A MESSY DIVORCE BUT I SCRIBBLED THAT OUT

Hers are catwalks and she gives them
a handful of razors
and the temperature rises. Fierce
flashbulbs line the orchestra pit
and the audience
turn their face up. Modern living
tears the bedsheet in two.
Nothing is on the horizon for her
but zeroes. Red zeroes.

A TRAIN POEM

If you do not want anybody
to sit next to
you on the train,
make sure you have worked
your back out
and your T-shirt clings
to your armpits
in dark
bunches. Put your bag
under the seat.
Leave the seat by free
as a threatening gesture.
A man and his daughter with chips.
Change seats.
The daughter does not like the chips.
Now you are
sitting next to the moon
going to Swine Town.
Opposite, the father
is raising safeguarding concerns
and bitching about Nanan.

A BUS POEM

When you do not want anybody
to sit next to you
on the bus. Sit in the aisle
seat. It is important
you do not place your bag
on the empty
window chair. You are not a rude man.
If challenged,
say you have a bad knee
and shift. They must feel
pretty shitty about this. They do not have to know
it was your other leg. Just hurt.
A hot young guy gets on the bus.
This changes things. Shuffle across, smile
and leave a thigh
for him to sit against. If that woman
in the purple fleece
gets high nosed about it. Fuck her.
You had a miracle.
Who is she to argue with it?

FEAST NIGHT

This feast night. Candy floss
by the plastic bag and hot dogs. Onions.
A swig of vodka
round the back of the Waltzer.
Scream if you want to go faster.
I touched his hand
on the twister and he touched mine back,
I think. Dangerous lights.
Someone is raging against the autumn dark
with bareknuckles.
A gang of lads
menace the dodgems. They swing
mallets. He fingers
her against the caravan. His breath
is hotter than whiskey
in her breasts and neck.
She notices
his fingernails have not been cut.

EXIT THE BUILDING

Please make sure all
electrical equipment is switched off and unplugged.

Ensure the compound gate is padlocked
and the chair is replaced in the fire doors.
Close the curtains over the doors.

Wind the shutters down in all rooms.
Make sure all lights are switched off.

Lock all internal doors
(bathroom and accessible toilet doors
should be closed shut.
They do not have locks).

To activate the alarm when leaving the building,
key in the code and press "A".
The alarm will start bleeping
and this will allow you 30 seconds to exit.

Switch the hall light off.

Make sure the dead lock catch is in the down
position and close the door.

The gate padlock will need unlocking from the wall position
and then closed over the door
and secured with the padlock.

ENTRY TO THE BUILDING

The small key will unlock the padlock
on the gate. Once opened, secure it back
to the wall by reapplying padlock
to the fastening and locking it.

Front door key. Once the door is opened,
a bleeping noise will sound,
this is the alarm being activated.

The keypad to deactivate the alarm is situated
on the wall to the right.
Enter the alarm code here.

If an incorrect number is entered,
press the clear key and re-enter correct
code. If the alarm is activated in error,
please telephone
DMBC Monitoring Centre immediately.
This will prevent the Emergency Services
being alerted unnecessarily.

Silence the alarm as follows:
Using the keypad enter the alarm code,
this will silence the alarm but error codes will flash
in the display window.
Clear this by entering the alarm code again
and then press the CLEAR key.

Once this action has been carried out
you will be able to activate the alarm as normal
on leaving the building.

The front door has a dead lock.
This means, to allow free access in and out
of the building, it needs to be set correctly,
by holding the door handle down
and sliding the lever
which can be found on the door plate
when the door is open, to the up position.

The rooms in use will need the shutters raising.
You will find a rod to the side of the window.
This should be wound anticlockwise to rise
and clockwise to lower.
A chair is wedged into the fire doors for extra security.
This MUST be removed
whilst you are in the building as this is
a fire exit. The exit leads into the compound,
where the gate is padlocked. This must be unlocked.
The key for this is situated on the curtain tieback hook
next to the fire extinguisher.

A key for the windows can be found on a hook
in the kitchen,
situated on the side of the first wall unit.

A LOVE NEST

We give up our single beds.
Somewhere in the house,
somebody
is testing your earlobe
with her teeth.

Somebody sweats.

Remember
that accordion
in the upstairs back bathroom.
How it eyed us both
from the bidet.

HOLY PALMERS

For saints have hands that pilgrim's hands do touch,
and palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss.

Wet hands under running water.
Take a measure of soap.
Work into hands, palm to palm.
Right hand over back of left and vice versa.
Rub palm to palm, fingers interlaced.
Back of left fingers to right palms,
fingers interlocked and vice versa.
Rotational rubbing of right thumb clasped in left hand
and vice versa.
Left wrist with right hand and vice versa.

THE NIGHT ECONOMY

Pushing mop. In
and out of the bucket.
Slop. The hoover sighs 
the empty space
between
meeting rooms.
Green corridors
of glass. An empty
conference table to
be sprayed and wiped.
A pile of papers
to be squared and set.
Office lights
clicking off over
every desk one by
one. The dark silences.
Empty waste baskets.
A single red LED
on a security camera
that blinks. Out.

THERE ARE TOO MANY COINCIDENCES TO YOUR MEETING JEROME

for SR

I wanted to lose my virginity. His motorcycle
would not start. He was a boy who lived

in the same village as I. He gave me a job
as his secretary. The elevator broke.

I can remember those numbers 3 and 5.
The fibowhatty sequence? The photos I found

in the grass verge were torn. I did a jigsaw.
It was Jerome and his wife. I started his motorcycle.

All of this is too made up to be true,
but it happened. What are you going to believe?

Years passed. That much can't be ignored.
He was a terrible fuck. Lies don't make it worse.

SEX SCENE

At first I tried simulating wanking with my cock
balled up in my hand like it was still soft
and I was working it hard. My hand was sweaty
from the heat of the lights and the flaccid muscle
squirmed in the grease. I thought of slugs.
It helped me avoid an embarrassing erection.
The director was asking me to stare
straight up her skirt and, although she wore
knickers, they had ridden to the left, exposing
her dark shaved labia. I still don't know
to this day if she had arranged it or if
it was chance let me glimpse. I kept on hiding
it in my palm for three more takes. She was nervous.
I found my eyes drifting from her cunt
to the corners of her mouth. The fascinating tremble
of her lips. What was she expecting?
I was twice her age. A lumbering legend
massaging my modesty. Ingenue. She was sliced
and garnished, served on a mattress. I let go.
Thought, what is a 43 year old man doing
being bashful? If I was taking her girlhood
I wouldn't be shy. I fell on her squeals
with my hands and thighs, pressing her open
like in real life. I'm no tit man. My method
is to lick and kiss their throats. I won't lie,
I came close to fucking her for real twice,
but in the end you're just humping the air,
dissatisfied and sweaty. After the cut,
we were awkward. I brushed some straw
from my ass and hauled my trousers up.
I offered my hand and she took it.
Hers were small like a child's, engulfed as I pulled.
Later we'd be  filming a breakfast
scene in the cottage. Bacon and sausages.
She was straightening her skirt and blouse
as I walked off set to my trailer.

3 MINUTES

Stop. Time is come slowed. The machine
is making a breath in me. I am aware
some people are panicking.
I sound like I am drowning. Stillness.

Still slower. Lights are beginning to flicker
and blink. A beep. Coming small.
Everything is turning inside out like a flower.
I can hear the atoms of sweat bead his nose.

A beep. These are ghosts. Shadows.
Dust and windows. Things there and not there.
Someone is in the room with you.
Someone knows what it is you must do.

They do not call it names. Death. It did not come.
Sterilise the theatre. We were not here.

RICE NOODLES :P

for PM and VM

rice noodles
lice poodles
dice roodles
mice doodles
nice toodles
twice strudels
vice scruples
spice boobles

LITTLE BIRD

for MH

My nanan
is just a little bird
these days.

She is a birdcage.

She is so small
nobody knows
if she is in bed or not.

She is a pile of sheets.

Her heart breaks.
She has pain
in her stomach.

The bird is trying to fly.

NOTHING HAPPENED

It was a usual evening in early October.
John was upstairs sitting at the computer
and Anthea was downstairs watching Casualty
and playing Pet Rescue Saga on her iPad.
Nobody had been to the house that day
and they hadn't been anywhere else
because it rained. At one in the afternoon
the telephone had rung, but no-one
had answered in time. It did not matter.
The answer machine confirmed it had been
a sales call on behalf of a double glazing agent.
For lunch they had eaten cheese
and pickled onion sandwiches and afterwards
John had made them both a cup of tea
with milk. The dog had been walked
before it got dark and was sleeping in his basket.
Anthea completed a level. John read news.
At 11 p.m. they went to bed.

BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE WHIRLOWDALE

for JA

Peter's son is an eminent eye surgeon
who drives an Aston Martin. Peter is dead
and his house is for sale. I have only ever seen
the Aston Martin once. A taxi is parked
outside Peter's house. Gypsies have taken
lampstands and stud partition walls
out of Peter's house. Decent curtains
have gone up. Douglas says, looks like
we are getting more of our coloured brethren.
The woman from next door but two
who is older than she dresses;
I don't know how young she is,
trundles down, any news? Big Toj has reckoned
there must be a large family. Next door says,
as long as they don't play drums or build
an extension. They go back to their newspaper.
Last week we ate a disappointing Duchy Original
chicken and tarragon soup. Prince Charles.

KIRKGATE

This side of town that town forgot.
None of that po-mo
single accommodation flats and shops,
just car dealerships.

A bulldozing ring-road churns aside
abandoned industrial estates
and burnt out brick warehouses
stuffed full of pigeon feathers and shit.

THE REVOLUTION WILL BE ADVERTISED

For MF

The Gulf War will not take place
The Gulf War is not really taking place
The Gulf War did not take place

This tastes like the real thing,
says our man in the cotton shirt
from a desert jeep near Tripoli
on the trail of the Arab Spring.

The freedom frighters have skewered Gaddafi
and Union Brand bombs made it possible!
Scotland votes No!

In other news the central highway
is closed in Hong Kong.
Commuters are advised to make alternative
travel arrangements to avoid
the sit-ins protesting our glorious executive.

We want more democracy,
says the Sprite drinking man.
We want freedom to make more money
and buy luxury foreign goods,
to be the captains of our own industry.

Even the President wears
V for Vendetta.

In Tripoli things have taken turns
from Baghdad to worse.
Militant ISILamists have damaged
the corporate image.
IEDeas tremor under the asphalt.
Scorpions scramble.

DO NOT ADUST YOUR SET!
This is reality breaking through.

After the following messages and beheadings
blanket coverage will resume.

THE NIGHT ECONOMY

He sprays cologne on yesterday's clean shirt.
Another three squirts. Another can't hurt.
Downstairs the punters are bustling in.
The lads are oiled. It'll be packed by ten.
He fingers fibre through his hair and rubs
the scruffy clumps to peaks and tufts. He scrubs
up well, he does. Turning out the hall light,
he fantasizes the fanny tonight.

2 p.m. The bottle bin's crash echoes
in the deserted yard. The last drunk goes
singing out the back gate. He sparks a fag.
Spits at the wall. She looked like a right slag.
A cool breeze stirs. One more shift in the bank.
He imagines her tits spilled beer and wanks.

A USED COT ON EBAY

Barely used wooden cot
in teak effect colour
originally from IKEA.

Disassembles
and assembles easily.
Instructions included.

Buyer collect
or prearranged freight
costs.

Dimensions:
137 x 66 x 100 cm.
Weight: 33kg

THE NIGHT ECONOMY

3 a.m. The striplight winks
a saucy eye at the chef turning hot dogs
on the hot plate. He shuffles onions
with a spatula. It's just me
and two other guys drifted in
from drinking. A television in the corner tells
in hushed voices, gunfights overseas.
The world never sleeps. Coffee. Teeth
filled with grease and ketchup,
bread and onions spilling down his chin.
He is three sheets. From here streets
take a taxi over the river
Flights are rising out of the water 
coming down.
A lump of mucky sugar plops. A barge horn
blows the door ajar. A bell rings.
The lads are getting bolshy with each other.
I fix my face
in a teaspoon the wrong way round.
Nothing doing. The lads leave off.
It's just me and the chef. He is frying eggs.

PAUL

He is on the phone to Paul,
keeping his conversation all quiet like.
There is a lot he don't know,
that he mumbles.
He wants him to get his ears pierced,
these little lobes.
He wants him to go holes in his ears
and go down to Hull.

He is so young and beautiful
I want to have sex with him.
I want to be all over his bones
and nibble
them small lobes.
I want to go all holes with him
and go down to Hull with him.
To hell with Paul
whoever Paul is.

MASTURBATING AT THE GRAVE OF SYLVIA PLATH

It's something to fill the hours
this poetry stuff
at the grave of Sylvia Plath -
notebook in one hand,
a bottle of fizz in the other
or is that Jim Morrison?
or was that a can of Tennent's Super?

Eventually it gets hard
in your lap. It is damp.
Soon you will have to unbutton
and get it done.
No-one looking.
It is Keith Moon on that gravestone.
You are a teenager again,
a right proud arse on you,
red as a baboon.

WEIGHT

A heaviness has sunk into me
like an old armchair. This austerity
has been gaining pounds
since the crash in the Middle East.
Now, if I try to lift myself,
it is like I am coming from a deep floor,
up through an ocean of my thought
and it is dark and I am changing.

Now it is time to decide
who to be. The closet is open
and the monsters are knives out
in the night at my throat.
I have a wasp wing. A lion claw.
Pressure rings in me
like a bullet in an oil drum.
I can feel my evil thrum.

It is hard to love. Love is hard.
Love is a fossil inside a rock
and the rock is hard
Love is hammer now. Love is anger.
Love is a broken tool. A split shaft.
Love is a stone. Love is dust.
Now it's a breeze. Now it's blown
Everything is broke.

ANTHONY MARTINEZ BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Anthony Martinez
23 years old
Auburn CA
$30

Met at Pink's
Blew him in the restroom
Fucked me

he said he was going to go
get a hot-dog
with extra mustard
and some blow

Had been with women
Get checked November
Call Nov. 13th

MIKE MILLER BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Mike Miller, 24 years old
ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA, $25

One of my games -
two telephones
in an abandoned diner
and he picks
the left receiver.

I whisper
him undressed -
his shirt, his jeans, his socks.

From the hotel across the street
I watch him work
his soft cock hard
through Eschenbachs.
I talk him off.

And he hangs up on me.

He'll find 25 bucks in the coin return slot.

SAVING THE LANGUAGE

Cunt. A word that's under threat
from overuse.
I'd like to save it for the Cunt
that thumped his door
through at sunrise on Friday morning,
and the Cunt that flashed the warrant.
The Cunt that held the gun
to his head
as he knelt,
fingers interlaced behind his head.

The Cunts that put him up
at Her Majesty's Pleasure <Cunt>
without her medication.
That Cunt doctor that prescribed it
and kept his gob shut.

What about the pilot? Cunt.
That warmed the engine
while fifty shivering fuckers
shivered - frightened
in the terminal at Heathrow.
No Cunt asked to see their passport,
they just waved them through,
the Cunts.

But funnily enough, I wondered
did some daft Cunt stand
and wave his arms in English,
Cunting on
about the exit doors,
life jackets, the seatbelt light,
not smoking
as if they were all Cunts.

The Home Secretary
and all her junior ministers are Cunts.
Shuffling and signing papers,
not even reading them
or thinking of the names as lives
that live among us -
"Saving the English."

Let's us save us for ourselves
and not them Cunts.
Let's us save us
From them Cunts.

RUMPLESTILTSKIN

Everyday he'd turn up
and sweep
the turnings on the factory
floor to piles
and no-one new his name.

They'd call him Jud,
or little Jud.
They thought he were Jud's
son, but he weren't.
He didn't even know a Jud.

One day, he comes in
all quiet
and gets about his sweeping.
The missus no-one knew he had
had lost the bairn.

Afterwards they called him nowt.
Cut a wide berth
round the machines to avoid
conversation.
Nothing awkward like. Just work.

At the Christmas do he didn't show.
Sent a photograph
two days later from Magaluf
and a bottle of champagne,
offering his resignation.

A bottle of champagne
for thirteen men?
We barely got a thimble each
the spawny get.
Jud. Ungrateful sod.

PASSPORT INTERVIEW (OR THE "ARE YOU BROWN?" TEST)

Imagine we are at your house;
what colour is the front door?
When we open the front door,
what can we see?
Give me the guided tour.

Where are you going? Anywhere hot?
And how long for? And who with?
Does her husband know the pair of you
are carrying on like this?

What does your mother do?
And how much does your housemate earn
a week? What was the balance
on your father's last bank statement?
A dinnerlady then.

Excuse me a moment please.
I just need to take two of these.
I have a migraine coming on.

What have you eaten in the last four days?
When did you last dream?
When did you last have sex?
Or commit adultery?
What do you wear to bed?
Describe yourself naked.

Place your finger on the fingerprint reader.
This photo seems to be in order.
I'm sure we'll let you across the border.
If you'd been brown
we'd have given you murder.

Imagine we are at your house.

WILLIAM CHARLES EVERLOVE BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

William Charles Everlove, 28 years old
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN VIA ARIZONA, $40

He was never here
He never came
He was a ghost

I was never intimate
I never inhaled
I was alone

Somebody was never in the room next door
Somebody never heard
Somebody was in Texas

He was never anyone
He never lied
He was nothing

I was never told where he went
I never cared
I was important

LULLABEATLES

for EMA

1.

Rock-a-bye Lucy,
a boat on a river,
tangerine trees,
marshmallow pies.

Cellophane flowers,
kaleidoscope eyes,
diamonds with Lucy
marmalade skies.

2.

Hush little egg-man
don't you cry,
you'll be a walrus
before you die.

And if those pigs
can't run from guns,
we'll kick Edgar Poe
for fun.

3.

Diddle-diddle Desmond
market trolly
went to bed
with market Molly

Life goes on
and life goes on,
Obla-Desmond
Obla-Molly

4.

Twinkle, twinkle, understand
how I wanna hold your hand.
Such a feeling I can't hide
feeling happiness inside.
Twinkle, twinkle, be your man.
How I wanna hold your hand.

CHRIS BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Chris, 28 years old
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, $30

As I learned early
to draw the dollar -
an 's', 
some numbers
and two vertical lines,
with Chris it was simple

It was like he had rehearsed.
His small hands
unfastening my button fly,
reciting a four times table
by rote.

We met no more than seven times
according to my diary
when he 'disappeared.'

Afterwards, my journeys west
grew short. I felt
his breath behind my neck the one time
in the car and saw his shadow
in the parking lot

lengthening towards me.

OH WHAT A LUVVERLY WAR!

Oh what a luuverly war we had!
Didn't you go and weren't you glad?
And wasn't it muddy and wasn't it sad?
And wasn't you hungry and hurting bad?

Oh what a luvverly war we made!
All the fun of a hand grenade!
Fetch the shovel. Fetch the spade.
Bury the sacrifice you paid.

Oh what a luvverly war that's gone!
Let's plant poppies for everyone.
Let's build graves til Kingdom come.
Then bomb each other just for fun.

Oh what a luvverly war that's here!
It's been coming a hundred year,
since the silence became the cheer,
and black shirts grin from ear to ear.

THE NIGHT WATCHMAN

I was talking about suicides and governments

and cities in foreign countries and listening

to Bruce Springsteen on vinyl. I was thinking

 

I'd been smoking for two weeks straight

and that was my run. There was nothing on the road

that night. Nothing on the other side.

I was worried for my friend

who was caught up in a friend 

they were worried about. There were no motorbikes.

The road was closed. The bins 

had not been emptied and my nephew was learning 

to stand. Some people were walking their dogs.

High police presence. Cat shit in the gravel.

A pile of books. Empty bottles. It happens.

DON SPINELLI BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

His white sox. His post-soccer,
post-baseball attire. He removes his shorts.
Don is the captain of the football team
and I am the same nerd I ever was.

I start at his upturned toe,
lifted to make it easier to take in my mouth.
I am squeezed to the floor. His spit.
I am told I am worth shit. I pay extra for this.

Sometimes we never go further
if that is his wish.
I perform to his insults and fists. I am trained.
We meet in derelict factories.

His gay for pay eyes. His girlfriend at home. 
She counts my dollar. His dick.
His will not love me so I will not love him.

IKE COLE BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Ike Cole, 38 years old
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, $25

On aisle 3
you can buy milk
and you can get butter
and cream and cheese
and yoghurt

On aisle 9
you can buy Frosted Wheats
and you can get Corn Flakes
and Nutrigrain bars
and Coco Pops and Lucky Charms

On aisle 2
you can buy plums
and you can get cabbage
and spinach and thyme
and habanero peppers

On aisle 15
you can buy frozen peas
and you can get fish fingers
and potato waffles and swede
and oven fries

On aisle 7
you can buy vodka
and you can get Bacardi
and tequila
and Napoleon brandy and bourbon

On aisle 4
you can buy kitchen towel
and you can get toilet roll
and bin liners
and make-up and sterident

A moment where you forget
what you were doing with your life
and you've left your wallet in the car
and you are holding bread and beers
and you are meeting Ike at 6

On aisle 10
you can buy peanuts
and you can get pretzels
and crisps and Mini Cheddars
and Pringles

On aisle 6
you can buy lemonade
and you can get Coca-Cola
and Pepsi cola
and cherryade and bottled water

MAJOR TOM BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Major Tom, 20 years old
KANSAS CITY, KANSAS, $20

He'd scratch at the track marks
on his ankles and arms.
He never looked at anything anywhere
for more than a second
and made me nervous.

I think I loved him like a movie star,
like anybody you'd see in a gossip column.
He kinda reminded me
of the corpse of River Phoenix,
as if he'd been laid out for the tourists.

I tried to see him less and less
and each time he shrank.
Last time he was bone
and when I stroked his skin
I swear it came off in my hand.

He only wanted to see himself in a magazine.
He thought he'd be astronaut by now.

MR FARAGE AND THE TIDE

Mr. Farage looked at the coast and bawled,
through a BBC megaphone
sponsored by Gazprom, at the sea.

All this water, coming over here,
taking British shingle from British beaches!

Kelp coming up through the stone.
One high tide.
Mr. Farage plays Cnut
in his highchair, throwing all his rattles
at the oncoming flood 'til it turns
and hangs him dry.

A conference of molluscs applauds.
Crabs lick their claws and descend.

ANDRE SMITH BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Andre Smith, 28 years old
BATON ROUGE, LOUISIANA, $30

Dusk. The coin falls drip.
A plastic palm frond shivers in the breeze
of an opening door that closes
on a scuff of dust.

Outside on the parking lot, Andre,
a black youth, muscle gilded bronze
in sunset, waits
for somebody to get lucky.

The drawers glide out and in.
Silver stacks and slips.
It's a well oiled machine.
In a motel, lubricant prepares the skin.

MR. FARAGE APPLIES THE GREASE

probably you might say that
it was possibly racist perhaps
you may infer homophobia in any 

major party there are rotten 
apples threatening
to spoil the upset cart but look

no-one holds a clean slate
and the donations were received 
in good faith by the treasurer potentially

you could dig up dirt but the fact
remains that possibly probably
you could infer or say that maybe

ERIC HOLT BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Eric Holt, 19 years old
SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO, $25

I'd call Eric on Fridays, some time
after midnight when the news
and a bottle of Jack grew stale
bedfellows.

I first picked him out on the Boulevard.
Drove him the cool night road
out of town in the convertible
with the roof down.

I think of Eric. The smell of his hair.
The way he sipped his water. His cock.
I feel shame, but never stopped
him coming.

THE EXERCISE POEM

For IC

Imagine a place from your childhood;
write down three things you can see,
three things you can smell,
three things you can hear.

Imagine a pair of hands;
what are they touching?
Write down three things they taste of.

Imagine you are an object from your mother's childhood.
Imagine you are a suitcase.
Write down three things you feel right now.
Write down three things you will feel later.

Go back and delete any word that rhymes.
Go back and delete any word containing an f.

Now interview everything you've just written.
Render the responses phonetically.
Do not stop writing until I say

MICHAEL GOMEZ BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Michael Gomez, 34 years old
CHICAGO ILLINOIS, £30

Hello Michael, it's me. Is that you?

Could you come over tonight,

I'm feeling pretty scared?

No, don't turn on the light.

Don't turn on the light.

Turn it off.

What is it you're smoking these days?

Would you like to bum

one of mine? Don't turn on the light.

A bust heater stuck on high.

White cotton. Sweat in his elbows.

Please Michael, don't turn on the light.

A CALIFORNIAN TRIANGLE

The Buick of my enemy has screamed
off the Coast Road in California
and mangled on the cliff rock
where it fell. I have pulled over
by the beach to stare at the steaming
wreckage with glee.

The body of my enemy has been pulped
by the steering wheel and gear-shift,
the shattered windshield,
crumpled dash.
His eyeball, dangling on an optic nerve,
makes me want to puke, but I don't turn away.

The screenplay of my enemy has blown
along the coast. Pages float
In the sea mash where it hits the sand
and pages flap in the air.
Vultures are coming from the canyon.
They have come to pick the bones.

IN ANOTHER TIME

The old King agreed to entertain
The Empress. He stroked
his short beard
and worried the country
would come to grief

as if shook from a dream.
The old King slept.

Someone off stage shouted, 
"Get on with it!"
and a floorboard creaked.

She bowed. The Empress said,
"I have come for your Kingdom,
your jewels, your pearls
and your people.
I wish to break chains and unions."

The old King gave some crumbling pages
his signature. A castle wall collapsed.

"Take what you can," he sighed,
"but spare my feelings.
We who came before made the world
you want to make afresh.
We fought the same way.
Do not tread the battleground again."

The Empress conceded with a curtsy
and crossed fingers.
She knew better than this old sod.
Off with his head!

Somewhere in a foreign field,
a corpse
in bloodied armour grinned.

LONDON ROAD BY JACQUES ROUBAUD

London Road
across from The White Lion
a public lavatory
closed
when the station closed

By the entrance to the subway
to Heeley station
also closed

LOVE POEM BY BILL MANHIRE

If you asked me
to choose, I'd hesitate
some.

Love. Not there.
Unseen.
Being near

when your limbs bend
and soften
like sand under seawater.

I'll talk the ocean bed
to you. A tentacle that grips.
The abyss.

WHY I DON'T READ FICTION

for DB

I dated brick and mortar.
We drank Moet
as it frothed off the blast of a bursting star
in space.

At home,
he always itched to fix the pots,
but the dishwater churned with piranhas.

An eyeball grew in his brain. Sally waited.