Aged fifty, tired of work, he only wants cold water,
sliding into loose lakes, clean strokes of river,
simplicity of H2O, to be fearless
and breathless, with white hands and toes,
in an empty quarry pool, where he jumps in just to freeze,
weightless but held, yelling blue across the skies.
Just want to be part of it, he says,
part of the feeling of rain and seas, of what
swirls round, slips through fingers,
to be swept past rocks forever, taken by currents,
or into the still, dark reservoir,
brown eyes cruising the rippled mirror.
Tired of decisions, he only wants aquatic definition,
tight nipples, leg-thrash like ice-lightning
below the surface, unable to touch the bottom
to disappear inside the blackness, to feel wind strike
his hair, the endless flow of animal and light,
the spirit shock and kick of being there;
to watch the black tyre on the rop
as it swings over the water, backwards and forwards
over and over and over, and over and over.
On off-days my mother disguised herself as
a kitchen table, my father as a spade, leaving
house (disguised as home) and garden free
for the kids - remorselessly themselves;
and I think I saw you yesterday, my ex-partner,
disguised as a brick wall in Sheffield
City Centre, your eyes blinking
in the crushed mortar, I hope
you want to hide and still look out for me.
Who's that open gate outside my window?
Is this desk my future partner? And here I am
rearranging myself, molecules and structure and
colour and nature, pure physics is
so fluid, I must learn to be more flexible; so now
I'm going to leave this virtual piece of paper
and, for survival, just think about the absent kids, again,
while I disguise my heart as a tree, not worried,
and my outside as a cooker.
Grandpa's Unsure Grip
Grandma always admired Grandpa's unsure grip,
the way he let the precious moment slip,
his boots too big -
he didn't bake symbolic cakes,
give little looks, or gentle hints,
or loving winks -
no loop the loops or cartwheels, no
fancy turns of phrase,
no triple salko
he just knocked down the hurdles one by one
all the way to the end of the sentence,
no pretence -
'Are you going or are you staying?' he used to say,
'and don't gi' me that subtle stuff -
there isn't time for that'
and Grandma, like Grandpa, liked it loud and clear -
no kissing without tongues,
no half-pints of beer.
Grumpy
I didn't exactly choose it, did I,
with this long, thin ice-cream cornet
plopped in the middle of my forehead.
People think it's easy, this game,
look cool, be all kind of mythical,
but like everyone, I've had my struggles.
Even at school, stupid things happened -
I couldn't do forward rolls in P.E., kids teased me
they used my horn as a toilet-roll holder
I mean, you try putting on a t-shirt over this.
Or getting re-housed down at the council
when nobody believes you are real
See what I mean, you don't know the half of it -
how do you think I find a bicycle helmet?
Do you think I buy Uni-Hats at Uni-Able?
And girlfriends. Well, first there was finding someone
like me. And then there was kissing and sex
yea, don't go there, let's just say - it was a mess!
And far too complicated. We gave it up.
But we didn't want babies, and giving birth
oo, just the thought of it hurts.
My Mum's doctor just smiled and told her -
"Don't worry, there'll be gas and air, and do your breathing.
Mum only wanted a wood and a barrel of vaseline.
See, I'm not different, or special, to me I'm normal.
I just don't like being pigeonholed like this -
Look at that, the Noblest of Animals!
Noble? Christ-like? You didn't see me last night.
Horn stuck in the grass. Yea, I was drunk
and trying to do handstands in the park.
I don't want a lot - just not to be stared at
like I come from another country, or universe;
and to be talked to like you believe I really exist.
And of course I don't want to end up in some fairground
near those horses, with a job as some joke-creature,
like a prong for donuts or a game of hoopla.
The Devil and the Deep Blue Screen
(10 pm, 19/06/04)
Sofa-night, curled like a question-mark
or cup-hook. One drowning drink behind
warm curtains and you're waning, wavering,
flicking across channels like tiredness and conscience.
A Touch of Frost, or writing a letter?
Reading a book, or Big Brother?
Then another can opens, and here's the hot one,
your hands in the flames, caught between
Faust on BBC 2 or Discomania on ITV.
Oxfam Diary versus Blackberry
Busy professionals, we play it happily
(yes, professionals, is that more irony?)
scrolling down and flicking speedily,
fat papyrus versus lean technology.
Now your big fingers are looking clumsy
as I race through the weeks more quickly.
We subtly show we're oh so busy.
Have either of us got a day that's empty?
I glance inside the Oxfam diary -
If the world were a village of 100 people,
every day 60 go to bed hungry.
Can we both do lunch on Monday?