He sits at a table opposing her,
angled, on a late night train;
chatting about his music scene
and a dream of becoming a star.
She sits opposing, strokes her hair,
leaning, on the long diagonal,
for a new tune on his headphones
and a dream of becoming a star.
Higher, higher stars alight,
spun and pulled by unseen force;
circling nodes,
flinging their mass,
radiating heat,
fusing; before they explode.
about going for a walk;
which he can’t see the point of.
Not useful like eating a plate of chips
or singing; like puppets and funny voices
or stories on the spot, extemporised. No,
it’s NOT a good idea to walk cold.
Why would you, when you can smile and
connect and have a laugh, hug?
He says ‘No, I be leaving!’ and we answer
‘Come on then, put your coat on luvvie!’
‘No – I be leaving’ and sits looking stern and worried,
intent on NOT leaving by saying he’s leaving;
meaning - no shoes, no coat, no mud.
No! No - he’s LEAVING our suggestion to be leaving
because it’s NOT fun, is it?
….walking…. and looking ahead…. avoiding connection.
Lying back in a warmly scented bath,
I’m feeling for something – call it sound
out there - around - not completely heard.
There – a hum of central heating,
traffic vroom, pop music,
a human voice, muted, dark:
outside - a strimmer zips,
downstairs sons knocking
and, here, a soapy
heap of bubbles
popping
popping
tension,
in me.
tighter than a bud in early spring,
every northern landlord is a king
‘til Andrew walks up to the bar with a grin,
looking for chocolate and lemonade too;
elvis is here and he sidesteps the queue,
wearing, with pride, an invisible crown:
this moment, these people, his own.
There’s no doubt the grouse hit another car
this morning; when it was too panicked to learn,
to go back, or leap, it finished crawling the road
back from impact to kerbside.
I felt a shocked relief – a selfish, sad reaction
because, almost smug, I went along
with no responsibility for the killing
but now I ask - why didn’t it fly, why didn’t it fly?
A man plays guitar
- 3 chord positions –
in the meditation room.
Some people lie
or sit like Buddha
or cronk in a chair
in the meditation room.
Some are singing,
a couple talk,
none are silent
in the meditation room
and with all this ruckus
I’m fiery and hot
in the meditation room.
I decided to tell you
slowly
when my Dad
walked up the beach
in baggy shorts and sandals
on his last ever holiday
he was fascinated by pebbles, shells,
people passing in bright shirts
and he smiled in the sun
taking all the time
in the world to
walk and look:
slowly
I decided to tell you.
