Goldilocks

You never spot the build-up

- how spoilt she gets -

how quietly she turns a door latch,

sneaks down the drive - early morn -

and tiptoes out from Dad’s big house

or mystery how Mummy Bear

decides on the family’s health-kick:

memory-foam, massage-chairs, porridge, hikes

and how this feral girl and bears and story

dance their destinies, in tension, truth.

The Blues

Pencils get sorted out - blue ones

to the left; red ones, grey, white - teams

in colour-puddles; ready for a quiz. Andrew

(as the host) will look intently, set

the questions - only he will know

the rules and which of seven coloured

groups can win each round - and prize.

‘Ready black team. Start the clock!

‘Dodgems, Waltzer – which one?

Milk Shake or Chocolate – choose!’

He questions them on food and music;

marriage, Jesus, stage show, songs

lyric is the key to feeling

and there will be a tie-break moment

between the blue team and another.

Predictably, the endgame settles:

- one team always wins the battle –

rightly, since they are the blues,

and little blue pencils are humble.

1981

ZX81

- fully QWERTY.

Thank you Dixons,

Christmas Eve.

Flicky screen,

- weirdly - green;

all the magic

of new BASIC.

Dad and I are Batman, Albert,

logical as billiard balls:

ping-pong, pacman, space invaders;

dig-in digits, digital.

Insects

They fly and settle; settle, twitch and stand on

legs, necks, stems, windows, buds;

endeavoring not to draw attention to themselves.

Two hundred million of them for every

person standing on a wet planet.

You get on the weigh-scales one sunny day

and two tons of insect drop and spin

the dial you focus on critically;

thirty times your weight, twitching and writhing

- a pyramid of little aliens, crawling.

The Campaign Against Cruel Sports,

Beethoven, even poetic Shakespeare,

are tiny human accidents compared

to terror, anger, revulsion at these mites

and the fear of your own insect-like state.

Facing away from the direction of travel

we set off at dawn.

A slow start, accelerate

down tracks, rumbling

silver rails. A crimson sun rises

East - skimming trees -

Midlands, into Birmingham.

The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.

This is how we travel – backwards,

looking out into where we’ve been:

an engine behind

and a caravan of multiple eyes

with a clear view of the back of our head,

pulling. We look away;

focused, unaware

Down's Out

Ladies and Gentlemen. Boys and girls, uncles and aunts;

our time of oddity, bigger-head, thick neck, smiley,

is (at its best) blazing with a pungent oil, lighting

lamps in our tummy or heart which seldom can be shared.

Statistically precious because of our rarity

we shatter imagination, vision slashed away

as you and I make a different jigsaw – train crash

some might well call it – we would say more like a new sound

or music hallowing from fine cosmic dust one night

through a long code you’ve not yet broken. Take us for real

and let go of that frozen window pane of the Christ

or glossy magazine cover with midnight shadow.

Yes, clean the frosted glass and see a new bee buzzing

in Fall or a big pencil that wags and stays in line

long enough to grow an old friend – before bed time.

Can you feel a wire stretching from my belly button

towards you; breathing bubble into breathing bubble?

I adore nursery rhymes and have a large belly

under my blue shirt, like daddy bear. Shall we join hands

as warm as an ancient man who ran-down the mammoth

or woman waiting by ruddy fire and family?

You and I are not Jesus Christ as far as we know.

We’re far too stupid for that. I love you. I thank you.

Relativity

On a train

seemingly

blurry trees

vapor back

pillow clouds

silver track.

Blindly

I stay me

colours turn

endlessly.

Praise be.