Unhappiness

Unhappiness  (an extract)

 

John believed that it lived in the cupboard

Under the stairs with the forgotten

Boxes of candles, and other odds and sods;

That there was a redolence

Of mouse droppings about it,

Or something pissy and fishy;

That it was silent and needed to be spoken to,

To be taken outside, bashful and embarrassed,

Apologetic, and given what for.

 

Janet imagined it skulking around the attic,

A stranger in a stranger’s house,

Rooting through the relics of the past

With bony fingers rimmed with dirt,

Releasing the clasps of old suitcases,

Wisps of dust, looking

For something of us to wear,

Swearing with a lisp in the foul air,

Rank and jealous,

As it hunted for something holed and frayed

And reeking of musk,

Seeking a skin to fill that had been flayed;

That it was simply unspoken,

And unspoken of.

after the pyrotechnics

 

after the pyrotechnics

l am                                                                                                                                                     

after the pyrotechnics shattering the enamelled sky shards of colour and sound the choreographed embers flying the old year going up in flames and cheers resounding the banging of drums has finished the drunks gone to their beds the animals still paralysed with fear

then there is the silence

the darkness embedded with mica

the breath held like a stopped clock

the faith in something new replacing the old

and the weight of what has gone lifted rising

only to fall again softly like rain

like the unsummoned light coming

the healed sky

... your you

 

… your you

 

I once joined a queue of me’s

waiting at the ice-cream van

hundreds and thousands

we were all

Mr Whippy

staking a claim on the future

a 99

claiming a stake of the past

chocolate sauce

unwrapping the present

crushed nuts

broken wafers

strawberry sundaes

melting

 

?

 

You tell me

Your me is as valid as mine

your you

Glaucoma

 

Glaucoma

 

Eyesight’s going ...

 

Each year the lenses thicken

To unscramble the flurry of words

Either read or written;

 

A discursive Morse Code:

Pictograms, hieroglyphics,

Tattoos, graffiti, facebook, woad.

 

Though looking back seems clear enough,

If you don’t stare too hard

At all the peripheral stuff.

 

But one always glossed over the small print,

What the packet really contained:

Those illegible, inedible ingredients.

 

Still, it’s in the failure to deliver

That life takes our measure,

That and in the unsuspected depth of the mirror.

 

Yet, finally, the future’s focus is tight

On the oncoming darkness –

The tunnel at the end of the light. 

Legacy

Legacy: Take 1

 

In the scheme of things,

I go first:

fall off, pass away,

drag myself out,

leaving you with the job

of grief, resolution, euphemism,

platitudes and clichés;

the coming to terms with ...

this thing we call love:

the failure that is wrapped

in good intentions,

ribboned with guilt

(you’ll have turned away first -

a sleight of hand, a slight -

into another life,

leaving me

blind-sided).

 

You’ll understand one day,

when in what you believe

is your own life

you slip from its fingers

and you’re caught out,

not waiting

for the impact,

not remembering

how it comes in

                            sideways,

then remembering,

                                as it does;

reminding you of me,

of us.

 

Touché, you’ll say.

 

And  smile ...

And ... cut!

 

Déshabillé

 

Déshabillé

 

Saying goodbye, he kneels so they are eye to eye,

And then pulls her close, holding her tight, claiming

The shape of her bones with clumsy, clammy

Returning hands: clavicle, scapula, pelvis, thigh.

His fingers travelling, needing that haptic fix,

Unravelling geography and geometry;

Love like L-dopa, memory – synaptic tricks -

Awakening, shores and shapes rushing in,

The topography stretching out, the moment elastic:

History, anthropology, a religion of lust and sin.

 

(We want to touch children, and animals:

It’s our first response – to reach out, to pet,

To stroke, to hold, to groom – prelapsarian

In its simplicity, uncomplicated by sexual

Tension and implication. The primeval set

Of genes from which love evolved,

A reflexive action, boundaries dissolved;

Yet so fraught with danger, so easily confused

That one can nearly share the sentiments of …

That one can barely tell the difference between…

The abuser and the abused?)

 

He pushes his nose in under her jaw,

Wanting the smell of her to claw at his nerves;

Nothing unique, the stink of child, undeserving

Of the scented disguises that adults can flaunt.

He stands – needing again that height, that stature -

Turns and leaves. The air screams! The fabric tears,

Ripped at the seams down years and years…

Lives undressed, stripped; Oh the hate! The rapture!

Touched

 

Touched (by intention) - an extract

Her boyfriend’s tongue,

Tipped with promises,

Penetrates her mouth,

Loosens, unbuttons,

Unbuckles her being;

She slides off the edge

Of herself.

 

She moves through the cinema

Of the world,

Where strangers faces

Matinee porno movies,

Eyes panning like sleamy hands

Running amuck amongst

The folds and fissures

Of her undressing.

 

Her husband has an access

To her body she denies herself:

The piercing and eating

Of her flesh;

A gift, a right, she believes

She has freely given;

An invitation to ...

A movable feast,

A candle-lit supper,

A take-away dinner,

Finger food.

The napkin of her skin

Glistens.

 

One day,

He’ll push the plate away.