Forgotten things found.

The farmer's wife.

She keeps bantams

has no faith in god

no faith in art

no faith in science

put all her faith in one man

all her eggs in his basket

The tired ploughman.

I've been ploughing this furrow for too long. Each time I look up from my toil the end of the field is still not in sight save an oak tree on the horizon; when I set out that tree was a mere sapling.

The seagulls that dog my wake have given up on fat worms ever being exposed and now eye my soft parts greedily. they swoop in ever closer.

Time to release the old horse from her traces (smack her on the rump and watch her trot back to her pasture) leave the plough mid furrow mid field (already rusting it will soon enough blend in visually and then soon enough decompose and vanish).

If I walk quickly I will make it to that tree under which sits a little old lady who has many stories to tell me.

I have forgotten what I was going to sow in this field any-way.

Hot chestnuts maybe.

Ode to a departed tooth.

Tristan has been having dental problems... Ouch!

My teeth are out in sympathy.

He sent me the following which I suspect may refer to something other than a molar:

Your absence has left a void

which I have filled with pain

The exquisite agony

taunts me with your parting

Although I realise that when the pain goes

I shall remember you for what you really were

It hurts too much to miss you right now.

Last years notes.

When I am gone

first drain the blood and set aside

Burn me

Mix ashes and blood with cement

Cast bricks.

with which to build a folly.

Build it in the meadow where we were happy.

According to last years notes.

A poem written in a silk shirt that you hated.

Her life was a discoball constructed from shards of shattered bliss

Lies

the blunt but self sharpening things

you bring into the bubble of bliss.

The knife you hold to your wrist

should I threaten to leave.

The new man you prefer to the last man

Who all forget to leave a forwarding address when they go

to

meet clandestinely in the pub

To discuss

the blunt but self sharpening things

You leave lying around

Amid shards of bliss.

Oh. And bullshit.

Women and swimming pools.

The perfect woman is like a swimming pool. she has a shallow end and a deep end.

my problem is I keep diving into the shallow end.

Much to the amusement of the handsome life guard.

Advice to young men considering falling in love.

Lose yourself in her

but do not

lose yourself to her

Enjoy the moment

but do not

assume it will last

Spend all you have on her

but do not

borrow to impress

Invest in the truth

but do not

expect dividends

Live for the moment

but do not

live only for the moment

Care for her

but do not

think that you own her

Tell her you love her

but do not

tell her too often

Tolerate stuff

but do not

let her take the piss.

But most off all

do not take sharp things

into the bubble of bliss

Then she might fall in love with you as well.

Early childhood.

I was taken back to my early childhood today.

An accidental journey brought about by getting shampoo in my eye; I was immediately transported back to my 2 year old self having his hair washed by his mother; shampoo always got in my eyes back then (there was no baby shampoo either) and as far as I was concerned it was attempted murder. Boy did I wail.

'Don't be a baby'. She'd scold.

'But I am a fucking baby!'

And if I knew then what I know now I would have stayed a baby.

Short stories about tall women.

There are few meaningful occupations that can be successfully pursued in a bar unless you work in one.

Mine I think is an exception; I can sit at a table with a ginger beer and a notebook. When I'm not writing I'm probably thinking about writing, or watching.

Quite a lot of material comes that way, walks right up to my table and sits down:

'What do you write'?

I'd looked up from my notebook, she was sitting opposite me. I said: 'Short stories about tall women'.

'Are you going to write about me?'

She had good hands, long slender fingers; the hands of a tall woman. 'Bits of you'.

'Which bits'?

'So far your hands'. I looked at her eyes then. She held my gaze, imprisoned it.

She said: 'You'll write about my eyes too. Can I read it when it is done'.

'Certainly'. I replied, where will I find you'?

'Oh, I'll wait here until you've finished'.

'I may take many years to complete it. I may never complete it'.

'That's ok... I'll wait'.

Joy.

Sometimes when in a dark place someone will come along and light a match. Every once in a while that match will be used to light a candle. Very occasionally that candle will be used to find the switch...

To turn on the sun.

It is dazzling.

Whatever happened to chivalry?

Long, long ago a knight, while riding through a forest, came upon a familiar scene:

Roped to a tree was a white gowned damsel. A damsel most certainly in distress. Leering over her was a dragon. there was the usual smoke from the nostrils and stench of rotting flesh.

The knight dismounted, approached the dragon while unsheathing his sword.

'Stop!' Cried the damsel and dragon in unison. 'If you kill the dragon you will kill us both for we are two halves of the same beast'.

'But if I do not kill the dragon it will surely kill you'. The knight said to the damsel.

'No it won't'. She replied. 'This is just a game we play to entertain ourselves'.

The knight sheathed his sword, mounted his horse and rode away to the sound of jeering from the damsel and dragon.

The last words he heard were: Whatever happened to chivalry.

S & M

Self flagellation used to be the preserve of the religious fanatic.

Not so any longer... I knew a man who has been beating himself up since his father stopped.

The same guy had a girlfriend who was doing the same thing for the same reason. They met on common ground.

They split up when she realised that he was never going to beat her and he realised that all she wanted to do was beat him up rather than herself because she didn't want to damage her looks.

Time and memory are beating them up now.

Time is merciless.

As is god of course, if you believe that shit.

What goes around comes around... With a whip.

12 Bar blues.

We fought

She left

guitily later I searched

the gold

the Star

Cock & Bottle

Ground Floor

Finches

Castle

Mau Mau

Muse 
Elgin

the Union

cow
The Westbourne

Of course I had a drink in each.

Now I've got the 12 bar blues & can't remember who I'm looking for.

The muse has gone
Leaving me nothing but a tin opener
And a can of worms.

Opening the can
I take up the fattest, juiciest .
Snag it on my gaudy hook.

Trawl it.

Trawl it through the bars
Trawl it through the clubs
Trawl it through the pubs
Of Notting Hill
Trot it down Portobello road
Tesco disco
The Globe
Finches
Electric
Ravenous
Mau Mau
The Star
The Gold

The Cow

Westbourne

Grand Union

The Earl

angling for the Muse

Of course I had a drink in each of them

Now I've got the 12 bar blues

And I can't remember what I'm looking for.

Rock n Roll poetry revisited. (For Amy Winehouse)

An old poem rewritten for Amy Winehouse.

They say poetry is the new rock n roll

Write another poem buddy. Go buddy go

Write about a rock star

write about her vices

write about her falls from grace

her personal crises

but write about a rock star

and dress her up in sequins

for rock n roll ain't a world

in which Jo meek wins.

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

Write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about a rock star

write about he cocaine

talk about her cocaine

talk about her cocaine

talk about her...

Oh buddy push the needle on

and write about a rock star

sing it when you're done

sing it to a techno beat

badum badum badum

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

Write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about a rock star

but not about her rehab

no don't write about her rehab

NO NO NO

write about her drinking

and write about her gear

because happy stories of the cure

are not what we want to hear

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll.

(Guitar solo)

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

Write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about a rock star

then kill her when you're done

kill her with a fatal dose

her vomit or a gun

but kill that fucking rock star

don't let her get too old

that way you'll get to number one

before the body's cold

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll.

Pigeon post.

This is a very early rough draft. Just notes really.

A song for last year's wife.

This spring

a pigeon scratched a rough nest

on the ledge outside the kitchen window

The ledge where you grew parsley and mint

and the scarlet geranium you nurtured from a cutting

taken on a drunken walk home

from outside the neighbours house.

The pots have gone

the herbs long dead

the geranium fell to the basement last winter

leaving space for the rough nest

in which a pigeon laid a solitary egg

It was not a good nest

I scolded the bird for such slapdash househusbandry

but we watched over that egg

as I fed her seeds and crumbs

and fretted with her.

On the third day

a jackdaw took the egg

there was nothing I nor the pigeon could do

a jackdaw took the egg

save make accusative stares

a jackdaw took the egg

I did not take the egg and I could not save the egg

she did not take the egg and could not save the egg.

but I think we equally cared for that egg

until we decided to blame each other for it's loss.

I have not seen the pigeon since and I have let the pigeon go

but the egg still haunts me.

The blue dress.

He gave her red things. 
Trinkets. 
He had no money but she would not accept the one thing of value he could give her.

She gave him blue things.
Trinkets.
She had money but she could not give him the one thing that he valued.

Until.

She called him.
'Where are you?'
'At home'.
'I am at the shop down the road, you know the one we talked about this morning.

Come down here'.

He walked.
Across the road from the shop he saw her as she came out of the door,
beckoning,
smiling,
dancing.

In a blue silk dress.

He knew.

he crossed the road.
The Red bus was doing 30 when it hit him.

He died happy.

Which is more than could be said for her. 

Platonic.

It was the most sensible thing to do
it was late
she far from home
and far from ready to go home
it was the most natural thing to do.

She is in my bed now
I lay beside her for a while
breathing her in
now I sit at my desk
listening to the night buses turn the corner
looking at her perfect body
her utter serenity in slumber
watching her breathe
watching the rise and fall of a black silk slip

It is the most sensible thing to do
all my senses scream YES!

POEM.

she is my friend

she is my sister she is my brother

she is my mother

she is my father

she is my daughter

she is my lover without the complications of fucking

she is my waking thought

she is my goodnight kiss

she is my

I became your mirror.

I remembered your conversations

about a child losing innocence

as we walked on the heath that day

long after he had gone

I instinctively picked up a stick

pointed it at you

shouted bang

and killed the woman who chased him away

you snapped then

snapped the stick, snapped at me

you would not blame yourself of course not

that day I did not lose my innocence

YOU gave me guilt.

and I became your mirror.

The Muse in tattered tutu

The muse in tattered tutu on a garlanded swing

Drives me to creation

The lark is on the wing

The other girls are pretty the other girls will do 

But nothing can distract me

I love her tutu too.

The muse in tattered tutu is hurt but not by me

Saves me from distraction

Rids me of ennui

The other girls have culture the other girls have pearls

But nothing can distract me

From her muskiness and curls.

The muse in tattered tutu, I’d save her if I could

Helps me count the pennies

Makes me feel quite good

The other girls have lippy the other girls have kohl

But nothing will distract me

When she plays the other role.

The muse in tattered tutu, tutu too too tight

Drives me from the bathroom 

In the middle of the night

Other girls have boyfriends other girls have girls

But nothing will protect me

From the insults that she hurls

The muse in tattered tutu, has left me so so sad

I drove her to the station

I wish I never had

Other girls have manners other girls have grace

But the muse in tattered tutu

Is now in some other place.

What I did on my holidays: The lion and the raven.

Just a few lines, notes for a bigger story, written amid the sea cabbage, yellow poppies, mallow and deadly nightshade. As I traded, like for like, wheezes and death rattles with the sea hassled shingle.  


Sitting quietly in the lee of a groyne I watched a lion and a raven fashion a raft from the tattered and decaying detritus of past lives. As they prepared to board their flimsy craft the lion hesitated.

"Why do you falter". Asked the raven.
"I cannot swim". He replied.
"Neither can I". Said the raven "If the raft falls apart we will drown together".

Reassured, the lion climbed aboard and they set off from the shore.

I heard no more of their conversation but watched in horror as, some 200 yards from shore the raft did indeed disentangle itself from self and that which mattered for purposes of buoyancy.

As the lion sank beneath the waves the raven spread her wings. The raven spread her wings to be snatched up, wheeling, soaring, heading skywards. Landwards.

The lion, consumed, unaware of the potency of his own magic, legs becoming fins, tail broadening and flattening, gill slits opening, swam down to join the mermaids in their salty songs.

Departments of love. (notes for a poem)

If only we could identify the Love DNA .There would be testing clinics in every town. A super clinic in Oxford Street Queues round the block



Testing their love:

The old men and their Bankok brides
Spotty oiks and village bikes
Ballerinas, ballerinas
Old lovers, new lovers, perhaps not lovers at all
Scientists with actresses
Barristers and rough diamonds
Artists and bank managers
Ghosts and priests
Goths and poets.

All testing.In the departments of love:

A tattoo parlour
Gown shop
Cake shop, florist
Wedding chapel, Elvis present daily
Hallmark card shop
white goods, bedroom sets
Lingerie and soft fruit.

Receptacle for redundant dildos
Viagra falls by the chocolate fountain
Cubic Zirconiums as big as the ritz.

Cinema screening non stop rom coms
Pretty girls with trays of condoms
Pretty boys with trays of condoms
Hotel rooms for love struck non doms.

Lines written in an Essex pub garden on the occasion of a wrestling match.

Years ago I took my young sons to a wrestling match at a local pub. I wrote this at the time.

In the churchyard next door the dead at their labours
turning in graves at the sound of their neighbours
A caccophany of kids and peroxided, curvaceous blondes
clashing happily, slapperly with the herbaceous fronds.

In an Essex pub garden.

'Hot Stuff' and 'Zebra King' are bout number one
The zebra from norwich finally won
Hot stuff distracted by falling down tights
King stripily pounced and put out his lights.

In an Essex pub garden.

Now is the time for the teams that play tag
muscles abounding and bellies asag
To a fanfare of whistles, boo's, cheers and hisses
They land spectacular punches like butterfly kisses.

(Stands the clock at a quarter to three and yes there is beer yet for tea)

As each half nelson half expects
A little more decorum from the fairer sex
A fat bald dwarf in turquoise thong thing
Does a sunset flip on the 'Rock n roll King'

then real screams of pain and genuine alarm
for the wrestling elvis has broken his arm
Ambulance called, The King wheeled off in a barrow
nothing left now but to get pissed to the marrow.

In an Essex, oh so Essex, pub garden.

Magnolia

She came to visit
after twenty years of not a word
but was passing
was just passing

and as passing stopped
bringing with her the rusty key
to that locked and dusty room
called memory.

filling our heads
with the contents of that room
we then took a walk
in the spring sun

I led her to the April street
lined with magnolias
where for just one week
romance blossoms

alas too late
the blowsy meaty petals blown
smearing the pavement
with disappointment

'we are too late' I said
turning back
'we should have come here earlier'
and she asked when?

'Oh twenty years ago'.

She came to visit
after all thse years of not a word
but was passing
was just passing

and as passing stopped
for long enough
to bear witness
to my seasonal disappointment.

Holiday romance.

A true story... There is nothing like an older woman in a man's shirt.




We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento
While the other boys drank to their pledge

We walked to the beacon
The out at the beacon
Held hands and went to the edge

We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento

She told me she loved me
I told her my fears
We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento

Her name was Polly Anne
The same as my sister
Which smacked of incest
Every time that I kissed her

On the well rounded bottom
Of an overturned inflatable
And all was in reach
But how far was debateable

Down there
Down on the beach
Under a man’s checked shirt

We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento
We parted agreeing
No further contact was best

She wrote of red roses
She wrote of Sorrento

She wrote of red roses
On a card from Sorrento

Without a return address.

The impact of airfreight on the poet.

I wrote this last summer for Port Eliot Festival.






The impact of airfreight on the poet.

Once, long ago
it would be enough to say
that we ate strawberries
she and I and you would know
That she was beautiful in her summer frock
eyes the colour of cornflowers
Hair of course
ripe wheat

The summer heat sang
swallows flew low
smell of new mown grass
rosemary
lavender
and a jamjar to trap the wasps in.

Now
thanks to airfreight
if I were to tell you
that we ate strawberries
she and I
you would have no fucking clue
as to the season or our whereabouts

We could be in the Ikea cafe
in December
for all you know
Thanks to airfreight.

This poet will
if longevity allows
scream with joy
on hearing the news
that the last drop of oil
has been sucked
from beneath his summer lawn.

And it will
once again be enough
to say:

We ate strawberries
she and I and you would know.

Tail lights on the Westway flatline

Under an all seeing eye
Tail lights on the Westway flatline

On this journey you buy a bottle
not a bus ticket
You say goodbyes
don't plan hello's

and hope for no God.

Dear Poet credit the muse.

Dear poet
I saw your flyer for a show I couldn't get to
but
You look like everything
I think my stalker will be
when I first invite him into my home.

You see my stalker
far from being the man waiting for me
will be the man I am waiting for

The man my father warned me about
but will give me to.

Boiling Water.

I walked away from it and headed north.

Towards evening on the second day the snow came, 
two hours later I was seeking shelter. 
Without snowshoes my progress was laboured and awkward.  
I came across a cave in a narrow ravine; 
a drift of smoke and footprints in the snow 
from someone coming from the north; 
small footprints, 
a woman or a child.

The cave was lit only by the fire 
enough for me to see the woman, 
dressed in grey, 
sheen of her hair like a well oiled gun, 
a woman from an unknown tribe, 
sitting, 

heating water. 

The makings of some ritual tea ceremony 
laid out on a rock.

Startled but unafraid she silently watched 
I found myself a place to rest opposite her, 
the fire between us. 
In perfect English she said: 
'We will wait for the water to boil. I will make tea'.
A shoulder gesture indicated the paraphernalia on the rock beside her. 
'Then you must leave'.

We sat in silence but for the fire 
as something foreign to us both crept into the cave 
settled within us. 

As the water in the pot trembled close to boil 
she she added a ladlefull of ice cold snow-melt. 
We sat on in silence.

As the water in the pot trembled close to boil 
I took up the ladle and added snow-melt to the pot. 
we sat on in silence.

Into the early hours we sat watching that pot never boil. 
Finally, having covered me in a blanket, 
she lay nearby. 
We slept.

I awoke to find her making coffee. 
We talked; 
each to the other brought magic.

On the second morning we departed, 
heading South.

In the cave on the fire rested the pot of water. 

Singing as it boiled.

December. (work in progress)

Do not tell me everything on skype
leave some things unsaid for
rainy December cafe conversations

Do not send me google maps or coordinates
leave your body uncharted for
rainy December garret explorations

I am well past that point in time
when , had you been here
I would have touched you on the wrist or shoulder
perhaps leant in to pick a piece of lint from your coat
or pushed a stray hair back from your brow
that would have let you know
I had passed that point in time

that point where interest turns to affection.

And if suddenly becomes when.

God comes to a child in a dream.

Visiting a childrens cancer ward
in my capacity as poet
I knelt beside a bald headed child
studiously writing
tongue out
deep in concentration


I asked him and he replied 
I am writing about god and Jesus
listen


god came to me in a dream 
and said
Jesus was my favourite
and I made him suffer
Imagine what I am going to do to you!


the child went on to say
that the priest at the playground
said he looked cute with his bald head.

The next Event

Friday 24th September


the Tabernacle, Powis square, London W11.


Doors open 7.30.  Stuff happens 8.00.


Tickets £7.00 

On leaving you.

Poetry, along with beauty, can be found in anything if you know how to look at things (and people) the right way!




Twelve years ago, or thereabouts 
walking in Highgate with the woman 
the woman I loved more than any other at that time


Oh Judy...


we passed a skip and in that skip was a chair
a kitchen chair, a cheap kitchen chair; tatty but serviceable
I wrenched the thing out from its resting place
and Judy said:
throw it back, it is horrible
I refused and continued on our way
'you are not putting it in my house' she said.


Once home and Judy gone to fill her day with what she did
I stood the chair in my room
eyed it critically
It occurred to me that it was only a chair when sat upon
otherwise it was clutter.


I found paint and brush, sanded down the wood
then painted it turquoise
I upholstered the seat in faux leopard skin


on strips of paper I wrote out lines from a poem I had written as a youth
gauche lines written about leaving a girl
the girl I loved more than anyone at that time


Oh Sarah...


The poem went:


On leaving you
This morning, although there was no sun
A shadow fell across me
And pools of dew formed
in the impressions left by your fingertips.


I pasted the strips of poem to the slats and spindles of the chair
then stood back
It was no longer just a chair
when sat upon indeed it was a chair
but when standing unsatupon
it became a poem
no longer wasting space.



the next time Judy visited


Oh Judy...


she saw the chair and asked about it
I told her that it was now a poem
I showed her how to read it


She read:


On leaving you
This morning although there was no sun
A shadow fell across me
and pools of dew formed
In the impressions left by your fingertips.


she naturally assumed the poem was for her
We all make that kind of mistake
at one time or another in our lives.


She said: 
Please may I have it in my house.


That tatty old chair from the skip.

Urinal song. Work in progress

I love the sound of piss on zinc

Donna's sleepy tales

of rain on Trinidad tin roofs

that she told me as we lay

in a Gloucester park how

she reeked of passion

and coconut oil

The downpour

on the corrugated school bike shed

where Mandy and I

traded tobacco smoke laden kisses

and held our own geography lessons
discovering America

The rusty dutch barn

in which we made hay

and then hasty crop circles

in that hay

and planned al fresco escapades

in the ripening wheat

Come the sun

Of the beach girl

dancing naked

save a transparent plastic mac

the deluge

drumming on the upturned boats

as I drowned in her exclusive proximity

Before realisation that

it was the breaking of our 'summer'

30 years have leached out all but

the salty memory of those monsoon kisses

that creeps up my spine

At the sound of piss on zinc.

Agony Aunt... the state of the planet.

Dear Auntie

I'm in agony

I've fallen in love

with the mum of my cousin

yeah the twin of my mother

and then to cap that

so has my brother

he's fallen in love

before you get thinking

that that can't be to bad

I've just discovered

that so has my dad

he's fallen in love

Dear auntie

it's agony falling in love.

they're now always fighting

my pop and my mother

when they're doing that

I'm fighting my brother

We say we are all doing it

for the sake of our aunt

our maxim our mantra

our scientologists chant

Dear auntie

I'm in agony

And i'm no longer in love.

Poetry is the new rock n roll.

Write about a rock star

write about his vices

write about his fall from grace

his mid life crisis

write about a rock star

dress him up in sequins

rock n roll ain't a world

in which Joe Meek wins

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about the cocaine

do a line of cocaine

talk about the cocaine

talk about the cocaine

talk abou... Oh buddy

push the needle on

and write about a rock star

sing it when you're done

sing it to a techno beat

badum badum badum

(guitar solo)

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about a rock star

then kill him when your done

do it with an overdose

or maybe with a gun

but kill that fucking rock star

before he gets too old

that way you'll get to number one

before the bodies cold.

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

write another poem buddy go buddy go

sing another poem buddy go buddy go

kill another poem buddy go buddy go

It's all write muse. I'm only dissin' my ho for attention.

Portobello Rocks

http://www.portobellorocks.com/

Port Eliot.

I will be performing at Port Eliot festival this year. Hope to see you there.

http://www.porteliotfestival.com/

The enjoyable lie.

Lena lied compulsively, even when the truth would be perfectly adequate.

Lena talked in her sleep continuously, Lena told the truth in her sleep.

Lena had great difficulty hanging on to men; her daily deceits nightly exposed.

Until she met Gus.

Gus told the truth compulsively even when a lie was essential

Gus talked in his sleep continuously, Gus lied in his sleep.

Gus had great difficulty hanging on to women, His truth's were far too acute.

Until he met Lena.

During the day Gus would sleep in Lena's studio while she painted.

The white room filled with lies.

During the night Lena would sleep in his room while he wrote.

The black room echoed with honesty.

Each morning and evening they would share an hour or two of wakefulness.

He would tell her: Do not tell me you love me, do not say you will stay forever.

In return she would lie: Do not tell me you love me, do not say you will stay forever.

During these times they made love.

He told her that he loved it when she screamed out: 'No, No No, I am not having an orgasm!

They both enjoyed that lie.

The whores fake orgasm.

You cannot sell love

love has no monetary value

You cannot buy love

there is not enough money on the planet.

Love is like brownie points

you can earn it but cannot spend it.

However

Some of us have an eye for a profit

some of us have an eye for a bargain

some of us trade in forgeries

some of us happily buy fakes.

Love has no wheels to grease

no hands to ring

no feet to Manolo

no wings to feather

It is the immoveable object

and the unstoppable force

The immoveable that stops the unstoppable

the unstoppable that moves the immoveable

When money changes hands

love grinds to a halt.

The whore's fake orgasm is the sound of that grinding.

Holiday romance.

Sorry about the lousy sound quality...

Obsius and Xenia.

This all happened some 2,000 years ago so forgive me if it is a little sketchy.

Obsius was a Roman. An explorer. Happiest when his eye was on the horizon and his goal beyond that.

Having travelled through Egypt and the Sudan he arrived in Ethiopia and as was his wont he eschewed the well travelled roads setting out alone into the Mountains of the moon, somewhere in the Amhara region.

Close to exhaustion he came across a woman living alone on a mountain side. She was like no other woman he knew; she stood tall and proud, skin a deep brown, almost black, bright flashing eyes again deep brown almost black.

They eyed each other suspiciously but she led him to her cave, gave him food, allowed him to sleep, to regain his strength. Not a word passed between them; she had no language to offer him and understood none of his.

They communicated by glances, by gesture, by glottal clicks, by smiles, by frowns. Finally by touch.

Compass spinning, the explorer had found his promised land. He called her Xenia.

He stayed with her for some months, exploring the region, making his maps by day. Exploring elsewhere by night.

One morning they came upon a long dormant volcano, it's caldera filled with water, the surface shone like a mirror; it gave the appearance of having no depth yet seemed bottomless. Xenia seemed panicked by this strange place and tried to drag him away but Obsius would have none of it, leading her down to the waters edge.

Where at once they were confronted by a strange and terrible brigand. a brigand of such cruelty and ferocity that no other man would serve him lest they die by his sword.

Now this brigand had a particular liking for challenges and sport. He said to Obsius: 'There lives in this pool a serpent of obscene nature and unsatiable greed. It regularly snatches my goats from the waters edge and has had a lunge for me on more than one occasion. If you can enter his domain, dispatch the foul beast and return with an eye as proof of his death I will reward you with your freedom.'

He, of course had no intention of letting them go.

Before Obsius could respond Xenia had plunged headfirst into the black water, instantly disappearing from sight. the two men could do nothing but stand there and wait. And wait...

Unbeknown to them there was a cleft in the rocks under the surface it led upwards to a cavern. Through the cavern ran a small stream. The bed of the stream was littered with perfectly smooth (the result of thousands of years erosion) spheres of black volcanic glass. Xenia made her way to the cave, selected a sphere she felt was the right size for a serpent's eye then returned to the surface. Whereupon she held up the 'serpents eye' for both men to see.

The brigand, quite naturally furious, pushed both Xenia and Obsius into the lake...

They disappeared from view as She led Him through the blackness to the cave, then through a labyrinth of tunnels to safety.

the brigand meanwhile, out of curiosity went to the waters edge to see what was going on down there. At once the serpent's head smashed through the surface, snatching the brigand, taking him down into it's jaw, it's gullet, it's gut, the black depths.

The last thing to register in the brigands brain were the serpents yellow eyes.

Sadly for the serpent the brigand's unsheathed sword ruptured it's spleen and caused a long agonising death.

Time passed peacefully on the mountain side but both knew that he must return home. On the morning of his departure, wordlessly she handed him the black sphere, pointing out the mist that appeared trapped beneath it's surface then indicating the tear that seeped from her eye. He kissed away the tear, tasting...

Back in Rome the black stone was the talk of the town. It sat upon his table where he worked. He told no-one of the tears trapped within it, not even his wife who knew better than to question him about the strange piece of glass.

The Romans learned to call the thing Lapis Obsidianus.

He called it Xenia.

Ruby.

Home

Drinking Milk reading Bukowski bored

I'd rather be drinking beer

Fucking the woman who turned Bukowski down

Reading her my own poetry

No obscene horror in that

The doorbell

Then she is here in my room MY room

In her leopard skin silk

Agent Provocateur

Bright red mouth

Hair as black as a raven's wing

Bottle of cheap red wine in her hand

A shadow of the Sapphire in her navel through silk

She has not changed much in ten years

Except the unmellowed ageing

Oh Ruby.

Two glasses in she says

You have not asked me to stay

If I knew you less well

I'd ask you to stay

You are every man's dream

But not every night

Repeated dream becomes nightmare

In which you do not turn Bukowski down

Ever

An explanation of sorts.

We lay together on the big brightly coloured sofa watching a film about Patagonia.

She said: 'I did not have a teddy bear when I was a child. I had a seal cub'.

I told her that I did not have a teddy either. Or a seal cub for that matter. I had a rock.

I had found the rock shortly after I had started to walk, I had found it in the shed in the yard near the kitchen door. I brought my new friend into the house to play. I soon learned to love that rock.

When my mother found us together in the living room she tutted then took the rock from me, throwing it onto the fire.

I was saddened by the loss of my new and only friend and saddened also by my mothers cruelty. I also wondered if perhaps my mother was racist; my friend was black.

It did not take me long however to return to the shed in the yard and find a new friend. I loved my new friend almost as much as the first.

It was not long before my mother found us together. My new friend followed the first onto the fire.

This time I did not waste too much time grieving but returned to the shed for another rock. This process repeated itself until I became quick enough on my feet to get ahead of the fire whereupon my mother would put my friends into the basket beside the fireplace saying: 'Who's mummy's clever little helper then'.

I could not for the life of me see what was clever about burning my friends. Since then I have had difficulty forming relationships.

The woman beside me on the brightly coloured sofa said: 'I am your friend'.

'I know'. I replied. As I held the cigarette lighter to the hem of her dress.

Before you go.

She said get out
But before you go
Can you put up those shelves
She said Fuck off
but before you go
can you de-scale the shower head
The pickling vinegar is in the bottom drawer
You’ll be needing that
She said Get a life
But before you do
Can you build a garden shed
She said DIE!
But before you go
Can you outlive me