a consultation in the attic

One afternoon that lasted forever,

he took me up to the rafters and said:

'Given our respective dates of birth,

and our relative states of body and mind,

calculations prove that 1 will live longer

by precisely, one-hundred and twenty-seven days.'

'And what will you do with them?' 1 asked as the sun

turned his hand into a diagram.

'I will count them,' he replied, 'as if they were marbles.'

taking one from his pocket and letting it drop

through the hole at our feet, into the system

of tubing, funnels, chutes and chicanes,

spiralling down through floor after floor,

landing in the vase in the hall,

tinkling like the bell that called us to dinner,

our lips, momentarily, millimetres apart.

Published in PNR, Autumn 2001

a field guide to demons

Demons are smaller than one might expect.

They land on the shoulder, like specks of sulphur,

then climb into the inner ear,

setting up their equipment on collapsible tables.

I can feel one now, glowing like an ember,

his tiny claws scratching and scraping,

his voice like a gramophone, urging me on

to tell you how much I hate you,

but I will ignore him, as you should,

unless you do not believe in demons,

but only in the pleasant things of life,

of which, I am told, there are numerous examples.

Published in Magma, Autumn 2001

an evening with the zebras

After dinner, we strolled the savannah.

What I took to be lions were just men in suits.

Later, playing whist at the watering hole,

I asked how the zebras came to get their stripes.

One said they were marks made by the smoke

from the fire that burned at the start of the world,

another that they were part of a code

for which the cipher has not been discovered.

After an hour, I slipped away,

leaving them there, gently disputing,

their front hooves resting, almost touching

on the green baize table I had brought as a gift.

Published in Magma, Autumn 2001

a letter from the north

Mother, do not worry, I am living in the mountains,

contemplating Heaven and the mysteries of the flesh,

my only companion the politician

who comes to my cabin disguised as a wolf,

talking in whispers about The Void

while I slip out into the snow,

listening for the sound of his motorcade

ticking over in the heart of the wood,

knowing that soon he will be crying

about the faces in the glacier,

the ballerina and the movie star,

so different, now, from their photographs.

Published in The Affectionate Punch, Winter 2001

a letter to his mistress

Madame, the eccentricities of your tongue

drive me to deeds I dare not describe.

It is with regret that I renounce

our evenings in the chamber of mirrors,

where proceedings were conducted at angles so acute

only your obliquities returned me to myself,

for which kindness gratitude is extended,

in absentia, by all concerned.

Published in Obsessed With Pipework, Spring 2001

cocktails with the martyr

Silence, cigarettes and rain,

his breath and mine, out of synch.

The air is full of tiny birds,

soaring and swooping, perching on his palm,

entranced by the glass

embedded in his wrist,

a silver of shadow

on its way to his heart.

Published in Obsessed With Pipework, Spring 2001

cusp

Those days demanded phenomena:

whirlwinds, blizzards, electrical storms,

not the drift from ward to ward

and finally home, the downstairs bed,

the Get Well cards shaking with the traffic,

falling, face down, onto the floor.

Published in Smiths Knoll, Autumn 2001

incident

The boy with the eagle

under his jumper

tells me it is sleeping,

not dead.

“Roosting” I reply

adjusting the stars

to within a tolerance

of a thousandth of an inch.

Published in PNR, Autumn 2001

lay-by

Leaving the road, I caught a glimpse of her,

surfacing in a pool of silver shade.

My mind was a room into which she might walk,

the floor a dream of shimmering leaves,

but the path led onwards, never swerving,

through the trees, to the edge of things,

where I stood all night, amongst the stones,

the bindweed and the climbing rose,

the scent unwinding, like a thread:

skin, cigarettes, different rooms,

bath-water rich and thick as milk

overflowing into empty yards,

steam cooling on my brow,

rolling, like pearls, onto my tongue.

Published in Obsessed With Pipework, Spring 2001

preface

Gentle reader, I will address you

as if we were the firmest of friends,

as if we had shared the starless nights

when the ocean locked us under glass.

But you are vapour, slipping through my fingers,

and I am nothing but a breath of wind.

Conversation will get us nowhere.

Take my hand. We will go there now.

Published in PNR, Autumn 2001

ragwort

Without warning, it is everywhere,

the house ensared in a ring of fire.

The brightest blossom

is always poison.

Think of how your heart stopped beating

the night you saw her on the railway line,

scaling embankments, slipping into tunnels,

bursting, suddenly, into the light.

Published in Obsessed With Pipework, Spring 2001

resolution

Sarcasm, irony – I renounce thee.

From now on, I will be sincere.

I have placed my heart in the centre of my chest

and wired it according to the diagram.

Listen to it, furiously pounding,

like the marching band of majorettes

that twirl their batons in my dreams,

fingers crossed, one eyebrow raised,

half smiles playing,

like moonlight, on their lips.

Published in Magma, Autumn 2001

the assassin's report

I studied her through my outspread fingers

as she sat and sipped and checked her watch.

Her eyes were stars wrapped up in smoke,

doubled in the mirror of the table top.

In her mind, she was driving down

an English motorway, blue with light,

each exit sign an invitation,

each town a dream of another life.

I have much sympathy with such thoughts -

after all, they are often my own.

But sentiment will see you dead.

I paid my bill and followed her home.

Published in Dreamcatcher, Summer 2001

the life of the mind

There is nowhere else for me to be

but at this table, between night and day,

planning the dreams that I will have,

the pale grey oceans I will cross,

the glittering islands where wild-eyed shamans

are lighting bonfires in my honour

while their wives and teenage daughters look on,

squinting through the smoke, arms tightly folded,

rolling their eyes, turning away.

Published in Magma, Autumn 2001