NO COMMENT

I wouldn't admit this if it were true.
Not to you. Wouldn't say I murdered
two elderly men or ran over a child.
I wouldn't admit to the rape 
of six nurses on a university campus.
I'd never let you swab my cheeks
for DNA without due cause.
I know my rights. I know that prisons
cannot hold me. I remember
the grin of the barman before
he poured those six martinis
in the lounge. He did not judge me,
even when I bust her lip and ran.
It's something everybody does.
Turn on the news and there I am,
an e-fit that was seen near the bank
just before the robbery. The police
are interested in talking to me
in connection with the incident.
That's not me in the reconstruction.
I was never there. They'll never catch me 
and I'll not come forward on my own.
You'd hate me for the things I'm rumoured 
to have done. I don't care. You think 
I'll never change and I won't. I'll never see 
the consequences if it means my life. 
Nobody will prove me wrong.

A WASTING SONG

for DB

Travelling east
from Westminster
on the Jubilee line,
you lose one year
off your life
for each stop
you don't get off at.

Ulcers on the feet which go untreated.
Violence from passers by.
Unable to wash or shower on your period.
Being discharged from prison to the streets.
Exhaustion from walking around at night.
Being scared.

Westminster
Waterloo
Southwark
London Bridge

People are quick
to tell you to pick
yourself up.
Premature death.

Bermondsey

I shoplift for basics —
milk and bread.
People in their dressing gowns
at 3.30 in the afternoon.
Depression.
Black moods.
I live like I'm in prison.

Britain's big freeze.
The brutal Arctic blast.
A biting wind.
5000 deaths in a long, dead winter.

Canada Water
Canary Wharf

Oil and tar.

The body was still
in a bag at the scene
guarded by police
five hours after
it was dragged from the river.

A second body was recovered
by RNLI 
at 8.08 a.m.

North Greenwich
Canning Town
West Ham
Stratford

Something going down in #Westfield,
Popo and cordens.
Somebody got themselves stabbed in #Westfield.
Can't even get to Nando's.

RIP the young man
who got stabbed
to death today
in Stratford #Westfield.

It's a
sad
world
we live

MAKING CHUCKIES

Murder toys are
in production.
It's top news dolls
are slaughtering
teenage daughters
who sleep around,
top news daughters
who act like sluts
are being snuffed
by dolls dressed up
as kids in clothes
that fit too loose
and large. Children 
dressed in trenchcoats,
duffel coats, macs,
that hang round malls
in pairs or threes
soliciting
for two year olds.

The death count tops
the news. Two ten
year olds who watched
a nasty tape
and played at sticks
and stones will break
your bones and swear
words turn you bad.
Crossbows, semi–
automatic
guns, a Belfast
sink. These monsters
who were raised by
feckless drunks, thick,
are called to hang.
Murder toys are 

in production.

BLACK SITE

The Dolby won't hiss, if you can find a tape
recorder to play them. The local archives
have got one where you can sit
with a pair of headphones, each muff
bigger than your fist, that make it echo
in your head as large as a warehouse.
Do you dare go in? How far can you listen
to boots being scraped through muck
and rusted bolts? What can you see now,
eyes closed, blotting out the librarian's
busy curiosity? What can you see now?
Is it the tape over his mouth? His flinches
from the crack of a belt? His eyes crushed
shut with bruises? Will you go on
or press stop? Or pause, and reflect,
get your breath and let those muscles
deflate, before pressing play? It comes
back louder and more intense. Shouting.
An earful of poison that sends speakers
whistling with screaming crackles of electricity. 
You imagine the body of a man, seventeen, 
suspended between two frames. His torso
overwritten with cuts. WHORE. You hear sobs,
Muffled begs for it to stop. Will you listen?
Or will you go on to the climax,
now you daren't believe it? Do you think
it could be true? If only you could see,
you'd know the sudden silence after barks
and whelps was death. It will not tell.
The recorder clicks. Are you disappointed?
Could you guess? Are you ready to live
with it? The uncertainty? The quiet?

DEAR MAM

It's Pond's Angel Face, shade Golden Rose,
If you can't get Golden Rose, Tawny will do.
I asked for permission for my hair to be bleached,
but permission has been refused. Dear mam,
when you see me at the trial I will have awful streaks
and my hair will be lifeless. Dear mam, 
can you please bring me a bottle of make-up?
Ian would like the photos we picked out at Chester,
can you get them developed for us please?
He thinks you will be quicker than his mum.
Keep all of the photos for us for reasons,
ones of the dogs, scenery etc. Mr. Curtis wrote here
to ask. I can't even have it trimmed or thinned.
Dear mam, 29th of December 1965, we had
half a chicken each, turkey sandwiches,
half a bottle of Sandeman's Port Wine.
Believe me when I say 99% of Smith's evidence
against Ian and I, particularly Ian, is lies. Dear mam,
it's a constant source of irritation. The dark roots
are very much in evidence. Whether or not
Ian and I killed those children there's no need
to go into the matter. Dear mam, it's 7 a.m. Friday,
and probably the jury will return its verdict today.
6th of June 1966. Dear mam, I knew I'd have to go
to prison for some time for 'harbouring'
but I didn't think it would be this long. Ian
is in Durham. Ian has a little mouse in his cell.
He feeds it crumbs. If you would drop me in a box
of maltesers and a short note. Dear mam,
Mr. Fitzpartick has a list of photos to send
to Ian and myself. Dear mam, will you phone
Mr. Fitzpatrick and tell him, as soon as the appeal
is over, to send Ian and I the photos we picked out
at Chester. 6th of August 1968. Dear mam,
when you collect them from the chemist send them,
Ian is anxious to have them. Dear mam,
I'm sorry to have nagged about them for so long.
3rd of February 1970. I keep putting him off
with vague excuses. You keep saying you'll bring them
but never do. Dear mam, thank you for bringing
the slides. Ian is happy. The other night
he left it half a chip, thinking it wouldn't touch it,
but when he woke up in the morning it had gone.
5th of May 1966. Just believe your own heart.
My fondest love to you all, my gran,
whom I will never probably see again. Dear mam,
destroy after reading. I don't want anyone to see me.

THE LONG NIGHT JOURNEY OUT OF THE FOREST

1.

It was easy going in, 
an assassin's hands
opened the bodies like lovers. 
Decked out in black, 
only the owls and night 
creatures saw me
descend the wet path
from the moor to the forest.
Night ego. As in dreams,
they were mine, but not mine,
that twisted the rope,
snapped it tight in a crack
of rainwater and lightning.
God, I felt so powerful
breaking and smashing the bones
with my fists. I was free,
a howl at the moon that echoed
to morning. A crescent
of blood still crusted
at each finger's tip
like an unopened eyelid.

2.

When they dug me up
I told them nothing, denied
I had been there, never seen
those boys in the photographs
nor heard their names whispered
along the bar, caught their breath
in my ear and promised them
paradise. I improvised, lied,
gave alibi after alibi 
for each night they described.
I rang true as a dented bell
then fessed up to stop
their questions and accusations.
I pled not guilty on account of 
my diminished responsibilities.
My father had hammered
the sense from me. They weren't mine,
but his, yanked the cable ties
tight round their wrists. I was mad
at the time, mad now. Crackers
on account of being given over
to the state in my youth.
Violence and survival were all I knew.

3.

I go to the forest each night
to watch the man hurt the other men
among the trees. Night sounds,
rainfall on leaf dropped to sludge,
the insects bickering over fungus.
He is no different to me,
but powerful, a horse-high, at least,
a barn door broad. He cooed
them like lovebirds to his forest,
his hide beneath the bracken,
a trap he'd primed with knives
and axes. But he loved most
to use his fists, manual work,
a thumb to bust an eyeball,
fingers to choke a scream.
I cannot escape their visits,
these fascinating ghosts that shiver
under his control excite me.
His muscle, his tower of flesh,
trembles in moonlight.

4.

The long night journey out of the forest begins
with an interlacing of hands, a kissing of palms,
a step away from the dead. We will walk until dawn
up to the moor, to the lay-by where we parked the van.
We will not look back at the forest, its secrets,
but keep eyes front. The engine will stutter to life
and drive towards sunrise. All things are waking
before us on the road, blinking and not looking back.