Tuxedo-si-do

Chandeliers dangle on high in the marble hive,
Where the bow-tied band scrape at strings and blow horns
For the high-flying bankers to mingle and merge
With the bloated corporate corpses:
Drowned in drink and choked with ties,
Lifeless whites in sunken eyes.
Right angle elbows, stiff drinks and fat fingers
That clamp at the clammy palms of some long lost
Business venture and party laugh,
With sneering, jeering future staff.
Wildflower women dot the floor
In the meadow of temptation.
Cufflinked insects swarm for
Sweet nectar and descend
To the dress-petal cleft,
That plunges down
To cut diamonds,
Like bait between  
Counterfeit breasts.
Har-har hoodwinks sound through
The room and pantomime panting ensues
Over the ‘splendid wit’
Of potential partners.
I walk through the room
And my shoes lose their shine
As they take it in turns
To ignore the interns.
‘Not enough time
Spent on pressed trouser lines’
Mark the eagle-eyed elderly gentlemen.
I’m back amongst schoolmasters,
Three steps behind
In a ridiculous spin
Of tuxedo-si-do. 

The Brecon Beacons - Wales

Climbed ‘Pen Y Fan’ mountain with friends at the weekend. This is the kind of scenery that gets my creative juices flowing. It’s easy to get an appetite for life in the open air but the Brecons are VAST. Nothing like reaching a mountain peak to recharge your batteries.

What happened to the hunter gatherers?

The traffic rolls on, slow lanes branching from the trunk towards the yawning doors of another Tesco. The gridded, concrete expanse is filling already. People march from their cars to the trolley rank and rattle past the security scanners. They circle the hum of fridges and freezers making easy choices from the previous week. The shopping stacks in the same way and the checkout beckons. A whole world broken down into cans and packets which fail to excite anymore: 

• Tuna in brine, fresh from a sea spray struggle of the Atlantic Ocean
• Burgers that roamed the Highlands
• Sacks of rice plucked from the wet paddies of China
• Hand-picked fruit from South America that warmed, just days before, on Brazillian palm leaves

All dropped in the basket with automatic hands. Beeped through the checkout, plastic bagged and placed in car boots; routine complete. Back to the box we call home. It’s not hard to feel at ease amongst concrete and steel. The natural challenge has all but disappeared. What happened to the hunter gatherers?  

Bad Habits in Hollywood

Hollywood has a bad habit
For soundtrack scores 
And perfect scripts
That tell us how to tell
Each other we’re in love.
California couples 
Roller skate through
A boulevard montage 
To a flower topped table
At the end of an ocean pier;
Stars stud the night sky,
And violinists draw closer
For the bent knee 
And hungry kiss 
Of the leading lady
Who scene-breaks for a cigarette
Deleting the final texts 
From her ex. 

What camera can convey
The subtlety of real life’s love?
What screenplay could showcase
The electric tremors 
When the little things 
Drive you wild—
Eyebrow rising high,
As teeth bite at her bottom lip.
No special effects
As we afternoon snooze;
Central heating 
And a soundtrack 
Of slow breathing—
Her throat tickle coaxes
A soft little cough,
And she stirs in a
Perfect imperfection.
Thin crescent grin 
Rising out over the duvet,
No clapboard snap
Or curtain calls,
Just arms intertwined
As we unwind
To the smell
Of reheated takeaway.
I only need one take to say
‘I love you’.

Stale

The last time

I did something for

The first time

Seems a lifetime

Ago

.

http://mentionandforget.tumblr.com/ 

Montana Morning Breath

Thoughts drift on the wind to a big city smoke,

And the dull-mind office grind 

Of jumping hoops and hamster wheels. 

Resentful defence of subway space,

Elbows armed and neutral face

In the rattling carriage, cattle-car commute.

Come, take your place in the coffee queue

For caffeinated passion 

And a drugged up hunger to seize a day 

That blurs into all the others.

Bitter liquid kick starts your heart

Like nothing else could,

And what else would in this cold drizzle

That sends fast clipping heels

Streaking between doorways?

Perhaps something further away from the neon promise

And your statutory rights—

Travel back to the flaps of my battered red tent,

And open them out

To the perfumed world of Montana morning breath;

Sweet pine tree line and wet forest earth.

Green leaves hissing under the kiss of cool breeze.

Sunlight filters through the fabric,

Pleasure for legs that poke from the sleeping bag damp; 

Calves pulled tight from the long haul bite after bite 

In the full lung fight of boots over loose rock trails.

Laces scrape taut over thick cotton socks

And the meadow waves us over;

Burning green beauty queen, 

With polka dot yellow petals.

Mountains surrounding a limitless blue,

High peaks peering down through a thin mist yawn,

Turret defence of the freshwater still glass,

Puddled in the graded cradle of my Eden.

Life’s too short for the trivial grey

Of wet city days that are too far away from 

Green tree cathedrals, thick boughs and needles

Clinging to the cliff sides on silent stone hills.

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Mekong River, Laos 2011

The Stars and Stripes

At last, at rest, and we contest, ‘the bombing run was for the best’, for you we stay and stuff the breast of steely eagles, flag on chest, to wage the war on all oppressed amongst the stars and stripes. Uphold salutes, and shine the boots parading on amongst the mute, ‘til through their land of disrepute explodes the sound of drums and flute, their leaders kneel without dispute before the stars and stripes.  A strike collides, the dust subsides and inside, still, with quiet eyes, the target and his terror lies as screaming shuttles climb the skies amongst the stars and stripes. The men close ranks, the nation thanks our heroes and their battle tanks as liquid dollars flood the banks to fund our stars and stripes. We spike the flag and stake the claim amongst the fury and the flame, ‘a day for freedom’ we proclaim and thunder on in Jesus’ name, a Holy Nation free from blame, obey the stars and stripes.

Clockless Wonderland

I was asked to write a piece about returning to my childhood home. NOSTALGIA. 

     ”There were two new sofas sitting against the wall of the front room. Not overturned as a bunker or squared off as a wrestling ring, no crash-pad cushions in sight.  Against the wall, quite neatly, between the lamp and a cabinet. They faced a television set that had shrunk and clung to the wall. No hulk of grey plastic on a pine chest, no wicker basket of video tapes either. Instead, an organised DVD rack with exposed movie spines. They looked like they were arranged in colour order, but I put that down to chance. The screen was black but a doll sat patiently, propped against the plump cushion. I missed the whiff of hidden shin-pads and secret spilt dinners. I spun slowly in the room. It was spotless and modern and beige and boring.  Hand prints and shadowy tennis ball stains might do the trick. Given some time and a pair of pliers I could even help the DVD rack accommodate a VHS copy of The Lion King…

     The new owner said something unfunny and we moved from the room, along my little hallway. Their little hallway. Eggshell and off-white all the way to the kitchen, with a mirror on the wall to help ‘open up the space’. Right. Into the kitchen and another disappointment. Gone was the bench that housed the shuffling bums and creaked with extra boys every birthday. Gone was the Pokémon poster too. I could name all 150 in a row from memory. So could Mum and Dad. People talked about it at school; if you didn’t believe me then you came round for dinner to witness the feat.

      The woman yapped on about granite worktops and easy-wipe surfaces. I bet this lot even got rid of the treat cupboard. She turned away and I cracked it open to check. I spotted something ‘organic’ and something else that might have been bran flakes. If they were working the ‘treat cupboard’ tradition, they could do with some tips.

     She suggested we look upstairs. I smiled and braced myself for the onslaught that Barbie had led against my poor room. We ‘climbed the wooden hill’ and chatted along the landing. The dressing up box was missing, potted plant in its place; I didn’t miss much. More shades of beige led up to my old bedroom, which was tucked away at the back of the house and organised around the humming boiler cupboard. I walked in and paused, stopping, more or less, where they must have placed the paint grenade, until it exploded and drenched every possession in a sickly, bubblegum pink. Amazingly my cabin bed remained, only in miniature form. It was an odd sensation. The same old room from a brand new perspective. Ten years older and two feet taller. I was head and shoulders above the mattress, as an adult who had outgrown his place in the clockless wonderland.” 

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Another dog picture. Taken on my five week trip to Thailand and Laos.

Haad Yao beach