Hup

She touched her toes, unrolled a map, chose a route, ate a snack, tracked a path, stopped to chat, took some twigs, breathed in sense, kept it clear, chose a spot, drew the links, lit a fire, wet the pen, won the time, laid the lines, wrote a text.

Writer's Block

I could not see the wood(s) for the trees,
I could not plot my path through the trunks.
I entered with the best of intentions
yet found myself in an unclear place thick with saplings
struggling towards the light, green dust floating down
and up in stencilled light.
My fingers itched.

I could not write on the trees, I could not make my own path,
The main path was elusive; paths were only other paths.
I found a pond and stared at its opaque cover.
Ducks went about their business,
water boatmen balanced their acts.
My storm hovered above their calm, my toes
burned with shame.

I walked three times around the perimeter,
I could not muster the strength to plunge
into the very heart of the matter.
I plucked leaves and rolled them like cigars.
I stared at the cracks in the bark.
My lower back was wet with sweat
and I had done nothing.

Help
Help
Help

The Hills

Like a tap turned on after a long absence, the release
of grateful water, as outside a car door CHHOUMM slams.
The flamingo wakes the zoo.

A flame licks the arch of the S, Luigi on Sunset utters this
warning to his single-sinned wife, “Don’t be taking my pasta
or my woman.”

She’s come to the stone in the middle of the peach. The sea
is ruined but the light off the waves promises as sieved sugar
on a tart.

Her cat’s rictus grin wins her over – “oh Jenga, come here,”
she says and clicks her tanned fingers. Jenga brushes against
ormolu, padding over.

He’s not flown for at least a year. He’s 51 pages and pure lakes,
a fly and orange upside down cake. He slicks his hair back
like Crispin Glover.

“Do you wanna arm-wrestle, stone pussy?” A balcony breeze
brings a modest erection to the hairs on her arm; her heart
is like a net.

Ingenious water-pumping systems

Yet-to-be-uncorked water prisoners
whose still patience registered on the ninth heroic scale,
worn by excuses, done to the shallowest degree of invitation, hide
muted screams.

Needles of ancient lore, loosely foundationed, the garage – its oily life.
A figure waited on the balcony, its shadow interrupting
the accumulation of the day’s themes.

From a near distant suburb comes a rumbling
as mules careen through streets of tomatoes on a long
silvery leash.

The next monent, the shower is on
and the bell-hop is gone.

Come a little closer and taste this pastry
with its big big flavours.

Which superhero is it going to be?

...the telegraph wires dip
drowsily over the garden walls and the trunks of holly trees
are wrapped in brightly coloured woollen tubes against the breeze

your fingers crack in the cold, chestnusts roast,
Chinese lanterns drift across empty lawns and rest against oaks
sand makes wormy patterns on factory windows
(or is it dust?)

take that leap of faith, as chalk powder sticks to red plastic chairs
and graffiti fades in the dawn light, scream your love into my ears
and eat Turkish pizza for breakfast, the edges of the dough a little charred
and march with ladybirds snapping around your heels

view three elephants in descending size warm teapots
by curling their trunks around them, as Frank buys pickles for his vodka parties

hand in your bollocks on a plate
say, ‘here, I’m a non-believer,
and you are a royal pain in the arse.’