Waiting To Go

Waiting To Go

She eyes them from her locked window;
the busy people, all those with places to be.
Phones to harried ears and carrier bags
bumping bruises to shins that will forget
how they got there and then keep
on going somewhere else while they fade.

The window should smear with her breath,
should summon her fingerprints pressed
over the months lumping sluggish
beneath her on those same pavements
where the old chewing gum stains are
the only constants. She follows
every journey, every stranger
who passes and never looks up.

Her bags are always packed ready,
but sat there homing the dust
by the door she can’t open
to the stairs she dares not go down
to the door that leads to probably nothing
more than those dirt-scabbed grey pavements.



She let me take the blame,
the responsibility,
her gift to me
all tied up
with a tongue so nimble.

She discovered it young
the rush of deception;
of parents, peers
and test scores.
Honed it
to lonely perfection.

A self-belief fashioned
on roughshod sugar.
She is too sweet,
a poisoned confection:
makes herself sick.

Magic Marker

Magic Marker

Colour me your favourite
shade of weird.
I will wear it every day.

Your magic marker,
unique to me.

Sometimes I’ll be scribble,
outside the lines.

I am your clash-dash saturation;
we rip the paper in haste.

Bolder shapes yet to make.


The Magician

The Magician

His conjuror’s talent
she’d smiled eyes at.

He’d flourished
the fabled magic words,
just pronounced each one
a little bit wrong.

Didn’t replace anything
he’d used,
even with white rabbits.

Now, behind the curtain
he devours
every word she spells,
his wand redundant.


The Scientist (New poem and yes, I’m still here, honest… )

The Scientist

He autopsys your every tear;
deconstructs with intimate care
to analyse their component parts
under spotlit glass.

Find their cause:
as necessary.

You’d sooner let them dry,
evaporate in the sun.
But he’s holding a parasol,
shading you delicate.
Safe in his garden.

His control subject;
kept free of contamination.

Where no one else
will ever see you.



Hello World Of Blog! I’m still here – just been rather taken up with other things of late. You, fellow readers and bloggers, are not forgotten, even if my online presence continues to be a tad sporadic!


Spinning A Litter (Blancmange)

Spinning A Litter

In her steam-licky kitchen
old melted sugar ghosts
the windows opaque.
She wants a fresh batch.

She boils them up; saucepan
conception, bubble-jumps
in milk and gelatine to build
them plump and lush.

Six pink blancmange rabbits,
a litter, formed in 1970s
aluminium jelly moulds;
a find in Oxfam.

Each mould releases
with a suck.
For once not one
of her quivering babes
collapses at birth.

She feels like Dr Doolittle
or Frankenstein
of puddings.

She plates them, hands
like a veterinary nurse.
Puffs with icing sugar,
her fairy dust.

to ears and bobble-pop tails.
Perhaps a liquorice eye
for a whisker of a wink.

A drizzle of red sauce
at selected necks.

At nightfall, she sets them
to spin, each plate precisely
by her talented fingers.

A suburban circus framed
in her front bay window.
Rabbits to spin themselves
dizzy ‘til daylight
on half cracked sticks
of candy cane.

No animals are harmed.



She licks her lips. It’s a nasty thing.
Heard about it from someone who knew
someone who heard something
from somebody else.

Artificial sweeteners still rot outwards
from her organs. Self-styled dear-heart.
So tender. So kind.

Her pride is taking back: the internal “Ha!”
Karma to gloat: They Got Theirs.

Artful reward – a passive satisfaction
in aggressive keystrokes.

Almost like being there. Vengeance.
A confidence. (Or as near as she’d get.)

Someone else Failed.
They must feel… This!
They must say… That!

A self-loathing shared.
Transference is bliss.

And she is Glad!

The lonely space is cosy. She smirks
and takes lovely time to mock
from gossip.
They’ll come wheedling back to her.
Pretensions broken – knowing their place.

Because she is so kind. And tender
and happy to hear
someone else might hurt.

Even in her own imagination.

Stroll – for the new month


First of the month.
Pinch ‘n’ a punch!
White rabbits!

Yank on those bootstraps
and bloody get on with it.

March. March. March.

My bootstraps snapped
back in January.
My laces swell-locked.
I was waterlogged.
Weighting to drown.

I bludged through February
in fearful floods, knived grit
wretching every tread.

Had to cut myself free.

It’s still chilly. Will be
for quite some miles I’m sure.

I stretch my toes, sock them
and nestle in pink trainers
for bounce. Not quite
sandals weather yet.

But I bare my neck,
scarf tongue-flicking the wind.
The plucky sun: it’s trying.

A long way to go.
There’s no hurry.
Now I will stroll.


Strong Swimmer

Strong Swimmer

I hope he backstrokes, my boy,
though he hardly has the room;
it’s snug in there.

He’s got some kick on him!
An out-popping alien foot
and he pogos on my bladder.

As if I could ever forget
he is here.

He is here!
Well, nearly.
He winds me,
punches amniotic joy.

Can’t wait to get out.

I knit my arms safe
around our roundness.
Can barely reach
these last weeks.

Feel him bouncing, impatient,
monkey-legs always pumping.
This is just the beginning.



We can hear him all night in the flat next door.
Barking and crying and barking some more.

He stopped for a while, had a nap,
maybe hoped when he woke
they’d be back. But they’re not.

He’s bored on his own:
wants a mooch outside,
cock his leg,
stretch his paws.

Been like this all night: he doesn’t give up;
barking and crying and barking some more.

The garden is so far off.
They’ve done this before.
His people, gone elsewhere.
They drove away in the car.
His nose wet in the net curtains
mourning their tail-lights.

He howls deep-lonely from his throat.
Chest echoing unformed fears.
They always come back.
They always come.

He’s at it again: barking and crying
and barking some more. Faithful friend;
he never gives up.
Lump in my mouth.

I up the volume on the remote.
They always come back.



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