Tuesday, 7 November 2017

1 New Poem

Clean Places

If there is some grander notion,
to these ether trailings
of sunlight across splendour brick
clicking of chatter heels against
stone, then it is unrevealed
against the washing of winter
coat flows, as much so as
under watchful burning
space of warmer times.

There may yet be some clockwork
design to the patching of curtain
draws on days too blank to
pass inside, yet still too knife-showing
to venture out.

Then go to some places, scrubbed
down and seeing to welcome,
but filed down from all threat,
tensed of all teeth-bearing exercise,
in the contemplation of old air
where you could belong.

Not even there, though, was
a planning pen found amid
rubbish bins, hesitant tea cups,
broken spindle casing,
there being no sketchbook
tracing of myself in famed
rooms.

Saturday, 28 October 2017

1 New Poem

Signatures

I am in ink here: scribbled
on the postcard back page,
time with penny weight distinction
to genius papers and arms
thrown around clumsy world
corners at trouble’s first
dodging sign,

Inked like a roadway graffiti
stop and drilling away in concrete
shelter time.

There wasn’t enough drippy symphonic
grandeur for the speaking of
tithes between us, not enough
to squint for sense in dark.

There are, still, pooling in reserve
the splotch-making touches, soft sound
rocking wide night as upturning
tin cans clack to stone,
the means to make this all ours
at a pace.

The hang, waiting for lie and
form to be given by paper
contract, wax seals on letter
back,

the kind I could never afford to send.

Monday, 16 October 2017

1 New Poem

The Jourdan Boulevard

Slipping between the broken paving stone,
shoes bleating a harried rhythm in rubber,
I move visibly, sallowed,
as a humbled painter,
staring blankly at the unblemished canvas
of even time:

coming through clearly, loud,
coming through in found feather ambiance,
the ego of lazy weekend wanders coming back
as united strumming on
bending jazz break corners.

The tuba honks in Metro
underpass drew a line
with pathway’s depth on
gold flake etching of what
it was in pas march to
dead hot wire, imperial
fantasia and the rest of
it.
There isn’t some idle hope
here: I’d be lying
to take it further, in shade of
wishing wells, giving trees.

Sunday, 8 October 2017

1 New Poem

Something of a Symphony

Sometimes, I am astronomical:
coiling against the pallid waterfall
of night bus stations, making
clock-face shapes with arm & leg,
as it drags still upon creeping
moonlight, upon rainy spitter-spatter
in these tonal illusions of
curious object left behind like
gaslamp papertrails for seaside
walks and camera flashes in
echo trace, still lives beating
on broken wood.

Some days I am unconquered:
the regimen of sugar drinks and
half-apologies still weighted against
youthful folly, railway gage
in vigilance of etchings,
though it is not so unbearable
now, the heating of jealous tempers
bears out a fruit of spun stories,
stilling and swallowed as ever
before.

Some illumination am I:
blinding snow angel along
the cliff pile of houses
we have here.

Wednesday, 4 October 2017

1 New Poem

Seine Water

The ambulance siren tin-whistles
through hanging leaves, stirring
air like clipper ships darting
in grace from canal point
and matching, in true form,
carvers’ chisels on pillars on
century.

When darkness comes and on go
the hawker lights, bouncer men’s
jackets and faux-American pop,
halogen lamps as fireflies on
wave crests dance beating about
their sullen wings as wash
on mossy brick.

It is why everyone comes here:
the picture-posers on bank,
booksellers with green wood cases,
wares-men with Taiwan wires and
cheap plastic on dusting tarps,
all like the rhythm of
stopped city buses.

All came to overpay for beer,
to find their hearts and fountain pens,
in the last lapping of currents.

Sunday, 24 September 2017

1 New Poem

Living in Motion

The best of times were there
behind silver-painted locking mechanisms,
sealed with Easter morning breeze,
swaying in time with suburban railway
track bends, conversing with
every conscious echo of Jazz Age
novelists, Beat philosopher and
other riff-raff whose egos litter
square, that make just overpriced
café sandwiches.

It’s when you’re there with all
the other jetsam of empire’s
backwash, trying to find those
stencil signs to head back home.

Tuesday, 19 September 2017

1 New Poem

Temps Perdu

The washers still clear water
on the cobbler’s handiwork at
a strike past eight, stilling
in brisk chill of Lucky Strike
packets, crisped up as offerings
to green square signs with names
of half the freshman philosophy
chart scribbled on them by
the same half-handed adjuncts
who threw them to nursed coffee
mug mercies when they still
had breath, sparks and such
things.

The halls of wrought iron
still clang with scrap-ash of
Industrial Age candor: that time
the magistrate knew better than all
this mouth-wording weave
made of spindle-breaking code
lines near the airport, acting
mechanistic, acting charitable with
still life cadaver oil sketches
of paving stone springs we
feel as consecrated myth,

driven out with waited time.