Sunday, 19 January 2014

The Faecal Landscape of Short Angry Men

all apologies
all apologies
it’s just a list
his balls and the string in his pocket
all phoney and fake
a memory of Holden
and Piggy
all apologies and effort
owning up
to the confidence trick

She lay on the bed, restless,
musical background,
Grinding her teeth and
Jerking her knee,
Out of beat
All hair and flesh to him
While she knew life
Wasn’t all about him,
Or Peddie Street.

He shudders in the bathroom,
Clutching the sink, topless,
Eyes downcast thin sheen of saline,
Not halfway into the riddle,
And deeper for such.

She lost eight fingers on temple
Slowly dragging them back
Through a forest of hair
As soft as silk
As certain as black.

He places policeman
In his thoughts
He sighs with guilt and warm breath.

is he eighty?
is he eighteen, or eight?
he has a contempt
for question marks

She felt affection but now feels cold
Small feet, confident eyes
How old is she?
Who cares?

He is a bore, predictable but amiable
He won’t attack with hands or feet
Or teeth or head with  elbows or nails
Or random blunt or razor objects
Which lie around The Earth

She shakes her head in miniature psychosis
Wearing white panties with pink hearts

He hangs, an animal, a donkeyhorse with
None of the majesty
Sick and weak  throwing up a little

all apologies for the characters
doused in bleach soaked in mud
the little ones
but don’t you find
who is the better person
we ask ourselves
which one can we judge

He is three score years and ten
But once he stood
Over a different sink
Being sick and dreaming of Milton
Though he never knew
And he never grew
Except for in pain and in wisdom

the name of this poem
isn’t what was written
but my father, my father, my father

she was only ever there in a dream

But she was strong and beautiful
Fragile, grateful
Whatever age she was

He shudders in the bathroom
And dribbles on the floor

She has eyes that see
And a mind which feels

whoever she is, he loves her
as the world revolves
around his baby
and all apologies
from him
it's just a list
from whoever he is
small clenched fist
diurnally drenched
in the piteous mist

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