Another one I found that I'd forgotten..

The Inherited

Generations have died before they've had a chance
to tell me how I'll go. One sudden death after another.
How do I prepare? Perhaps they are themselves
the indication and I'll just go like they did: in the morning
unable to sit up for fear of pooling blood; in hospital,
a pink swab mopping saliva from sunken parts of face;
eight weeks from diagnosis.

I could carry round whole heaps of hows to stop it, but slings
and plasters are no prevention. Every pain I have could be
where things will loosen first, every limp and yawn
a last hurrah, a sign of things to come.

I am not calm, but my oblivious heart is tapping out the truth
on my love-torn ribs: b-bum, b-bum, b-bum—
I think hear correctly: all is well yet, all is well.

That gap was too large, yes indeed. Won't happen again!

In the morning

I remember sneaking in at 5am
and hours on my feet replayed through my soles
with every beat of aching blood.

I remember how you slipped, gentle from sleep
and rubbed the life away back into them
with cooling hands, perched

at the end of the bed. My secret tears
faded to sleep except for the crystals

now I wake. And my feet, oh my feet,
on pillows; your head on the bed.

Let me know what you think of this one, if you're reading...

Be honest now!



At the sink, with La Traviata on the radio

The ink suspended mid-thought, dried
in the trappings of nib and well, succumbs

to gentle swooshing in hand-warm water
where she bathed me once too, small as I was then.

She stands for this uncommon ritual.
It will take as long as opera for the colours to loosen,

for the sink to deepen to lichen green or summer blue.
Only the red stains her wrinkling palms

as the stubborn brown gives way to her patient hands rocking
back and forth in a humming of arias.

A week's gone by so quickly, and this one is fast slipping too.

Resting your eyes

There was something about the way you were sitting,
startled, which made me ask. You told me your eyes
were closed as a sort of compromise
for the time its possible to waste in front of the TV,

wearing your eyes out needlessly, shortening their life.
I didn't ask, then, any more of your explanation
but often wonder if it works for other things.
Sometimes I stop myself from seeing you at all

in case what we have runs out. Other times I catch you
blinking back the sight of characters who've aged unrecognisably.

Mostly, though, I watch your closed-eyes vigil with my own eyes
open, wearing them out on you and your quiet, secret, snoozing.

Welcome back to the Black Clock Arms; every pub you've ever avoided.

The Black Clock Arms

IV. Babs

She knows she's only there as the inevitable
namesake but revels in attention lavished

on her by rough old queens. It's all natural,
duckie! rings sharp through karaoke notes.

She flashes her puce nails; works there
on the basis that she only pulls pints;

is wary of newcomers, who see through rouge
with clarity not befitting dim strip-lighting; prefers

the company of regular strangers, who don't see
her face, but never fail to compliment her nails.

The Black Clock Arms

III. Geoff

Geoff's shined velvet seat, black with polished dirt,
cools in the almost-night Black Clock Arms.
He'd lost touch with the flesh of himself until it started to brown.

He sits several feet from the people he recognises
but can't place the names of out here; their stories fade
in the light. His pint and his arse reach a unison of temperature:

one warming on the bar, the other cooling on a bollard,
while he realises how little he cares about the barstool
now the only place to chain smoke is here.

The only thing missing is a place for the smaller papers, spread
open and every sentence read and repeated over again
to kill the time he has more of, now, to himself.

I shall be starting yoga again very soon, so this is apt.

To be still.

Grandstanding with my knees on my elbows
and in one of my favourite outfits—a skirt
I bought two of, a black cardigan—
I am at tipping point when I come to the realisation

that it's not about strength, but balance. And here, now,
I feel a little silly for the times I've almost toppled,
straining in almost-position wearing jogging bottoms
and a Pennywise t-shirt, waiting for the muscles in my arms.

Weightlessness, like someone said, occurs
firstly in your toes. The only thing that stops me
breaking my nose is knitwear
friction on the backs of my arms.

Tattoos

Waiting at Northside for you

There is only one red sofa and anyway it has the best view
of the green three-breasted women I can find. Every time
I've been here a man with a balding head has chosen 'luck' over 'love'
and would have 'sex' if only the option was displayed on the wall.

There is a buzzing in the absence of scream, and an awful lot of
blood, concealed and sanitised amidst the cartoon colours
of juicy hearts struck through; and a language of needles:
the backpieces, half-sleeves and cover-ups—the freehand fee.

A pregnant woman hums a tune either side of the mechanical whine
when the sudden burst door shouts a social conscience
Don't do it! There is a ripple of laughter but it is too late for you,
who emerges beaming and bleeding and ready for home.

Dancing, photographs.

Suspension

Out from under the lights everyone is
peach-coloured, a normal combination
of skin tones. It's hard to know from this,

sometimes, which moments to acknowledge
as real, but documentation is an inevitability
in these digital times.

I might be mid-air in that picture
you took, but that doesn't mean
I never landed.

Some other poem about a distant place.

Resort

Everything solid here is on its way out.
If you believe that, you'll see this picture I took
of decaying arches as a recent history of waves
that rust fat nails clean from wood.

Beyond the inky black of seaweed creeping down the walls;
beyond the sea-fret sky you watch in rockpools long-since clean
of crabs, the walls are distinctly graffiti free.
The green of the rocks is a signal of how fast you could fall;

the length of time I sat and watched the fizzing sea weighted
with the penny slot-machines that tinkled like a distant fairground ride.
Even the Vitadome is grinning as it is slowly picked apart,
one facelift too far beyond collapse.

Another revision

They’re hardly touching

It's only after the carefully timed removal
of his coat that they appear to feel at home.
He gets up, abandons the perfect shape
of his arse in mounds of coat piled on the seat
and a woman with a blonde bob fingers the corner
where the zip is with a nervous purpose.

It's taken a whole spritzer each to reach this point
of layer removal, to the revelation
of his pink-striped top cut off at the sleeves
and an overwhelming smell of fabric conditioner.

The woman has clearly done everything
to rid his scent from his public self.
At home, though, in quiet moments on wash day
I reckon she lifts his worn shirts by the sleeves
and sucks deep breaths through the weave,
her nose in the armpits, savouring the intimacy
of every last molecule of sweat.

A revision.

The Gifts

Here, for you, a long slow sky at first;
feel it open you up like water to thirst.
Bring this morning to your snow-dead toes,
to each body part a meditation in coming to terms.

Take next a sliding acceptance of horseback,
feel the horse's own gait through your spine and relax.
It is my gift to you: use it as a distraction,
perhaps, from anything else, from preoccupation

with the facts. You've shut your eyes by now,
I can tell. Feel my fingers up your spine.
I'll count the hairs I've raised there one by one
whilst you escape the panic of a striptease

of feelings straight to bone. Stay with me, I still
have a few things to offer. Ignore the voices
out of reach through the white noise; don't fish it

for the one you think you know. Let me shiver you
out of dreaming alone. There, you can speak now.
It’s so good to see you. There's a lingering smell

of pine-damp picnics whenever you're ready.
Eat until you're full; don't stop until your cheeks
match the colour of a shepherd's delight.