howling and yowling,

and a mother was crying.

A father shouted blearily,

whilst his empty beer bottle

was drying.

And the man shook his head gently,

as he looked into her eyes.

He squeezed her hand a fraction tighter

and he kissed her on the lips

softly as a feather falling

from a dove’s wings

which had dipped

from a highest elevation.

And now the slumped man’s slumber

broke, and he stared at

this interaction.

And the man turned his head

and saw his satisfaction,

as he touched his face so gently,

and he brushed his arm so lightly.

And with lips so full and heavy

he kissed his mouth so slightly

and a halo there did break out

and above their heads did glow.

And he led them by the hands

into the streets below,

far far below the city lights

to where children played in glass,

where women sold their bodies,

where men cried like rueful brass.

They climbed a flight or two of stairs

and into an empty room;

there was a mattress and one candle,

and the light did break the gloom;

their clothes were dropped onto the floor

and in the light the shadows on the wall

did show the silhouetted three bodies

softly moving, and moving softly,

and the angels there did sing

and their flesh was warm and motley;

and the man, his robe now forsaken,

did kiss these two so hauntingly

that they felt Heaven take them.

He asked them honestly,

‘Will you let me in? I can

see you’ve been a bad, bad girl.

I could kiss away those sins.’

Their eyes were closed

and their spirits free

and they’d never felt such love,

such pleasure and such peace,

and they whispered tremulously

‘My life, my love - my God’,

and their aching was released.

All I Want

Life with you on paper

might appear boring

But that’s all that I want:

to sit in with a good film

every night,

or visit a local haunt;

or skim stones

on the water’s edge,

as the froth breaks with the sea.

Seven, eight – 

nine skips!

Those stones

are you and me.

And to take the kids to school

would be the greatest pleasure –

then all that time

from 9-3:

we’d get in

plenty of leisure.

We could sit and talk

over coffee and cake,

or read a book,

see a friend,

spend a token.

Or sit and dream,

or start to scheme

to put some plans in motion.

Or walk the dog,

through rain or fog,

by field, by canal

or by ocean.

Yes life with you

on paper

might seem boring;

but the fires we’d make

between the sheets -

between walking and talking,

and snoring....

I’d leave you out a gas light burning,

it would see you safe forever

through even the darkest night.

I could hold you

like a promise.

You could wear me

like the weather.

We could wake up

to the light.

The Boy in the Bubble II

I’ve had the art
of self-deprecation
down to a tee;
I’d yell at all the old men
on the green.
That’s self-sabotage:
there’s no playing golf
with me.

Not even would I try it,
even out of curiosity.
But that’s okay,
no probs,
fine by me.

In the hand of every golfer
is a nine iron
and in mine a beater’s club -
don’t ask me
to your private bar,
you elitist, racist thugs.

But I could have met a kind man;
he may have offered me
a job.

He would have invited me over,
with his wife and kids,
to Ibiza -
forgo the private yacht.

But I’m the Master
of depriving myself.
I’m the Captain of None.
I’ve been out here
in the cold so long
I barely recognise
the sun.

I’m the Champion
of lonely entitlement;
I’ve been in love
with my own struggle.

I should set a reminder:
there ain’t none blinder
than the boy
in the bubble.

All Good Things...

I see you standing there,

the stunning girl with the wonderful face,
(smile full of soul and warmest grace)

the shapely body,

the longest sleekest legs,

and the breasts 
which take the sun’s breath away,

and I wonder what you think of me

as you return my gaze -

am I a horny dog to you?

You seem hardly amazed.

But if you must know

I imagine your father holding you as a new-born
and I see him welling up with tears of joy

at the majesty of this babe

trembling fearfully, fretfully silent

covering you like an angel within his wings

although he is just a man,

and at times feels less than.

And I see you as a child

being walked to school,

holding his hand,

and he’s so in love with you,

and you’re his everything.

And then suddenly you’re almost grown

and all the boys hold you in their mind

although not with the cleanest

of intentions,

and he’s not gonna let you go.

And I can see you in the future.

You are still beautiful.

Time has been good to you,

although all things must go south.

But time is your friend:

don’t fight it -

hold its hand.

Just like I can imagine holding yours

until your dying day.

And yes, I can also imagine

setting your inner animal loose

between the sheets

as you snap at me like a wolf,

at my fleece.

But I’m only a man.

I’m nothing more.

I just want peace.

I’m not your father.

No one could ever love you

quite like him.

But I could love you

like no other.

I’ll forgive your every sin.

And just so you know,
I wouldn’t put all the pain
of my past on you,
I made that mistake before.
That stuff’s my stash, it’s good shit;
it gets me pretty high.
The last one I took down with me,
I charged like a fucking boar, a beast;
but for the next girl
I’ll touch the sky.

Did I already mention my fleece?

But if you’re taken,

don’t be mistaken:

my little heart ain’t breakin’.

I’m not quaking:

I’m glad someone loves you

and you in turn love them.

I just hope they’re giving you

all their best - giving you the things

they love the most

about themselves,

their deepest shades of green and gold,

and all the treasures with which

they’re blessed.

And if they’re not,

you should put them

to the test.

Know I’m always here -

just wanting to show another

their loveliest reflection.

But for now?

For now I need some rest

You Are Golden

Recently

I have found myself digging

through the wonders

of the treasure box

of myself;

where golden coins from aeons gone

glint besides rubies and opals

that shine like the sun.

Just be careful not to polish

the iron pyrites -

that’s fool’s gold to some;

that’s no tonic for good health.

All those dregs of your experience

you’re dredging

will make a paltry sum.

I’ve done that too many a time -

I looked into the crystal ball

and I saw a future devoid of light,

but in the darkness of my past

there were stars shining up

from the very bottom,

like an upside down sky.

And these things appear dangerous,

these things appear hot -

but that’s a cold game this illusion plays,

because really they’re not.

Not until you’ve dug

to the very bottom

of your soul

will you ever realise

that what glitters

is sometimes

even better than gold

and if you’re lucky -

and you’re not lonely -

then one day you may find

that another sun will rise with you;

be good to her -

see her treasures every day.

And, for goodness sake, be kind.

Mother

You were like a little bird

and you lived inside your bed,

and the sheet was yellowed under your feet

and I wondered if you were dead.

You rarely made me breakfast

but you sometimes made me lunch.

I’d no idea what depression was

but I guess I had a hunch.

From a young age I’d hated him

for how he spoke to you, I cried

and tried to get between,

I wanted to rescue you.

And yet you’d never let things go

and that really made me sad;

I guess it made me angry,

and I sympathised with dad.

He’d sometimes pick you up from work

and I’d be next to him.

If you were late getting out, he’d wait

spot you, then drive off in a spin.

And he’d call you fucking useless

and he’d call you nasty cunt

and I heard he told the girls you were a dog,

which confused them - they didn’t have one.

As a girl you were a beauty;

you could have been a model.

Dad was nineteen when he met you,

you sixteen - it was a doddle.

You were a stunning young mother,

with your eyes open wide.

And dad was good to you,

until the day your father died.

Then your blue sky turned thunderous

and your protector turned to captor.

And your flat became a prison,

and your bruises were redacted.

And the family kept secrets

And you were too scared to tell,

for you’d probably have gotten the blame,

you were terrified of him as well.

And so you put up with his shit,

and his lack of passion became the norm.

And the flies that dogged your window

now had turned into a swarm.

You lost so many teeth;

you lost so much weight too.

Your stomach was in pieces,

you struggled on the loo.

And though for so long I blamed you

for preserving me in that mess,

I know you loved us deeply

and I see you tried your best.

I learned so much from you,

and so did my own wife.

I learned that love’s not a weapon -

not something to weigh upon another.

it takes courage to put down the knife;

it takes more strength to lift your lover.

And here’s the simple twist of fate:

if your heart’s true, then 
it’s never too late.

Kathleen/Woodingdean

You’d pick me up from school

every Friday 

and we’d walk all the way

along the backtracks

past the horses and brambles and nettles

to Woodingdean.

Friday evenings
we’d go to Vesuvios
and have dinner by Tony -
you, egg salad; me two sausages and chips -
the BEST chips -
and ice cream drizzled in cream.
Auntie waitressed there,
and it had a timeless sense;
‘Take My Breath Away’ would play;
it had an 80s bent.

On Saturdays we’d get the bus into town

to see your sister. You’d treat me

to nuggets and chips in Maccy Ds,

the toy of course

always the best bit.

And then a small ice cream each -

no Flake.

Your sister’s house was a bit old

and dingy,

and smelled of old grease.

Her partner would watch old westerns

or Carry On films

whilst I would read

The National Enquirer -

what a strange situation!

Then we’d go back to yours

on the bus, and I’d whisper in your ear

just loud enough for the people behind to hear,

‘Did you get my CDs?’

That was code for ‘chocolate desserts’

with the delicious cream on top

always to be eaten first,

but the people behind didn’t know that!

I loved those bus rides.

I loved your garden.

I loved the fields across from your house

with their long grass.

Sometimes we’d venture into the downs

and I’d count the burned-out cars.

Then one day, you had to leave;

you were being terrorised by young children

who egged your house, broke

your window, hurled abuse.

The Beast of Woodingdean, with whom

nobody would fuck, was now seen

as a lonely old dragon

who was down on her luck.

But not to me.

You were a fierce lady

who loved her grandson - fed him

burned pizza and overcooked homemade chips,

and your house was like a relic -
I mean, who the hell still had a larder!?

You have mellowed through the years

and I take great pleasure

in showing you the music I love

and the photos of the great-grandchildren you adore.

Your husband died in 1979,

but now you talk to Les every day.

I just hope you live out your days now

in peace - I hope it stays that way.

Yvonne/Bevendean

You were my sanctuary

in the storm of my youth;

my mum’s sanctuary

in the storm of her marriage.

You would send me off to school

with luncheon meat sandwiches

and a small box of teeny smarties.

I would save up all the blue ones

and give them to my friend

who had ADHD,

curious to see if they’d send him off.

I loved watching Mortal Kombat

on Fox Kids, and Goosebumps.

I would lie on your floor

and pencil endlessly

sketches of Jax,

my favourite character,

with his black skin, thick cool

black sunglasses, and metal arms.

Your husband would show me

catwalk women on Men and Motors

and make me toast triangles

with lots of butter

and strawberry jam,

and say, ‘If you don’t eat it

you’ll wear it!’ or

‘I’ll shut your fingers in the door...’

It was a place to escape the

constant misery of home,
the constant sowing of bad seeds.

Like a hotel in the desert -

Hotel California, perhaps?
Maybe we felt we could never leave.

Is that why now, 

at 31, I’m back here again?

Escaping the storm that I have made?

Only, Ian is long since gone.

You are still a lion,

only slower and not so much

in your prime.

The only difference is

I can see clearly now

what was oblivious to me

as a child - what was only

a fuggy swirl

of intoxicated feelings.

So I guess it’s time

to get on healing.

Nana

Nana, I remember your house.

I’d enter through that wooden door,

through rainbow beads, and smell 

the cat food you kept in your larder,

on the left.

And above the stove

which smelled of dry heat

there was a tray about

footprints, and how

God was carrying you,
and that plate that read,
and I’m paraphrasing,
‘When mum and dad say no,
ask Nana’.

Your sofas were green

and a small colour TV

rested in the unit in the corner,

by the west-facing window

overlooking the racecourse

where we witnessed 
the best sunsets.

And you had a kind of fabric mosaic

picture of a racehorse,

and I remember your beautiful cats.

And the stairs up to your

neat little room, the spare room

so mysterious to me

and the bathroom,

which smelled of air freshener -

maybe lilies - and the dolly

toilet roll holder in her hanging dress.

And I remember after you died

having dreams about you

where you were sleeping on mum and dad’s

green sofa, and your head

was stuck down behind the cushions,

or you had inexplicably 

come back from the dead.

And it was fine.

I miss you. I miss seeing you walk out

mum and dad’s front door, so tiny,

only four feet eight, your curly white hair,

your wooden stick supporting you,

slightly arthritic fingers, skin so fine

and so wrinkled, your knuckles

so thin and so pronounced.

I wish I could see your house again,

although it’s been occupied since 2005,

to see your garden, where once

rhubarb and beans and cabbage grew,

your tiny shed and the ramshackle pile

of sticks behind, full of spiders

and lizards. And you’d bring me out a cup of tea, 
in small china - so sweet and good.

And the sweetie tin, oh
the sweetie tin.

You’d bend over, and say,

go on, take one. So I’d take my time,

then choose a chocolate-lime. Then you’d say,

take another - a butter fudge, maybe?

And then you’d smile and say,

take three, a third - have one on me.

And I’d spend the longest time

looking through the fruit bon-bons

before inevitably choosing raspberry.

The Story of Me

I started out as a quiet boy

So my teachers thought I was dumb 

But I was just sitting and watching

And working it out, rule of thumb

I was difficult and misunderstood

And I could talk for hours about comets -

Long before high school

And writing crushes rubbish sonnets

I was angry and I was confused

And when I played video games 

If I couldn’t beat that final boss

I’d throw the controller in a rage

And look in the mirror and cry

And slap my face 

And wish I would just fucking die;

What a disgrace

I was stuck in an unhappy home 

Full of rage and retaliation - 

It was a microcosm 

Of this place we call our nation,

Where knives glistened ‘neath

Fluorescent lights

And words were cut so sharp

And tinged with such clever poison

They would stay within your heart 

And school was like some primal jungle

Where animals did roam -

The snakes, the bears, the unawares

And the girls in their mean ivory thrones

I wore my heart on my sleeve 

And I just did not understand

Why reaching out in kindness

Left me with a blistered hand

That boy was cheeky, and that boy

Was clever. I loved that boy, I knew him,

And I can still see him 

Out in rainy weather

He’s wearing a dark-blue raincoat

And the rain feels good on his skin

And I’m telling him: It’s not your fault

And he says, It’s a long game, but

I’ll win

The Homeless Man

You see a homeless man
Sitting dishevelled on a bench
With his spirit long since flown
And you wonder to yourself
Why he doesn’t have a home.

Well first of all it doesn’t help
That his mother gave him up
Because she was only fifteen
And the shame she felt
Was just too fucking much.

And he was in and out
Of child homes,
And he was sexually abused
And he had to fight
Tooth and nail
Like respect just wasn’t his due.

He was always told he was stupid
And he was always told he
Would fail
And eventually he grew so numb
That the tears dried up
In the well.

And the pain he felt was so intense,
It stabbed like a hot blade
In his heart
So the sweet release of any drug
Was a better pain
For him to cart.

To live in his mind was a mindfuck
But he still had reason enough
To live, for there was a tiny
Slither of light
And in his soul
A few crumbs of love

But that didn’t stop him
From cutting himself
For the pain was how he thrived;
The pain was all he ever knew
And it somehow
Kept him alive.

So the next time you walk
Past this broken man
Remember once
He was an innocent child -
A baby in his mother’s arms.
Before she abandoned him she smiled.

For he was just so beautiful
And he was just so precious
And his mother wished herself to die
With the regret she lived
Every second.

So see this man and embrace him -
Embrace him like he were you.
Embrace him as if you were holding yourself
When you were born,
So new.

Behind every weary figure,
Behind every shouty mess,
There is a person
Shuffling through this cutting world
Who just wants some tenderness.