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Sunday 30 March 2014

Mime

















Noel Coward lives in our street.
Each day at nine he promenades
wearing his best Oxfam smoking jacket,
recently died fawn slacks
and slippers

First he pats his pockets, 
Before taking out an imaginary cigarette
Clamping one hand to his forehead,
And mouthing “ooh, silly me”,
realising fags are normally filter first
he removes it, bows and re-inserts.

Once lit, he stands at the pedestrian crossing
on Weston Road, parodying an old prostitute,
soliciting winks from passers’ by,
taking great sucks at his pincer’d butt
like a reverse Breathalyzer
and blows smoke rings at traffic cops

His gait is something to behold.
Not quite John Cleese from the ministry 
more a speed skater in slow-mo
who trips over an imaginary toe
And skids to a teetering stop

I heard he feigned death,
doing a very convincing heart attack.
Trouble was, the pretend Paramedic
arrived too late
as did the invented undertaker, leaving
an eight-year-old girl feeding swans
to mark the body
face down in the lake
with two soggy rounds of bread
and a moldy bap



Friday 21 March 2014

My Shadow





















My shadow leads I follow
It falls behind I wait
Like a Mum with a toddler

I know it’s me
But still I question its authenticity
Grilling it for signs of street lit fakery
Or airbrushed incredulity

When the moon is full
And the sky clear
My bold shadow walks purposefully on
While I slope behind.

Is darkness its enemy?
Or is it a merely a meeting of many
Gossiping about our fragile selves
Then sleeping
Like so many dogs have done

At the foot of my bed.

Friday 14 March 2014

The Bright Eyes of Summer


Si-mon? Dad said, softly
and I knew, between the syllables
a life had gone

In the background
mums’ cries rose then fell
as grief dropped, then carried her off
again.

I listened, shock congealing
staring into the bright eyes of summer
supplanting my unsightly face with
a short business-like shower.
I gently lowered the receiver
like a stunned sparrow


I hit the front door head on, like a drunk
flung it open
sleep-running my way down some hostile lane
towards a Pub,
I forget its name.

The landlord poured me a dark brown drink
sighing, saying England were 223 for 7
I nodded  
thinking how Sam hated driving
and that freaks who gawped at car wrecks
wanted hanging