Circus

She hands me the change.

I miss.

The two coins bounce off the rubbery counter.

I catch them mid-flight.

You should be in a circus, she says.

I am, I say.

I mingle with clowns every day,

juggle my bills,

keep the customers satisfied,

drive around in an old jalopy,

put on my happy face

as buffoons bluster their way

through a pandemic,

get up in the morning

and start all over again.

What a performance!

She smiles at me nervously.

Anyhow, have a good day! I say.

You too, she says, as I walk away,

beeping my rubbery red nose.

Abducted

Give in.

That’s all you can do.

It’s like being bundled

in the boot

of a car,

taken by an alien

spacecraft.

You’re abducted, baby.

Whisked away

in the arms

of creativity.

Go with it.

Don’t freak out.

Forget appointments,

routines,

even food.

Work, paint, sing.

Whatever’s yr thing.

You’re abducted.

pic courtesy of The New Yorker

You Used to Call Out

You used to call out when we had sex, he said.

You would raise the roof and ululate.

Street lights would flare, power lines fizz

with excitement, fruit bats rise from their roosts in alarm.

Whole shrouds of them.

Why, even the bed shook as if it were coming.

The very veins in my wrists wanted to pop.

It’s awfully florid, the editor said.

It’s meant to be a romance novel, not a porno.

Can you tone it down a little?

Thief: for Terveen

I am a thief

a thief of words.

Watch out for me.

I am never at rest.

My tools

are my ears, my eyes,

my prey

the streets of my city.

I scan for the unwary face,

the frown or smile

that betrays.

I listen into conversations,

arguments.

Priest-like

I elicit confessions.

I watch for

the unguarded sentence,

the revealing phrase.

I am the one with the notebook

opposite you on the bus;

the one with the slightly intent look

at your side.

Watch out for me.

I am the purloiner of language.

I snatch words

and use them as my own.

I am the poet, the novelist,

the thief of words

* from my second book, 1990. Longman Cheshire

On the Shortest Day

On the shortest day

I take the longest run

between one jetty and the next

and back again

rest myself against the rump

of a dune

listen to the sea shanties of the waves

while a mermaid appears, rises above the waves

swinging her wild, wild hair

in the sun-drenched breeze

until spotting me she coyly slips

beneath the water.

The jetty wades a little deeper into the sea

to catch a glimpse.

On the shortest day I tell

the tallest tales.

Macabre Memory: Warning

The cat left no suicide note

unlike the farmer who died

in the same way

head swathed in cling wrap

like a cellophane mummy

note fabricated:

he met with foul play.

His wife the killer — Insurance —

eager for a big pay.

But who would asphyxiate a cat

& dump it by the riverside

where dreamy poets wander

& children play?

.

The Cutting Caption

M is in her cups.

Any moment now, the kookaburra cackle

the cutting off, like a hoon driver on the highway.

But for the time being I’m holding the table, telling the tale of the silver hammer beneath the front passenger seat of my car, what happens when my girlfriend spots it.

The little group leans forward, intent.

But it reminds M of something and she’s hyper now, jumps in, raucous.

This time I’m ready for her.

I took a photo today I’d like to show you. It’s for you, I say.

You did? Really?

Yes, I say, bringing it up on the screen, passing it across to her.

It’s what you do when you cut people off, how you make them feel. It’s kind of a metaphor.

She has a close look. Ouch,, she says. Lopped?

Yes, lopped.

Bad Company

How’s your girlfriend going? she asks tonelessly..

Pam? Yeh, she’s okay, I say.

You seem to need somebody, she says. A wife, partner, a female friend.

And you don’t?

No. I must be stronger, she conjectures in her haughty voice. I can live with myself. I don’t need anyone.

Loneliness is a morose companion, I add.

She says nothing.

pic by Joey Monsoon courtesy of Pinterest

Recent Sighting

Pounding the pavements of Portland,

grim, gaunt , hunch-backed,

Matthew,

no singing, cheery, Disney

hunchback of Notre Dame

but a

bandy-legged, bushy eyebrowed,

Quasimodo, orange vis jacket

looks like an angry bee.

His Arms Were a Graphic Novel

It wasn’t the person from Porlock; it was my aunt

Who got on the bus, brought my poem to an end.

My notebook slumped on my lap as she told me

The long sad story of a friend.

When she got off I had my chance but this young bloke

Sat next to me, iPod blaring, hair swooped back.

It was the White Stripes live from Splendour.

How could I not listen ? It was Meg and Jack.

But then a cross-eyed biker got on, hair in a rat’s tail,

Skin graffitied with tatts. How could I not look?

His arms a graphic novel. Then a woman got on

Shouting into her mobile, angry as ‘The Angry Book’.

The sad sack on the other end was out for the count.

Luckily Coleridge didn’t board this bus

while he was dreaming ‘Kubla Khan’. He wouldn’t

have written a word. The poem would be dust.

• picture courtesy of Pinterest by TheTatt