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?

THE FOUNTAIN

It is only water and it only holds
you long enough to toss a coin
between its jets and wish if magic's
what you believe in, and you believe
the cosmos at that moment
will turn its megatons of matter
in your direction like a radio
telescope in the Mexican dustpan
bleeps messages to little green men
who answer in pig–latin code, 
they are important friends and wish
you peace. You tell me so.
It is only water and it only holds
you long enough to toss a coin.

WATTER

Sheffield Floods — June 2007

It were pouring ahrtat sky an up frompt gutter
an ahrtat river. It were evryweer. All that watter
submergint Wicker, runnin undert arches 
an all owert roads. It were all owert news. 
Thi were folk on Calendar waist deep, wadin
after cars that fluated like dinghies up Brightside
t Medderall. It were all dahnstairs in the'er.
Mannequins lookt like dead bodies aftert Titanic
went down, bobbin ont surface like corpses.
All at cluathes were ruined wi sewage. Shittud
come up ahrtat drains and intat watter. It were toxic.
Two were killed, swept away bit current,
an owd bluake crossint road an a young lad 
who got t close ast river erupted. I dint know em,
burra do nahr, an as quick as it come it were gone.

SOMETHING AND NOTHING

Life is stepping down a step or sitting on a chair — and it isn't there.
— Ogden Nash

This morning I thought you were dead
until I saw your chest heave
underneath a heavy breath
that lifted the sheet then dropped it.

It's something and nothing. Either
could have passed, berthed side by side
like boats. Either, perhaps both,
of us could have gone in a gasp.

Is this getting old? When you woke
I decided not to spook
you with an open casket
that, after all, was never there.

But it nagged me, lingered. Worn ghosts
that walked out of the woodwork.
Fear, from knowing everything
is dissipating like a breath.

ON POPPERS

Inhaling molecules of ecstacising death

begins the necrotization of the flesh.

An oxygen thief that paints tell tale signs;

the lips thinned to two navy blue lines,

and the crescents of ash at the base of each nail

where once was white and healthy. All

for a rush of blood from the heart to the head,

thumping in the neck. A cock, soft, lolled

and bouncing in time to each thrust. An arse

that opened easy as a tub of meat paste.

Orgasms that bump up against one another

like fantasies mixing with acts in the ether

of dreams that smoke from these brown bottles.

The final tautening muscle. The screams. The wobbles

that tumble us from sheets onto floors

where we gaze into a gasping air pierced with stars.

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.

FRUITS

When I talk about fruits, I'm not talking about fruits, I mean fruits

in the literal sense as opposed to the metaphoric, fruits such as apples

and oranges and pears. Straight up fruits, not those, innuendo zested,

non-literal fruits. When I peel a banana, I peel a banana, 
taking the skin in my fingers and pulling it back to reveal a moist tip

and shaft. I mean to peel a banana and eat it. The long, white flesh taken

in portions and swallowed in lumps down my throat. Although, some fruits resist

being eaten with tough, hairy exteriors, though kiwis give in

if you open them up with a spoon first and eat out their soft parts.

In my experience, lychees need to be stoned and similarly cherries, 

if they're to be taken with ease and red wine at parties. Do you see 

what I mean? Sometimes this business of fruits is confused 

by those melons who can't find their honeydews among their cantaloupes. 

I mean fruits, are not that difficult to spot on the whole, only tomatoes

upset the vegetable cart with their impostering as french-dressed salad and not fruit.