28 December 2009
in the morning, light rain
ceasing in polite way
allowing the sun to come
I went into the garden to get a bit
my first foray for the last month
or two, immobility etc
I am watching
an orange butterfly
in inane way
going here and there
among the ankle high grass, some tickle my upper leg
the sun a warmth I have not enjoyed for a time
an oriental robin magpie
burrowing into the cut foliage
thinking I can’t spot him
then, in Messerschmitt way
going the roof of the
neighbouring house
to regale me
with an anthropological tune
than Messiaen might have done justice to
I think back to a winter poem
of the Wye, watching the ducks, crisps, the mother
with warm wrapped baby
the frontier between Brecon and Radnor
I think back to a poem, a place, a time...
but why, Wye...
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
22 May 2009 am pm
am
a one metre monitor lizard came out
cracking the dry leaf
tongue flicking in out, jabbing the air
trying to catch what it might eat
skin patchy, like an off yellow fungi on a grey tree
walking in the way of a new ballerina
by new chopped papaya tree
pile of dry grass, then away
I thought I might chop an apple
but that would take too long
I call out; frozen, watching, waiting
then away
pm
three agitating sparrows perch
below the air-con unit
on the water pipe
thunder beginning to timpani a way
to a place away
though quite bright, the rain will come
her orange baju kurung hanging
oozing in the air, the new cut garden
waiting for night
two sparrows pick, peck below;
the tree warming up for the rain
a one metre monitor lizard came out
cracking the dry leaf
tongue flicking in out, jabbing the air
trying to catch what it might eat
skin patchy, like an off yellow fungi on a grey tree
walking in the way of a new ballerina
by new chopped papaya tree
pile of dry grass, then away
I thought I might chop an apple
but that would take too long
I call out; frozen, watching, waiting
then away
pm
three agitating sparrows perch
below the air-con unit
on the water pipe
thunder beginning to timpani a way
to a place away
though quite bright, the rain will come
her orange baju kurung hanging
oozing in the air, the new cut garden
waiting for night
two sparrows pick, peck below;
the tree warming up for the rain
Three men in a pub
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, that’s what I like, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, a man’s good mate, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, there’s nothing like a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, after work, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, full gold mug, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, amber glass, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, down in one, my jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, top it up, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, how many’s that, two jars of ale?
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, tastes so good, this jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, cools my throat, this jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, nowt so fresh as a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, hullo, lad, any news,
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, come and sink a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, that’s much better, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, how many’s that, three jars of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, that feels good, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, evening cheer, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, warming up, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, lost track of how many jars of ale
clippit has a beer
using pen to scratch nose
then tries to peer
at a jar
that seems so far
away
it looks like you’re writing a letter
would you like help..
clear off now, you paperclip male
or I’ll drown you in the jar of ale
if you think this is too long, the story of the jar of ale
you’re fortunate it wasn’t
a jar of Adnam’s original oak cask mellowed traditional Suffolk bitter
or you’d be here for the week…
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, a man’s good mate, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, there’s nothing like a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, after work, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, full gold mug, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, amber glass, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, down in one, my jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, top it up, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, how many’s that, two jars of ale?
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, tastes so good, this jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, cools my throat, this jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, nowt so fresh as a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, hullo, lad, any news,
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, come and sink a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, that’s much better, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, how many’s that, three jars of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, that feels good, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, evening cheer, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, warming up, a jar of ale
a jar of ale, a jar of ale, lost track of how many jars of ale
clippit has a beer
using pen to scratch nose
then tries to peer
at a jar
that seems so far
away
it looks like you’re writing a letter
would you like help..
clear off now, you paperclip male
or I’ll drown you in the jar of ale
if you think this is too long, the story of the jar of ale
you’re fortunate it wasn’t
a jar of Adnam’s original oak cask mellowed traditional Suffolk bitter
or you’d be here for the week…
Monday, April 6, 2009
Prime image in three / hazy afternoon
I woke about four thirty pm
catching the garden in prime number beauty
of eighty three percent bright magnetism
the matt green of papaya and bamboo
the gloss of the yellow flower
the green and purple of the unknown one
a young squirrel came to bounce
through three centimetre grass, then
up a young papaya tree, until spotting its mate
a wary bird ran away in half flapping terror
a mynah flew past, flecks of colour in the air
a cicak zipping by window water plant
completing the prime image
hear time go on and on, tick, tock
chattering bird or two near
whishing of ironing water there
creaking of light wooden chair
tapping of computer key here
banging of steaming fish wok
waiting to eat, two fifteen
rucking hunger hitting
me
ah, amah;
with fish, green leaf, stem crunch
I take water in a cut-price gift mug
no wonder the birds here go ‘cheap, cheap’
catching the garden in prime number beauty
of eighty three percent bright magnetism
the matt green of papaya and bamboo
the gloss of the yellow flower
the green and purple of the unknown one
a young squirrel came to bounce
through three centimetre grass, then
up a young papaya tree, until spotting its mate
a wary bird ran away in half flapping terror
a mynah flew past, flecks of colour in the air
a cicak zipping by window water plant
completing the prime image
hazy afternoon
1 April 2009
hear time go on and on, tick, tock
chattering bird or two near
whishing of ironing water there
creaking of light wooden chair
tapping of computer key here
banging of steaming fish wok
waiting to eat, two fifteen
rucking hunger hitting
me
ah, amah;
with fish, green leaf, stem crunch
I take water in a cut-price gift mug
no wonder the birds here go ‘cheap, cheap’
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Two women in a place not here
1 Jazz bar
the raindrops that fall in the light of the night
are like the tears of love when the autumn kicks in;
to a woman, the words and tune, they’re sunset bright
to let a late night loving come, place a bet, we will win
the tree, the flower might sway in the night air
but I only want to be in motion with you, the time when I
know you gaze at early morning legs, you touch my hair
to watch the morning change, the rain of the waning night go by
2 Concert
the energy and pace of nature are beginning to clash
the rain is beating on a desolate landscape of exposed igneous rock
the typhoon is blasting the coast
writhing in agony, cutting and opening
ripping out the interior
in the desert, the abrasion of weathering
is scratching away at a million rock surfaces of quartz
in the snow-covered mountains, the winds tear at the atmosphere
the avalanches break anything in their way
ripping out the interior
the raindrops that fall in the light of the night
are like the tears of love when the autumn kicks in;
to a woman, the words and tune, they’re sunset bright
to let a late night loving come, place a bet, we will win
the tree, the flower might sway in the night air
but I only want to be in motion with you, the time when I
know you gaze at early morning legs, you touch my hair
to watch the morning change, the rain of the waning night go by
2 Concert
the energy and pace of nature are beginning to clash
the rain is beating on a desolate landscape of exposed igneous rock
the typhoon is blasting the coast
writhing in agony, cutting and opening
ripping out the interior
in the desert, the abrasion of weathering
is scratching away at a million rock surfaces of quartz
in the snow-covered mountains, the winds tear at the atmosphere
the avalanches break anything in their way
ripping out the interior
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Asia to Africa - no point, I know
30 March 2009
I, in the rear, watch
think of the wire to the fridge
in blurring inefficiency
they go off to a surrendering bed, but
I must remain here, thinking why
it might be like this or that
in analysis, the Nyeri rain
the Nanyuki bar, road to Isiolo
bringing me back home
the warmth of an Nkubu night
chopped pine, Mendelssohn, chess, monopoly too
the lights out at ten pm
the generator wanting to sleep
with the chorus of east African mosquito
other insect, the school uniform ostrich feather redundant
irrelevant to the time
elbow across north and south
Nanyuki bar of equator, but who cares, except me…
I, in the rear, watch
think of the wire to the fridge
in blurring inefficiency
they go off to a surrendering bed, but
I must remain here, thinking why
it might be like this or that
in analysis, the Nyeri rain
the Nanyuki bar, road to Isiolo
bringing me back home
the warmth of an Nkubu night
chopped pine, Mendelssohn, chess, monopoly too
the lights out at ten pm
the generator wanting to sleep
with the chorus of east African mosquito
other insect, the school uniform ostrich feather redundant
irrelevant to the time
elbow across north and south
Nanyuki bar of equator, but who cares, except me…
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
A fly in a bag / Trio / Miniature moon
March 2009
the hanging bag
by the rear window
in there,
a fly
buzzing in irritation,
incomprehension at being unable to get out
wondering what it had done to be
in this predicament
the opaque pale grey
jamming its orientation
the walls in gentle tremor
against the wing
the fish bone,
meat bit just watch
they do nothing to help
four fifty; but maybe high noon too
I chop carrot, apple
get water - my tea
it got out
I went to check
after tea
Trio
25 March 2009
by the rear in the half lit garden with four pm air
two mynahs beat wing and bop on the concrete
one oriental robin magpie, enquiring with a peck or two
by corner tree in agitating motion
a wary running bird poking but the name…
Miniature moon
March 2009
On my right palm the
blister from hoeing is like a miniature moon
I can pick it, or keep it
calm in its ignorance,
in harmony with the earth
but not with me
Bream on a plate
March 2009
pale post-steam pink,
the fin barb like Mohican hair,
taking the spoon, cutting through
in the way of a surgeon, extracting the meat,
a scale getting into the mouth…
yellow green mak tam leaf,
teeming garlic juice,
no rice
on the screen, in free fall,
leaf after leaf of orange autumn
pale post-steam pink,
the fin barb like Mohican hair,
taking the spoon, cutting through
in the way of a surgeon, extracting the meat,
a scale getting into the mouth…
yellow green mak tam leaf,
teeming garlic juice,
no rice
on the screen, in free fall,
leaf after leaf of orange autumn
Friday, March 20, 2009
A poem for a mug
I used to own a number of mugs, used to, please note
but they are gone now
thrown away by me
in quality cricketing way
in debris by the base of a tree
I imagine they’ll be there
in a hundred years from now
maybe being picked up from the jungle floor
examined by a young girl or boy
not yet even thought about
I can’t drink tea now; I shall have to
use my cupped hands to drink water
from the tap; that has the advantage though
in that I get
no insects in the mouth
unlike my containers of filtered water; they
attract insects like a bizarre magnet; maybe
it’s the lime I put in… I
hadn’t thought of that
yes, maybe it’s the lime.
I bought one mug
in a small Chinese shop
it had clear line etchings on it
quite exquisite, like the Chinese tea
I used to take from it; that’s gone too,
along with a Bugs Bunny mug,
a present from my students, oh
ten years back; they - the young people, I mean -
are good at gauging
a teacher’s mentality.
I’ll miss my mugs - I already am - and my tea
- I already am - and to make matters worse
they - the wretched pair of big birds - have refused to disperse
they are still up there
irritating
hooting
annoying me
non-stop, enjoying every minute
high up
in the tree
but they are gone now
thrown away by me
in quality cricketing way
in debris by the base of a tree
I imagine they’ll be there
in a hundred years from now
maybe being picked up from the jungle floor
examined by a young girl or boy
not yet even thought about
I can’t drink tea now; I shall have to
use my cupped hands to drink water
from the tap; that has the advantage though
in that I get
no insects in the mouth
unlike my containers of filtered water; they
attract insects like a bizarre magnet; maybe
it’s the lime I put in… I
hadn’t thought of that
yes, maybe it’s the lime.
I bought one mug
in a small Chinese shop
it had clear line etchings on it
quite exquisite, like the Chinese tea
I used to take from it; that’s gone too,
along with a Bugs Bunny mug,
a present from my students, oh
ten years back; they - the young people, I mean -
are good at gauging
a teacher’s mentality.
I’ll miss my mugs - I already am - and my tea
- I already am - and to make matters worse
they - the wretched pair of big birds - have refused to disperse
they are still up there
irritating
hooting
annoying me
non-stop, enjoying every minute
high up
in the tree
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Refugee from a picture
March 2009
Here, hearing the bird group chattering on
on a bright morning, walking into
the town through park of rucking tree
ATM, bank, Post Office par avion, butcher for lamb
town hall clocking in on time
cattle market empty
car park of ticketing circulation
rugby, the Blorenge opposite
breaking industry and agriculture
the Ysgyryd Fach to the east by the railway track
the air clear, hot ready to bite you
back up to the top, heart pumping
take a lunch of sausage, bread, a pot of Rooibos tea
in the afternoon, tidy up the place, then writing
the night bringing
an oh la la woman to the shop for a pack
then taking her away from me
now walking back alone with my beer
Here, hearing the bird group chattering on
on a bright morning, walking into
the town through park of rucking tree
ATM, bank, Post Office par avion, butcher for lamb
town hall clocking in on time
cattle market empty
car park of ticketing circulation
rugby, the Blorenge opposite
breaking industry and agriculture
the Ysgyryd Fach to the east by the railway track
the air clear, hot ready to bite you
back up to the top, heart pumping
take a lunch of sausage, bread, a pot of Rooibos tea
in the afternoon, tidy up the place, then writing
the night bringing
an oh la la woman to the shop for a pack
then taking her away from me
now walking back alone with my beer
Friday, March 13, 2009
Night with East Africa
12 March 2009
I put the computer on tonight, at 00.43
a time when no-one, nothing came
on the table, an insect, in lounging walk
I blow away, in kindness, not wishing hurt
hearing Benin Angelique, ‘Malaika’ in Dakar, enjoying it
no, you wouldn’t, would you
because you’re ignorant
that is why
the Wye, cool me
the…is…empty…now
I put the computer on tonight, at 00.43
a time when no-one, nothing came
on the table, an insect, in lounging walk
I blow away, in kindness, not wishing hurt
hearing Benin Angelique, ‘Malaika’ in Dakar, enjoying it
no, you wouldn’t, would you
because you’re ignorant
that is why
the Wye, cool me
the…is…empty…now
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Pot-pourri ici
23 50 11 March 2009
Pot-pourri ici des pensées dans le soir
une soir avec rien ici
sauf le chuchotement de l’eau par le plage
où les arbres proclament que la nuit respire
et moi-même
je reste ici, tout seul, une atmosphère
qui fait la paix, mais sans romance
ma femme est partie
et je pense, mais je ne sais pas que je pense
à moi, c’est assez normale
c’est tranquille ici, je n’ai pas de la plainte
étant avec les arbres, je suis heureux
j’ai la nuit par compagnie; elle ne me importune pas
en fait, j’elle adore
elle m’amène beaucoup de choses une personne ne peut pas
poésie sans mots, musique sans gens, bière sans tracasseries, par exemple
et maintenant la pluie vient encore avec beaucoup de puissance
amènent avec elle un orchestre
qui est, en même temps, pacifique et âpre
Non? Okay, I’ll try again, j’essaie encore
Pot-pourri ici des pensées dans le soir
une soir avec rien ici
sauf le chuchotement de l’eau par le plage
où les arbres proclament que la nuit respire
et moi-même
je reste ici, tout seul, une atmosphère
qui fait la paix, mais sans romance
ma femme est partie
et je pense, mais je ne sais pas que je pense
à moi, c’est assez normale
c’est tranquille ici, je n’ai pas de la plainte
étant avec les arbres, je suis heureux
j’ai la nuit par compagnie; elle ne me importune pas
en fait, j’elle adore
elle m’amène beaucoup de choses une personne ne peut pas
poésie sans mots, musique sans gens, bière sans tracasseries, par exemple
et maintenant la pluie vient encore avec beaucoup de puissance
amènent avec elle un orchestre
qui est, en même temps, pacifique et âpre
Non? Okay, I’ll try again, j’essaie encore
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
EK
11 March 2009
Exiting KLIA on a hot night of aircraft thunder runway
engines kick in, we kick out
the engines quieten, then pick up
the flaps go down, the leading edge whining out
the night beginning to paint pinpricks of ground light
a road appearing, then a car, then a fence
the thud of the runway,
air brake, reverse thrusting
extra kerosene
the shuddering goes as quick as it came
job complete
here,
the smell of ubiquitous airport
emanating kerosene and perfume
the bi-lingual departure information
African robe, Arab business suit
Caucasian jeans, sports gear
women on show, women hidden away
I look at the pretty KLM girl, but she’s a cardboard cut-out
rather the way I think I am now
4 30
the population of earth
thinking they are on the go
through the window
coach bringing in new
taking out transit
a catering truck, fire engine, petrol tanker
unclear in the orange haze
of a beginning morning here
one plane, then another, another run and go
Exiting KLIA on a hot night of aircraft thunder runway
engines kick in, we kick out
the engines quieten, then pick up
the flaps go down, the leading edge whining out
the night beginning to paint pinpricks of ground light
a road appearing, then a car, then a fence
the thud of the runway,
air brake, reverse thrusting
extra kerosene
the shuddering goes as quick as it came
job complete
here,
the smell of ubiquitous airport
emanating kerosene and perfume
the bi-lingual departure information
African robe, Arab business suit
Caucasian jeans, sports gear
women on show, women hidden away
I look at the pretty KLM girl, but she’s a cardboard cut-out
rather the way I think I am now
4 30
thinking they are on the go
through the window
coach bringing in new
taking out transit
a catering truck, fire engine, petrol tanker
unclear in the orange haze
of a beginning morning here
one plane, then another, another run and go
the half-awake runway watching them, irate
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Music out in Africa
8 March 2009
1
pine chop chunks cook in adagio
resin coming out in gentle smoke aroma
the weak light bulb
enough for the chess game
the Mendelssohn concerto
on the scratching turntable
the floor of polishing cement
the teak rhino watching
the generator will stop now
near ten
2
Walking with heavy tape recorder bulk
thick button, weak battery
with Mozart flute and harp
hearing the clarinet warble back then
a long time before the film
with school and house
was thought about
watching the gazelle, giraffe, zebra
by the lake of lotus and tilapia
in the Rift.
3
A party with the nurses in Igoji
Bert Kaempfert swinging away
with staccato trumpet
cheese wire strings biting in
coffee tree, mud track
groaning of the car
the hint of yet another blast of rain
axe, arrow flint
women with banana bunch
on their back
1
pine chop chunks cook in adagio
resin coming out in gentle smoke aroma
the weak light bulb
enough for the chess game
the Mendelssohn concerto
on the scratching turntable
the floor of polishing cement
the teak rhino watching
the generator will stop now
near ten
2
Walking with heavy tape recorder bulk
thick button, weak battery
with Mozart flute and harp
hearing the clarinet warble back then
a long time before the film
with school and house
was thought about
watching the gazelle, giraffe, zebra
by the lake of lotus and tilapia
in the Rift.
3
A party with the nurses in Igoji
Bert Kaempfert swinging away
with staccato trumpet
cheese wire strings biting in
coffee tree, mud track
groaning of the car
the hint of yet another blast of rain
axe, arrow flint
women with banana bunch
on their back
The poem that went to court
March 2009
The court in Merthyr was packed up high;
it hadn’t had this type of case before.
Prosecuting, Mr Wyn Griffith Price QC, asked for the
maximum sentence, to deter potential future ‘copycats’ - to
much laughter in the gallery - trying the same thing.
Mr Griffith Price Wyn QC, for the defence, said his client had no money,
was full of remorse, a character of no importance, with
no criminal record, here, or in any other country.
The jury were out for two hours, one minute.
‘We find the defendant guilty.’
The judge, Mr Justice Griffith Wyn Price, looked up, and spoke.
‘In my time as a High Court judge,
I haven’t come across a case as bizarre,
as terrible as this. The jury have found you guilty
by a majority of ten to two.
You are to get the maximum sentence I can handout - ten years, without parole,
to be detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure
in an anthology of vanity publishing‘
adding, in a grim tone, ‘I repeat, without parole; take it away.’
‘The rat in a hat hit the cat with a mat’ was taken away
in handcuffs, by two prison officers, one a woman.
The two barristers picked up their paperwork, put pen in pocket,
arranging to meet for dinner in Crickhowell that night in The Bear.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
23 out of 24
Much of the time in here,
gazing in half-thought at nothing,
hair matching the bed, desk, chair;
he knew they were waiting,
hot cooking oil again -
that happened the first week -
a beating, mutilation,
not the ultimate though,
that was too nice for him;
he knew that, oh yes, he knew that,
why he had a four man escort, one in riot gear.
the click, open door, the tray;
‘the cake’s from your mother, scum,’
picking up the mug, spitting the weak tea back in.
‘no sugar, they don’t put sugar in for you.’
the closing door, the click; he bit in,
the broken knife cutting into gum
roof, lip, tongue, now screaming,
the blood like the jam in the cake,
hearing them laughing, the banging,
trying in agony to take the bits out,
the thought now coming that he didn’t have a mum.
gazing in half-thought at nothing,
hair matching the bed, desk, chair;
he knew they were waiting,
hot cooking oil again -
that happened the first week -
a beating, mutilation,
not the ultimate though,
that was too nice for him;
he knew that, oh yes, he knew that,
why he had a four man escort, one in riot gear.
the click, open door, the tray;
‘the cake’s from your mother, scum,’
picking up the mug, spitting the weak tea back in.
‘no sugar, they don’t put sugar in for you.’
the closing door, the click; he bit in,
the broken knife cutting into gum
roof, lip, tongue, now screaming,
the blood like the jam in the cake,
hearing them laughing, the banging,
trying in agony to take the bits out,
the thought now coming that he didn’t have a mum.
1 March
Oh,
I know;
I know nothing, no-one can be bothered with it;
you might get a brief item at nine or ten pm,
much of the time, the weathermen talk of ‘the west’;
it doesn’t exist, except for the
rugby, but 95% of the Earth get
by well enough without the game.
A political appendage of little worth;
if you were to operate on it,
rather like an appendix,
no-one would notice.
But the yellow one will continue to come into flower,
bringing something to the place;
I keep thinking that, but why…
I know;
I know nothing, no-one can be bothered with it;
you might get a brief item at nine or ten pm,
much of the time, the weathermen talk of ‘the west’;
it doesn’t exist, except for the
rugby, but 95% of the Earth get
by well enough without the game.
A political appendage of little worth;
if you were to operate on it,
rather like an appendix,
no-one would notice.
But the yellow one will continue to come into flower,
bringing something to the place;
I keep thinking that, but why…
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Clippit
2008
Where did you get the notebook, and where do you hide the pen?
Watching you, a paperclip chap, the obsequious waiter gearing up to go
the eyebrows raise in intelligent way on the extenuating wire
I like it when I, to rent your thought, type in a word you don’t know
eye opening in glaring incredulity when I, in jest, enquire
to whirl in surprise, the hula-hoop of non-stop motion, the atom brain
you seem to smile with pensive thought, hand on chin too
becoming a molecule after quietening in melt down again
when, I’m sure, your electron mock-irritation and energy are through
raising eyebrows, looking at me as though I’m an imbecile in totality
Am I in the imagination, and you’re the one who’s part of reality
enjoying the role of maîtrisse of the art of research Q and A ingestion?
I don’t know what you mean. Please rephrase your question.
Where did you get the notebook, and where do you hide the pen?
Watching you, a paperclip chap, the obsequious waiter gearing up to go
the eyebrows raise in intelligent way on the extenuating wire
I like it when I, to rent your thought, type in a word you don’t know
eye opening in glaring incredulity when I, in jest, enquire
to whirl in surprise, the hula-hoop of non-stop motion, the atom brain
you seem to smile with pensive thought, hand on chin too
becoming a molecule after quietening in melt down again
when, I’m sure, your electron mock-irritation and energy are through
raising eyebrows, looking at me as though I’m an imbecile in totality
Am I in the imagination, and you’re the one who’s part of reality
enjoying the role of maîtrisse of the art of research Q and A ingestion?
I don’t know what you mean. Please rephrase your question.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A poem for a birthday boy
A poem for a birthday boy, from me
21 February 2008 / 21 February 1992
I am thinking back through time to when I first held you,
asking that you have a long, healthy, happy life here,
in the wrapping of new cloth, kissing you for the first time,
with Dr Chong informing me you were okay.
watching you in your mother’s open and welcoming care,
you were close to her, tired in the aftermath of the Caesarean act,
the post anaesthesia, post dawn emerging in contemplating
half anything in the effect of the pre morning calm.
I went to an open air Chinese coffee shop, maybe for a beer;
I can’t recall that, but I can the warm pacing morning
by the front door grill, waiting in unbridled exciting excitement,
not knowing what to expect, a new girl or boy.
A year and a bit later, your sister came out to see us, too,
greeting her, kissing the welcome in matching way,
wary after the warning of ‘complications’, but no problem;
now a teenage bint trying to checkmate rhythm squash, piano.
I broke a happy birthday to you this east coast morning,
then you had a shower, scenting fresh, with hair neat,
the ‘wah, haute couture’ shirt and trousers white and green,
a gunslinger of new, book bag hanging over your shoulder to the rear.
Now I am here, yet again, thinking and pacing my way
through those teenage years to you both,
I am thinking back when you were able to just act in mime,
through a ticking moment to the original hug to a little kipping pack,
the Chinese nurse showing me that you were a boy;
hanging in with gurgle in the baby bouncing machine,
the post bathing baby aroma, new, unaware,
the Christmas with you two in mini breakfast cereal, in hat.
The Boughrood garden, with the no go area apple tree;
waiting for Granddad, clutching me in half terror when the 737 came;
watching you and Rhiannon in kampung house porch,
thinking back through time trying to reach a memory yet again.
in a bite of night writing to you, about a birthday boy…
thank you.
21 February 2008 / 21 February 1992
I am thinking back through time to when I first held you,
asking that you have a long, healthy, happy life here,
in the wrapping of new cloth, kissing you for the first time,
with Dr Chong informing me you were okay.
watching you in your mother’s open and welcoming care,
you were close to her, tired in the aftermath of the Caesarean act,
the post anaesthesia, post dawn emerging in contemplating
half anything in the effect of the pre morning calm.
I went to an open air Chinese coffee shop, maybe for a beer;
I can’t recall that, but I can the warm pacing morning
by the front door grill, waiting in unbridled exciting excitement,
not knowing what to expect, a new girl or boy.
A year and a bit later, your sister came out to see us, too,
greeting her, kissing the welcome in matching way,
wary after the warning of ‘complications’, but no problem;
now a teenage bint trying to checkmate rhythm squash, piano.
I broke a happy birthday to you this east coast morning,
then you had a shower, scenting fresh, with hair neat,
the ‘wah, haute couture’ shirt and trousers white and green,
a gunslinger of new, book bag hanging over your shoulder to the rear.
Now I am here, yet again, thinking and pacing my way
through those teenage years to you both,
I am thinking back when you were able to just act in mime,
through a ticking moment to the original hug to a little kipping pack,
the Chinese nurse showing me that you were a boy;
hanging in with gurgle in the baby bouncing machine,
the post bathing baby aroma, new, unaware,
the Christmas with you two in mini breakfast cereal, in hat.
The Boughrood garden, with the no go area apple tree;
waiting for Granddad, clutching me in half terror when the 737 came;
watching you and Rhiannon in kampung house porch,
thinking back through time trying to reach a memory yet again.
in a bite of night writing to you, about a birthday boy…
thank you.
A trick by the rear
13 January 2008
He mentioned the trick at dinner; at that time, my thinking
relaxing in geographical meandering in warm air.
By tomorrow, I won’t know it, I think, but you?
Henry came in; ‘I want to show you a trick.’
He tore the paper into many bits, crunching
in his fist, causing, it seemed to me, total mayhem;
with a snapping of a central finger and thumb,
then proceeded to pull out paper in measuring care;
I’m thinking, in intelligent way, they had to come out bit by bit,
but to my amazement, the paper emerging without harm,
apart from grimy wrinkle of battering; the torn bits? There,
now in front of me, were none, I asked about the act; a refusal came.
my interest increasing now, ha, I’ll try myself, following the
exact procedure. I pulled the bits out - yes, bits - one by one…
why could he do it, when I, of experience and age, was unable?
to myself, although it is very simple to grasp, even for me,
relaxing in geographical meandering in warm air.
By tomorrow, you won’t know it, I think, but me?
He told me; that, I shall keep.
He mentioned the trick at dinner; at that time, my thinking
relaxing in geographical meandering in warm air.
By tomorrow, I won’t know it, I think, but you?
Henry came in; ‘I want to show you a trick.’
He tore the paper into many bits, crunching
in his fist, causing, it seemed to me, total mayhem;
with a snapping of a central finger and thumb,
then proceeded to pull out paper in measuring care;
I’m thinking, in intelligent way, they had to come out bit by bit,
but to my amazement, the paper emerging without harm,
apart from grimy wrinkle of battering; the torn bits? There,
now in front of me, were none, I asked about the act; a refusal came.
my interest increasing now, ha, I’ll try myself, following the
exact procedure. I pulled the bits out - yes, bits - one by one…
why could he do it, when I, of experience and age, was unable?
to myself, although it is very simple to grasp, even for me,
relaxing in geographical meandering in warm air.
By tomorrow, you won’t know it, I think, but me?
He told me; that, I shall keep.
Orbit
10/11 January 2008
pm
The twenty four hour marathon will, in a moment
be gone, an obligatory iron ore imposition
in twenty or about itching minutes of cacti time
the kick off of a new egging on exploratory game
then another will put in the exacerbating key
to rewire up the immoral, unwelcome ignition
bringing a break-up earth again to the brutal onslaught
of colour hate, raw lying, machete cut and maim
am
The orbit goes on again, in infinity to where
content with its morning hot tiger tea and lemon cake
with no thought of a decent half time change to
wet, wasp torn, muddy strip when cheering a coco crunching break
asking an honest man, tea house woman or wandering youth
what might they aspire to; new water, cheap rice
home comfort without handcuffing terror, a creeping peace;
but that, one must for the time being, keep on mammoth frozen ice
pm
The twenty four hour marathon will, in a moment
be gone, an obligatory iron ore imposition
in twenty or about itching minutes of cacti time
the kick off of a new egging on exploratory game
then another will put in the exacerbating key
to rewire up the immoral, unwelcome ignition
bringing a break-up earth again to the brutal onslaught
of colour hate, raw lying, machete cut and maim
am
The orbit goes on again, in infinity to where
content with its morning hot tiger tea and lemon cake
with no thought of a decent half time change to
wet, wasp torn, muddy strip when cheering a coco crunching break
asking an honest man, tea house woman or wandering youth
what might they aspire to; new water, cheap rice
home comfort without handcuffing terror, a creeping peace;
but that, one must for the time being, keep on mammoth frozen ice
Cutting crew
9 January 2008
The cutting council men, in alien attire
bright long ruby shirt, Wellington boot of an ill-yellow
just like a club’s fifth fifteen, to play a grass hacking game
about mid morning, hat, mouth cloth, goggles to protect
taking the long pole with rotating blade cutting
the stinking petrol engine on their back, whining
whacking the brink of the lane, wandering extra hedge
walking by peering into the lane monsoon guttering
the blade in infinity rotating, without remuneration
one now raking the chopped mishmash of jumble hack
broken chaos, collating, without intolerance
the flotsam, jetsam tumble in concert to composting cake
an Imperial storm trooper, but a poor man’s new recruit
wrapped up against the chip of twig, glass, tin
coming here, going there, in a broken unhealthy jalopy
to sweat out in the heat; then total silence when they finish
I watch a scratching sweating way to make rough money
clearing overgrowth, making the place clean, trim
me, with fresh water, fan breeze keeping comfort in touch;
but for a third world indigent crew; they get how much…
The cutting council men, in alien attire
bright long ruby shirt, Wellington boot of an ill-yellow
just like a club’s fifth fifteen, to play a grass hacking game
about mid morning, hat, mouth cloth, goggles to protect
taking the long pole with rotating blade cutting
the stinking petrol engine on their back, whining
whacking the brink of the lane, wandering extra hedge
walking by peering into the lane monsoon guttering
the blade in infinity rotating, without remuneration
one now raking the chopped mishmash of jumble hack
broken chaos, collating, without intolerance
the flotsam, jetsam tumble in concert to composting cake
an Imperial storm trooper, but a poor man’s new recruit
wrapped up against the chip of twig, glass, tin
coming here, going there, in a broken unhealthy jalopy
to sweat out in the heat; then total silence when they finish
I watch a scratching sweating way to make rough money
clearing overgrowth, making the place clean, trim
me, with fresh water, fan breeze keeping comfort in touch;
but for a third world indigent crew; they get how much…
A morning in Terengganu
I wake up, 4 am. I get out of bed, 5 am. I walk.
I boil water. I lay table. I eat toast and peanut butter.
Wife complaining, 7 am, about burnt toast, enjoying herself talk.
I throw burnt bits into sink; they can go later into the gutter.
I type this on the computer, 7 30 am. I can’t wait for 10 pm.
I boil water. I lay table. I eat toast and peanut butter.
Wife complaining, 7 am, about burnt toast, enjoying herself talk.
I throw burnt bits into sink; they can go later into the gutter.
I type this on the computer, 7 30 am. I can’t wait for 10 pm.
Tropical evening
January 2007 8 03 pm
When the evening came along tonight, the warm breeze from the bay
limping through open burning air, kampung house tree trying to purr
the sun, a hard working chap, about to go and put his kit away
I came in to open a container of new potato chips; they were
home made, not in a factory that might be uncaring and remote;
with a screw top sealed with some transparent sticky tape that I
peeled away with the precision of a doctor in a white coat
in a pre operation cleaning that didn’t want a child to cry
Then, whilst the young girl was watching some goggle box hit
on the computer, I extracted one, an oval wafer of golden coin
put it between my awaiting teeth, in firm yet controlled technique, bit
in a way that would mean both sets of teeth could join
The absence of commercial salt was welcome; I thought that nice
in fact, I helped myself to another and another, welcoming each one
like a Malaccan merchant of 1500 with a shipment of rice
before the Portuguese came in anger and a much bigger gun
I bit into another and another and another and another too,
another and another and another and another and another; and you
the reader, if there is one, will realise it must appear
that we enjoy little in the way of night time intellectual excitement here.
When the evening came along tonight, the warm breeze from the bay
limping through open burning air, kampung house tree trying to purr
the sun, a hard working chap, about to go and put his kit away
I came in to open a container of new potato chips; they were
home made, not in a factory that might be uncaring and remote;
with a screw top sealed with some transparent sticky tape that I
peeled away with the precision of a doctor in a white coat
in a pre operation cleaning that didn’t want a child to cry
Then, whilst the young girl was watching some goggle box hit
on the computer, I extracted one, an oval wafer of golden coin
put it between my awaiting teeth, in firm yet controlled technique, bit
in a way that would mean both sets of teeth could join
The absence of commercial salt was welcome; I thought that nice
in fact, I helped myself to another and another, welcoming each one
like a Malaccan merchant of 1500 with a shipment of rice
before the Portuguese came in anger and a much bigger gun
I bit into another and another and another and another too,
another and another and another and another and another; and you
the reader, if there is one, will realise it must appear
that we enjoy little in the way of night time intellectual excitement here.
Birth Quake Earth Cake
30 October 2007
Probing with a surgeon's care and rigour, break and crack, burst and rip
spreading away in cutting-juice emission, the ooze in imperceptible meandering
across the base in rejection of a spherical rank, grasping a half-tight quasi-grip
mushrooming like the aftermath of an atom bomb discharge, abandoning
here, where the surface bubbles on, roasting the hot, rock-hard crust
the mixing of the colours, watching the rising puree of radiating heat
a whirlpool purée of yellow texture, amalgamate with a crimson rust
the consequential Pre-Cambrian mayhem in a break-time recess rupture beat
Intimation of many a fissure that the pre-life era, a zone of undulating immensity
the unending blast of raw heat through hardening day or coagulating night
the composite elements one might assume bring on a result in catastrophe
a chef’s palette with polychrome passion, bright-hot engaging white
where element and mixture magma-merge in electro-chemistry, to take
one step up the time scale, to let the compounding items bask
watch raw conduction component ex-shopping basket burst and bake
in fulfilment of its rotating intemperate pressure, to close up the task
Browning in less than gentle manner, hardening the unbeaten hero
with a skin of radiation, a new circle of soft centre in labouring Earth
time ticking away, waiting for the right moment to buzz into incorporating zero
take out, with protection and rising humongous hunger, a new pizza in birth
Probing with a surgeon's care and rigour, break and crack, burst and rip
spreading away in cutting-juice emission, the ooze in imperceptible meandering
across the base in rejection of a spherical rank, grasping a half-tight quasi-grip
mushrooming like the aftermath of an atom bomb discharge, abandoning
here, where the surface bubbles on, roasting the hot, rock-hard crust
the mixing of the colours, watching the rising puree of radiating heat
a whirlpool purée of yellow texture, amalgamate with a crimson rust
the consequential Pre-Cambrian mayhem in a break-time recess rupture beat
Intimation of many a fissure that the pre-life era, a zone of undulating immensity
the unending blast of raw heat through hardening day or coagulating night
the composite elements one might assume bring on a result in catastrophe
a chef’s palette with polychrome passion, bright-hot engaging white
where element and mixture magma-merge in electro-chemistry, to take
one step up the time scale, to let the compounding items bask
watch raw conduction component ex-shopping basket burst and bake
in fulfilment of its rotating intemperate pressure, to close up the task
Browning in less than gentle manner, hardening the unbeaten hero
with a skin of radiation, a new circle of soft centre in labouring Earth
time ticking away, waiting for the right moment to buzz into incorporating zero
take out, with protection and rising humongous hunger, a new pizza in birth
By the beginning of another time
ruminating with change October 2007
Clock Ticking
I wake, pull curtain halfback, check the cool floor clock-time zoning by
in the pale five thirty light of a quiet, pre-kick off verandah glow
heat the kuala kettle, yellow-green mix of herb, lay table, bread, mug water there
the rear garden light lifts up in praise, washing the cool morning air
go to the computer to check e mail, who has written to me
ha, as usual, it’s empty, full of blank, weak infinity
waiting for the trying cockerel to begin to yellow-card crow
then, the cup check, to grab the latest kick for touch going high
Forty Minutes (Part 1)
the time difference meaning one cannot watch many of the games in the week
the bathroom water heater is on, the switch glowing in the room’s silent air
rub wife’s back and legs, ‘ah, yes,’ in half-pleasure groaning
the kettle whistles in enthusiasm, tough maul water moaning
the air con reigning from a night of rucking, grinding away
the beginning of the maple morning coming now into tree arm play
ex-Scotland Beattie, suggests the World Cup might cease to care
if the two once a year hemisphere competitions begin to creak
Half Time
it might hasten the demise of North and South, kicked into touch, on cue
he gets a lot of support, from me too, a revamped world rugby prospect
would benefit the game, the ‘weaker’ countries too, as in cricket, one might think
become tougher opposition - apart from these, what other sport can you ink
in the quarter finalists three years before the oncoming competition?
In both the World Cups, one can see the unending triumph of repetition
the problem? The Old Boys who palm the ICC, the IRB would, for sure, reject
there are many who think that, with both groups, their time is, yes, at last, through
Forty Minutes (Part 2)
the boy emerges from bedroom sleep, to breakfast, then elongating time to take
warm skin-soaking cherry shower; the girl comes out later, with tied hair and tie
cool prefect uniform, the morning cockerel increasing the colour to the pale air
the hot porridge, the chocolate complement each other in glucose care
I check the time, next to the roll of Chinese windswept calligraphy
the upright mug going down like a high drop goal flying through its geography
flag up; the car key ignites, the security bleeps twice as if to wish me goodbye
checking the score of a competition that I find hard to keep interest off the brake
Blow for Full Time
The morning grows in intensity from the unremitting pounding beach
the washing machine pushes out for morning work, thrusting in top gear
the plates clatter, the birds commence their wake up, in presence and, as if in tune
the half-grey morning light now replacing the swept-away off-white moon
the rear door unlocked, the keys clatter back into the drawer’s security crack
windows opened, mosquito netting grates in the groove, cool air emerges on track
the Malay siswi girls opposite go for their bus, peace again now coming near
I watch the small, green car lecturer make her fern-growing way to work to teach
Clock Ticking
I wake, pull curtain halfback, check the cool floor clock-time zoning by
in the pale five thirty light of a quiet, pre-kick off verandah glow
heat the kuala kettle, yellow-green mix of herb, lay table, bread, mug water there
the rear garden light lifts up in praise, washing the cool morning air
go to the computer to check e mail, who has written to me
ha, as usual, it’s empty, full of blank, weak infinity
waiting for the trying cockerel to begin to yellow-card crow
then, the cup check, to grab the latest kick for touch going high
Forty Minutes (Part 1)
the time difference meaning one cannot watch many of the games in the week
the bathroom water heater is on, the switch glowing in the room’s silent air
rub wife’s back and legs, ‘ah, yes,’ in half-pleasure groaning
the kettle whistles in enthusiasm, tough maul water moaning
the air con reigning from a night of rucking, grinding away
the beginning of the maple morning coming now into tree arm play
ex-Scotland Beattie, suggests the World Cup might cease to care
if the two once a year hemisphere competitions begin to creak
Half Time
it might hasten the demise of North and South, kicked into touch, on cue
he gets a lot of support, from me too, a revamped world rugby prospect
would benefit the game, the ‘weaker’ countries too, as in cricket, one might think
become tougher opposition - apart from these, what other sport can you ink
in the quarter finalists three years before the oncoming competition?
In both the World Cups, one can see the unending triumph of repetition
the problem? The Old Boys who palm the ICC, the IRB would, for sure, reject
there are many who think that, with both groups, their time is, yes, at last, through
Forty Minutes (Part 2)
the boy emerges from bedroom sleep, to breakfast, then elongating time to take
warm skin-soaking cherry shower; the girl comes out later, with tied hair and tie
cool prefect uniform, the morning cockerel increasing the colour to the pale air
the hot porridge, the chocolate complement each other in glucose care
I check the time, next to the roll of Chinese windswept calligraphy
the upright mug going down like a high drop goal flying through its geography
flag up; the car key ignites, the security bleeps twice as if to wish me goodbye
checking the score of a competition that I find hard to keep interest off the brake
Blow for Full Time
The morning grows in intensity from the unremitting pounding beach
the washing machine pushes out for morning work, thrusting in top gear
the plates clatter, the birds commence their wake up, in presence and, as if in tune
the half-grey morning light now replacing the swept-away off-white moon
the rear door unlocked, the keys clatter back into the drawer’s security crack
windows opened, mosquito netting grates in the groove, cool air emerges on track
the Malay siswi girls opposite go for their bus, peace again now coming near
I watch the small, green car lecturer make her fern-growing way to work to teach
The end of the time of my acceptance
Exploring with Psyche, I wondered, then
wandered like a lost seafarer on the ocean of infinity;
wondering this and that, would awareness of life mean much to me?
I take Psyche’s hand; put my arm around her waist,
her skin and perfume were warm, and chaste.
A pure human being, innocent of a child’s statistics in the textbook, knowing
nothing of the geometry of existence, or where the physics of knowledge is going.
We walk on to the park, where we kiss under a soft willow tree,
Thoughts of a time long, long ago return, now.
The branches hanging like teenage girls’ hair, scruffy, tatty, in need of a comb.
the smell of an unopened-window student bedroom on a Sunday morning, the cool air
at peace out, the weak sun’s rays trying to hitch a ride to the equator; back home,
the pathos of the amateur hung-over footballers adding to the desolate, misery. Bare,
wet, grey roofs of the town wait in a line, unmoving in their bleakness, boring the coast
The odd chimney forcing out a thin plume of insipid smoke, trying in unseen poise
to brave its way into the troposphere, before joining the enemy, for breakfast of tea and toast.
The ageing abattoir, resting in quiet thought, alone without blood and noise,
waiting to notice its name go away.
Oh Psyche, I murmured to her, why are you strong, and I so weak?
Why are we in love in a world of self-immolating anguish? Can it be true?
She answered with a stroke of my hair, and a thirsty kiss on my rough cheek.
It might be the way, she whispered to the night that was just opening, wanting to accrue
in warm mystery. Come, we swim; a command I could not refuse,
although beginning to shake, in the way of a fulcrum of butterfly wing;
a cold algae-thick pond in autumn is not what most might choose
to get an evening under way. But the point of thrust would warm and bring
excitement and joy.
Just like wary, nocturnal animals unsure of their habitat, a few students emerge,
to get a Sunday newspaper, knowledge for next week’s lecture, and the coffee bar
chat and lounge, on cheap couch, the first-years just coping with the urge
to touch manicured hair and torn jeans, smoking cheap imported low tar.
A bird flew by; it didn’t stop,
preferring to go on to the
café around the corner,
no doubt to get
some evening scraps from a well-meaning jazz fan
in a roll-neck pullover, worn and pale,
with an unkempt beard, puffing on a Balkan Sobranie pipe,
grinning, yet
woozy, but pretending to enjoy it,
nodding in mock I-haven’t-a-clue manner, sipping Real Ale,
thinking of a fine dining bottle, but keeping up the pretence of a working man,
using
hand and tool,
but with Daddy’s investments in a quiet Jersey/Guernsey bank account,
far away from probing Labour Party members’ eyes,
perusing
the micro-columns of who has what, where and why,
curious to know the exact amount.
I had met them before, in many places;
watching them, trying to be
what they thought was the in-thing, one of the boys,
but in secret hating
their unsuccessful role,
and wishing Mummy’s cooking could be discussed in honesty
in polite society,
without the fear and worry of ridicule and scorn, loathing their ingratiating.
I looked at Psyche,
and in her eyes I knew she was on the same track,
despising the champagne-manicured Oxbridge-type crowd,
wrought
bitter at themselves and the life that had provided for them,
now a rack
of guilt; that they had in youth taken without societal thought,
and now, wretched in their self-imposed ignorance and solitude, bitter and mean,
pretending that soggy fish and chips and insipid watery greasy café tea
beats, hands down, a country three-star Michelin inn with French cuisine;
a bondage of hate in their vacuous, high salary insecurity.
Poison crust of secreting yellow cut,
scum of the earth,
you stink of rank discomposure,
fidgeting with your old school tie,
touching the corporate hospitality ticket for the Harlequins rebirth,
a wretch, cheering in unashamed ignorance of strip, when Wasps score a try,
waiting to notice your name go away.
Psyche held me close;
I responded, transmitting a thought of love; through
the thin summer dress I could feel the warmth of her body, knowing
that she felt for me in the same way.
Others had told me it was true.
We went on; the two of us, in lonely effervescent transhumance,
going
like a hot spring, an underground thermal warfare ready to burst
into
a cloud of vaporising steam,
imitating Julius Caesar in a quenching tear
the knife out, in March, in a bloody, power grab of thirst,
the extreme cretinism of those foolish enough to go near.
Ah, I thought; I love you, I love being with you.
You, the treatment of nagging torment, the rectifier of trouble,
the solution to the solvent of life’s misery.
A young precious thing rode by on a bicycle,
the long hair
and jeans confusing us;
I garnered my strength, and ran in hot pursuit,
grabbing, tearing the person from the bicycle without fear, attention, or care.
She screamed, and I apologised; it was Aphrodite Hesperia, rather cute
but earnest,
from ‘the Earth’, she told everyone; a student in a nearby college,
known
for its collection of Australian postgraduate students;
socio-linguistics, estate management,
town housing in Brittany in the fourteenth century,
the entrance no-coin accepting phone.
A case in point - roommate’s family, the husband, an adulterer, a self-made clown,
owner of a car-rental business, a genuine (rabbit pie, no bone) mock pub, skip for hire
that has, amongst other highlights of its existence, had rented out cars to
a) a former well-known pop singer, now in prison, downloading entire
you-know-the-kind-of-pictures, waiting to get the ten years or so through;
b) the co-pilot of the last commercial Concord to somewhere
the Independent readers had coughed up a thousand or two
for a day trip to Athens (?), chatting through champagne-salmon thin air.
The latter hirer had crashed into a lamppost,
but the owner had brushed through
the damage with a nonchalant
'it’s my pleasure, my boy. Hotel-Oscar-Mike-Echo-Romeo, copy, roger, copy that…'
The young girl accepted my apologies, and mounted; then,
with a coy
casual after-thought murmured, ‘we’re playing Kerchengratt,
Philby-Blunt, Xanekracon, Puellastramora, and Zygmonaski.
It’s really fun. Why don’t you come and join me?’
With that, she cycled off, the rear wheel showing a slight quake,
the result of the fire-hydrant, with the groan of the antique brake.
I half-laughed; if she wasn’t so young, (twenty-one, twenty-two, I would bet,)
I would have gone off, and left Psyche - she wouldn’t have objected, I think - for an hour or two.
The Xanekracon would be the Octet for harp, two sopranos, percussion, and string quartet.
It had ten movements, each with a different time and key signature; that much I knew.
I had last heard it in the departure lounge of a forgotten airport, sipping a beer,
watching third-world refugees trying to look sophisticated and rich,
on par
with the hoi-polloi of an inner city,
the fake politeness of an airport trying to appear;
but at the same time, thinking what riff-raff,
a dirty unwashed throng they are.
I had thought at the time it - the Octet - had blended well, in a way
it seemed to me;
the aircraft taking off, fleeing the opus, the quartet’s chromatic scales playing their part
of airport chaos. The words were from a poem - the title escapes me - by Harako Mikakumari.
Foolish girl, - Aphrodite, not Harako - I thought.
What do you know about life, people, and art?
I returned, both to reality, a hard thing, and, with hands in my pockets, to Psyche,
who
waiting by a non-working lamppost, reading a notice she had, I think,
torn
from the Bursar’s office a few metres away,
promoting an oriental blond-hair pop group new
to the west;
I held on, Psyche returning the emotion;
I watched being born
the affection that I had sought for many years,
but had not caught
I love you, I whispered into her ear, brushing away the hair, trying to explore
the woollen hat, and the earring that she had, in Joshua Taylor, just bought.
Je t’adore, je t’adore, je t’adore, je t’adore, je t’adore.
The Professor of Ancient Languages walked by, stopped for a moment,
and muttered, ‘Learn a real language, young man.’
(It was years later that I found out what she had meant.)
I clutched, taken aback a little, my empty soft-drink can.
The Professor looked long and hard at Psyche, and then spoke in a soft way.
You are a disgrace to feminism, and to Gender Geography.
Your beauty is nothing to that of the founding sisters; theirs was bespoke, to play
against the emotions of men, and their self-centred European biography.
Psyche just listened, in amusement; but then, in a split second, turned on her, and launched a
brutal tirade against the unexciting specimen of academia; then without warning, a heap
of obscenities begin to flow from her mouth, things I hadn’t heard before,
a hatchet of hatred for the woman,
now cowering, licking cheap
pink lipstick lips in nervous, taken-aback fashion;
I watch in awe,
as Psyche ends with a spit that would have graced a cobra;
the academic accumulation
of a feminist, stuck by oral lightning;
then, in recovering incompetence,
trying to make light (try Edison, Ohm, Volt, you bitch) of the embarrassment and humiliation,
in front of a small group of bystanders,
reeking of beer-fuel cretinism and incontinence,
none of whom knew the Professor, nor understood a word of Psyche’s harangue,
yet
were laughing in the way that students do, even when they don’t get it, maybe.
The Professor wiped her jaw with a filthy-looking college scarf, drew on her cigarette,
watching the broken pavement, sipping her polystyrene air-cool tea,
walking slow, hunched, a thrashing of a warped pre-Renaissance and germane play.
Psyche held tight on to me, in the way cling-film might hug a plate of cut pineapple,
the end of the time of my acceptance, with me alone now,
trying to grapple
with the way I might end this night,
the buildings now a cool, unwelcome grey,
waiting to notice our name go away.
How to take-break, try-fry, rank-bank
22 March 2007 11am
a free verse, free speech, free-range egg.
Opening Time
I pour a tiny, opening amount of the cooking oil into the wok,
using the bank remnants from cooking the fish; maybe
it wasn’t the fish, maybe it’s the chicken, amusing in confusing,
but we didn’t have chicken yesterday, did we?
I pour in the oil from a bowl, small, round, with no top now
because an idiot broke it a few weeks, a maybe month ago,
but didn’t own up to their culinary white-collar open-air crime.
I try to think, but I don’t know.
It is the same colour as the bowl, a light, golden town-brown,
so you can’t easily judge how much is in there.
Now, there is none, because I use it all this morning when I fry an egg.
No, I did not; there is a little oil remaining, open to the cash-flow air.
I place the borrowing bowl back by the tiles of the kitchen wall, clinical, white,
porous paper tissue already there; we have cash-flow confusion in tense here.
I began in the present, and I am in the past now, an incongruity.
What can I do? I can write in the present, or the past throughout for things that went near.
Loan of Linguistics
Ah, an interesting thought; how about using the future tense; ‘I will pour a little of …’
I could use the second person; therefore, if I type (must admit it sounds a bit odd to me)
‘You will pour in a little of the…’ that would seem, to many, I were a German.
I am going to use the present tense, because it is shorter. ‘I pour out a cup of my annuity’,
Right, tenses sorted out, back to the theme. I had already lit the gas, put the overdraft wok
on it before I got the bowl with the oil. Ah, before that, I had already taken an egg out of the bag
in the fridge, put it on the worktop; the tenses are mixed up already; we are now using
the past perfect. We can, I think, just forget about the tensing tag.
Getting a High Return
That is not quite true, because I took two of them out of the bag,
but I put one of them in the fridge door, in the container rack.
This one I did not use. However, I might tomorrow; NB I said ‘might’, because
egg yolks put out 50% plus of one’s ATM allowance of cholesterol credit crack...
the wok is getting hot, I bit-tip in the overdraft oil from the bowl, then I bait wait
a minute or so, before lowering the gas. If the gas is too high,
the oil is too hot; the underside of the egg will get a crispy brown,
whilst the top remains undercooked, raw, weeping, as if to cry.
If the gas is too low, the egg does not book-cook full stop,
at least, not for a long time; when ready, it is soft and unattractive to appetite (and eye, too)
What happened then? I have forgotten what I am talking about;
I will have to go back again, to refresh and check through.
The current account of what happens
You can have a cup of tea whilst I am doing this. Okay, coffee, coffee is okay.
Right, the gas is churning-burning; the oil and the wok are getting hot, on track,
I burn-turn down the gas, and chick-pick up the egg from the worktop
near the rice cooker and then, I take-break the egg on the edge of the wok, but I didn’t crack
it hard enough; therefore, I did it again, and this time, I broke
the shell of the small, oval, light-brown egg into two,
I held it over the oil, not too high and not too low; if you hold it too high,
the egg drops with such force that it breaks, you have a low-class, true
rough potpourri for breakfast. If you hold it too low, you burn your fingers too.
The egg drips into the moderately hot oil, and begins to cook. The white,
known to professionals as albumen, the cytoplasm; the yolk,
with xanthophyll, begin to get the special glaze, glossy, warm, bright.
Just as well it does not contain chlorophyll, or the outcome would be
unappetizing green. If we compare yellow vegetables, with the exception of maize,
they do not turn one on, the impression being they are out-of-date, gone off, or
they are exposed to too much acid rain in filthy polluting air.
Expose to risk in Asian economy
In the meantime, I walk two paces to the cutlery, and take the ladle. No, I had taken it
earlier on in the proceedings. I know this, because, to miss out on growth potential harm,
I distinctly recall checking to see if there was any water on it, because
water and hot oil mix like apartheid. It is most unpleasant, in particular to one’s cooking arm.
The first rule of Chinese cooking: always wear a tee shirt when using a wok.
It is not the first rule; I made it up, after the experience of taking not enough care to try
wet fish, vegetable or chicken, into blazing hot sunflower juice, for example,
the slightest drop of water making the sizzle blast out hot and high.
Therefore, if I didn’t go to get the ladle, then what did I do? I don’t know.
That’s three extra words to fill up this rubbish. I cannot write;
this is just typing practice, that’s my excuse, anyway.
Ah, I forgot to mention that, before all this began, I put a plate, clean, bright
on the worktop near the cooker for me to place the egg.
I put three slices of brown, wholemeal bread on the plate;
before that, I check it was mildew free, as I have, on a couple
of occasions, eaten bread prior to noticing any grey-green fungi bait.
Historical data
The recognition of what one has eaten is not that enjoyable or encouraging;
take it from me, through hard experience.
It is like the tale from pre-independent Malaya, in the rubber plantation,
regarding the Thermos flask break time, in the early half-light morning:
‘It was only in the third cup that the lizard came out.’
once bitten, twice shy, a tea tariff, woe woke-me-up warning.
Planning your retirement
I scoop up a couple of drops of hot oil and ooze them onto the yolk.
I do this a few times. I gentle get the egg, pitch it over and count quickly to ten.
I lift the egg out, and place it, yolk up, on one of the percentage portion of bread. I turn
off the gas, and put the ladle upside down to let the oil drip back into the wok again.
Then, using the bread, I eat...oh, I put a pinch of pepper on it, the egg.
‘I put a pinch of pepper’… alliteration; I like it, repeating akin to the breeze in a high interest tree.
‘I put a pinch of pepper on the priceless plate of patterned peaches’… Royal Worcester, cricket,
horse, the railway track; oh yes, the things that inspire; that tells you quite a bit about me.
Future return
The manager of HSBC cooked an Egg-Bank for me this morn-Ing,
tossing the cheque book into the hot oil, watching the money, trusting the unit price
to call security for the password, scramble to jam, spreading the risk, a crumb of comfort
in a hard-egg world, exchanging currency, with a percent of internet conglomerate Ice.
In addition, if you are, in UK fool-ish ATM approach, still read-Ing this now,
you must be quite bor-Ing; by a long way, a number of light years away from me,
way, way above the average retail or property price return on capital, to bear
with free-flow high rate of returning monetary zero interest monotony.
That is what I think.
a free verse, free speech, free-range egg.
Opening Time
I pour a tiny, opening amount of the cooking oil into the wok,
using the bank remnants from cooking the fish; maybe
it wasn’t the fish, maybe it’s the chicken, amusing in confusing,
but we didn’t have chicken yesterday, did we?
I pour in the oil from a bowl, small, round, with no top now
because an idiot broke it a few weeks, a maybe month ago,
but didn’t own up to their culinary white-collar open-air crime.
I try to think, but I don’t know.
It is the same colour as the bowl, a light, golden town-brown,
so you can’t easily judge how much is in there.
Now, there is none, because I use it all this morning when I fry an egg.
No, I did not; there is a little oil remaining, open to the cash-flow air.
I place the borrowing bowl back by the tiles of the kitchen wall, clinical, white,
porous paper tissue already there; we have cash-flow confusion in tense here.
I began in the present, and I am in the past now, an incongruity.
What can I do? I can write in the present, or the past throughout for things that went near.
Loan of Linguistics
Ah, an interesting thought; how about using the future tense; ‘I will pour a little of …’
I could use the second person; therefore, if I type (must admit it sounds a bit odd to me)
‘You will pour in a little of the…’ that would seem, to many, I were a German.
I am going to use the present tense, because it is shorter. ‘I pour out a cup of my annuity’,
Right, tenses sorted out, back to the theme. I had already lit the gas, put the overdraft wok
on it before I got the bowl with the oil. Ah, before that, I had already taken an egg out of the bag
in the fridge, put it on the worktop; the tenses are mixed up already; we are now using
the past perfect. We can, I think, just forget about the tensing tag.
Getting a High Return
That is not quite true, because I took two of them out of the bag,
but I put one of them in the fridge door, in the container rack.
This one I did not use. However, I might tomorrow; NB I said ‘might’, because
egg yolks put out 50% plus of one’s ATM allowance of cholesterol credit crack...
the wok is getting hot, I bit-tip in the overdraft oil from the bowl, then I bait wait
a minute or so, before lowering the gas. If the gas is too high,
the oil is too hot; the underside of the egg will get a crispy brown,
whilst the top remains undercooked, raw, weeping, as if to cry.
If the gas is too low, the egg does not book-cook full stop,
at least, not for a long time; when ready, it is soft and unattractive to appetite (and eye, too)
What happened then? I have forgotten what I am talking about;
I will have to go back again, to refresh and check through.
The current account of what happens
You can have a cup of tea whilst I am doing this. Okay, coffee, coffee is okay.
Right, the gas is churning-burning; the oil and the wok are getting hot, on track,
I burn-turn down the gas, and chick-pick up the egg from the worktop
near the rice cooker and then, I take-break the egg on the edge of the wok, but I didn’t crack
it hard enough; therefore, I did it again, and this time, I broke
the shell of the small, oval, light-brown egg into two,
I held it over the oil, not too high and not too low; if you hold it too high,
the egg drops with such force that it breaks, you have a low-class, true
rough potpourri for breakfast. If you hold it too low, you burn your fingers too.
The egg drips into the moderately hot oil, and begins to cook. The white,
known to professionals as albumen, the cytoplasm; the yolk,
with xanthophyll, begin to get the special glaze, glossy, warm, bright.
Just as well it does not contain chlorophyll, or the outcome would be
unappetizing green. If we compare yellow vegetables, with the exception of maize,
they do not turn one on, the impression being they are out-of-date, gone off, or
they are exposed to too much acid rain in filthy polluting air.
Expose to risk in Asian economy
In the meantime, I walk two paces to the cutlery, and take the ladle. No, I had taken it
earlier on in the proceedings. I know this, because, to miss out on growth potential harm,
I distinctly recall checking to see if there was any water on it, because
water and hot oil mix like apartheid. It is most unpleasant, in particular to one’s cooking arm.
The first rule of Chinese cooking: always wear a tee shirt when using a wok.
It is not the first rule; I made it up, after the experience of taking not enough care to try
wet fish, vegetable or chicken, into blazing hot sunflower juice, for example,
the slightest drop of water making the sizzle blast out hot and high.
Therefore, if I didn’t go to get the ladle, then what did I do? I don’t know.
That’s three extra words to fill up this rubbish. I cannot write;
this is just typing practice, that’s my excuse, anyway.
Ah, I forgot to mention that, before all this began, I put a plate, clean, bright
on the worktop near the cooker for me to place the egg.
I put three slices of brown, wholemeal bread on the plate;
before that, I check it was mildew free, as I have, on a couple
of occasions, eaten bread prior to noticing any grey-green fungi bait.
Historical data
The recognition of what one has eaten is not that enjoyable or encouraging;
take it from me, through hard experience.
It is like the tale from pre-independent Malaya, in the rubber plantation,
regarding the Thermos flask break time, in the early half-light morning:
‘It was only in the third cup that the lizard came out.’
once bitten, twice shy, a tea tariff, woe woke-me-up warning.
Planning your retirement
I scoop up a couple of drops of hot oil and ooze them onto the yolk.
I do this a few times. I gentle get the egg, pitch it over and count quickly to ten.
I lift the egg out, and place it, yolk up, on one of the percentage portion of bread. I turn
off the gas, and put the ladle upside down to let the oil drip back into the wok again.
Then, using the bread, I eat...oh, I put a pinch of pepper on it, the egg.
‘I put a pinch of pepper’… alliteration; I like it, repeating akin to the breeze in a high interest tree.
‘I put a pinch of pepper on the priceless plate of patterned peaches’… Royal Worcester, cricket,
horse, the railway track; oh yes, the things that inspire; that tells you quite a bit about me.
Future return
The manager of HSBC cooked an Egg-Bank for me this morn-Ing,
tossing the cheque book into the hot oil, watching the money, trusting the unit price
to call security for the password, scramble to jam, spreading the risk, a crumb of comfort
in a hard-egg world, exchanging currency, with a percent of internet conglomerate Ice.
In addition, if you are, in UK fool-ish ATM approach, still read-Ing this now,
you must be quite bor-Ing; by a long way, a number of light years away from me,
way, way above the average retail or property price return on capital, to bear
with free-flow high rate of returning monetary zero interest monotony.
That is what I think.
A cook’s impression
You don’t have to spend ages on a dish, but, to me,
it’s part of the joy of cooking. I love adorable, sumptuous, rich cuisine,
and to be frank, I don’t care how long it takes, even an eternity
For me, the preparation is as good as the eating; you know what I mean. Well, almost.
This is a quick, easy to prepare dish that you can rustle up any time, anywhere,
crisp, crunchy, elegance, I love any endearing, opulent, creamy thing, to me
light, golden heat, the warmth, glow, gentle cut, to savour the richness, in the air
thick spread, pepper, oregano - you could use coriander - relax, enjoy a cup of tea.
I simply love this dish, a combination of smoothness and macho-raw, a true
mélange of colours, the orange of a rising sun, the juice, like a warm current blowing
in the autumn, the golden-brown richness texture, the thirst for pleasure beginning to accrue.
It’s creamy, light but vibrant, with that warmth that on a cold morning, you require to get going.
Three full rich, ruby, smooth summer morning English tomatoes, one can skin them, but
I prefer the extra thickness one gets with the skin, the tangy zest on its beat.
Chop these up small, then add a modest amount of garlic, you can grate or cut,
but too much, we get a bitter, ugly sauce; we want warmth rather than heat.
Then, we add a sprinkle of sea salt; common table salt will suffice; it might
create a slight, rather cheap, plebeian taste, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?
Give a quick stir, to get the juice, taste and colour to blend in… yes, take a bite
to fabulous, rich mixture, like magma; doesn’t that look lovely? Oh, where’s the tea?
I am going to leave the oregano until last; you can use coriander, but for me,
tomatoes need oregano. We put this on a low heat, like that, now watch the juice glow.
The base takes no time; these, in for a few minutes, that’s all you need, it must be
a subtle coat of crispy brown. Then, we want a blanket of English butter, not too thick though,
to add another dimension. Massage it over gently, just as if you are on the beach,
the warm yellow, full of the scent of summer, exciting the taste buds; oh, I can barely wait,
the gorgeous, light-brown, almost feathery texture, that gentle waft of warmth trying to reach
the heights of culinary mirage. I like to use a brown pattern plate;
I feel it brings out, through the clay colouring, a connection with the Earth,
I’m a part of an intimate relationship with the cuisine, an important thing for me;
the tomatoes are simmering gently; leave them for a minute or two, let them come in birth,
whilst we relax, by going on to the next phase of making a pot of calm, quiet tea.
The teapot we pre-warm, neo-Georgian style, with a hint of early Victoriana maybe.
The water should not be on the boil; let it cool a few degrees, now add the pinch, tracing
a gentle stir to arouse the essence of the leaf, a subtle, almost mothering aroma of the tea,
Earl grey, without milk; that would destroy the flavour; we want delicate, light, and bracing.
You capture, you tame, you breathe in the essential quintessence, the epitome,
the full enervating freshness of a Himalayan hill resort bungalow
high on a tea estate, not that I know one firsthand, but, sigh, it’s what I imagine it to be
like, pause, and there you have it; irresistible, gorgeous, enjoy and embrace that glow.
Right, gently scoop the tomatoes out, lay them there, almost breathing a touch
of sensuality, with a dash of oregano, a coat of peppering heat going by,
the firm, masculine underlay of the toast, the femininity of the tomatoes, oh, it’s too much,
if that is possible, and there you have a perfect right-for-any-occasion breakfast. Chai?
That’s Indian for tea, you know.
it’s part of the joy of cooking. I love adorable, sumptuous, rich cuisine,
and to be frank, I don’t care how long it takes, even an eternity
For me, the preparation is as good as the eating; you know what I mean. Well, almost.
This is a quick, easy to prepare dish that you can rustle up any time, anywhere,
crisp, crunchy, elegance, I love any endearing, opulent, creamy thing, to me
light, golden heat, the warmth, glow, gentle cut, to savour the richness, in the air
thick spread, pepper, oregano - you could use coriander - relax, enjoy a cup of tea.
I simply love this dish, a combination of smoothness and macho-raw, a true
mélange of colours, the orange of a rising sun, the juice, like a warm current blowing
in the autumn, the golden-brown richness texture, the thirst for pleasure beginning to accrue.
It’s creamy, light but vibrant, with that warmth that on a cold morning, you require to get going.
Three full rich, ruby, smooth summer morning English tomatoes, one can skin them, but
I prefer the extra thickness one gets with the skin, the tangy zest on its beat.
Chop these up small, then add a modest amount of garlic, you can grate or cut,
but too much, we get a bitter, ugly sauce; we want warmth rather than heat.
Then, we add a sprinkle of sea salt; common table salt will suffice; it might
create a slight, rather cheap, plebeian taste, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?
Give a quick stir, to get the juice, taste and colour to blend in… yes, take a bite
to fabulous, rich mixture, like magma; doesn’t that look lovely? Oh, where’s the tea?
I am going to leave the oregano until last; you can use coriander, but for me,
tomatoes need oregano. We put this on a low heat, like that, now watch the juice glow.
The base takes no time; these, in for a few minutes, that’s all you need, it must be
a subtle coat of crispy brown. Then, we want a blanket of English butter, not too thick though,
to add another dimension. Massage it over gently, just as if you are on the beach,
the warm yellow, full of the scent of summer, exciting the taste buds; oh, I can barely wait,
the gorgeous, light-brown, almost feathery texture, that gentle waft of warmth trying to reach
the heights of culinary mirage. I like to use a brown pattern plate;
I feel it brings out, through the clay colouring, a connection with the Earth,
I’m a part of an intimate relationship with the cuisine, an important thing for me;
the tomatoes are simmering gently; leave them for a minute or two, let them come in birth,
whilst we relax, by going on to the next phase of making a pot of calm, quiet tea.
The teapot we pre-warm, neo-Georgian style, with a hint of early Victoriana maybe.
The water should not be on the boil; let it cool a few degrees, now add the pinch, tracing
a gentle stir to arouse the essence of the leaf, a subtle, almost mothering aroma of the tea,
Earl grey, without milk; that would destroy the flavour; we want delicate, light, and bracing.
You capture, you tame, you breathe in the essential quintessence, the epitome,
the full enervating freshness of a Himalayan hill resort bungalow
high on a tea estate, not that I know one firsthand, but, sigh, it’s what I imagine it to be
like, pause, and there you have it; irresistible, gorgeous, enjoy and embrace that glow.
Right, gently scoop the tomatoes out, lay them there, almost breathing a touch
of sensuality, with a dash of oregano, a coat of peppering heat going by,
the firm, masculine underlay of the toast, the femininity of the tomatoes, oh, it’s too much,
if that is possible, and there you have a perfect right-for-any-occasion breakfast. Chai?
That’s Indian for tea, you know.
The reminiscent noodle bisque tonight
2007
The water is on the boil, the rice noodles soaking in fresh thirst.
I hack open a tin of mushroom that I think I might expose to the air;
the fish balls come; I take them, the mushroom too, the innards a soft, brown burst,
I cut them both with a no mercy blade knife, or ceremony care.
The degenerating lettuce, past a sell-by date, yellowing exterior
in the fridge’s embrace I cut, and discard in brutal way;
a raw, new clump of a Chinese vegetable, washing the soil from the interior,
gets guillotined, the crunch of the stem an essential ingredient to colour the play.
The water comes to heat, the salt and pepper gush
in loving accord now; I regret I didn’t sauté the mushrooms, to tang
the flavour of an insipid dish, in my opinion, but they eat in pre-tuition rush.
Ian, we need you now; I could only tell those about you, when St Asaph rang.
Casting away the heating thought of cooking, I go back to Algeria,
where you were thought of, with extra helping of couscous, a hero,
unknown though, for country; club yes, but there, with football grain hysteria,
1985, a long time ago; MP Oran two, CRE Constantine zero.
A warm beer, or three, with sardines in a main street bar we ate,
a quiet Anglosphere, discreet in language, in tone
for there, la Guerre d’Independence exists, to bait
the Légion Etrangère history of the Francophone.
The noodles go in, followed by mushroom and fish ball, rising
in the heat of the water; the lettuce goes in for a quick skin.
I scoop up, without much ease, into the waiting dishes, prising
the oleaginous-free slime, refusing to go in.
They eat at the inbound grey table, a warm lethargy there
with a half-soft light of an uninteresting lamp;
binti goes out again, for tuition in the breezeless evening air,
whilst I wash up, and watch the two-remaining camp,
a portrait of simplicity, of a relaxing pre-night peace;
but next morning, the cold light, grey dawn, approach to take
me, in a half-naked bed, where quiet caressing, touch increase
the mime that might come with the encroaching break.
The water is on the boil, the rice noodles soaking in fresh thirst.
I hack open a tin of mushroom that I think I might expose to the air;
the fish balls come; I take them, the mushroom too, the innards a soft, brown burst,
I cut them both with a no mercy blade knife, or ceremony care.
The degenerating lettuce, past a sell-by date, yellowing exterior
in the fridge’s embrace I cut, and discard in brutal way;
a raw, new clump of a Chinese vegetable, washing the soil from the interior,
gets guillotined, the crunch of the stem an essential ingredient to colour the play.
The water comes to heat, the salt and pepper gush
in loving accord now; I regret I didn’t sauté the mushrooms, to tang
the flavour of an insipid dish, in my opinion, but they eat in pre-tuition rush.
Ian, we need you now; I could only tell those about you, when St Asaph rang.
Casting away the heating thought of cooking, I go back to Algeria,
where you were thought of, with extra helping of couscous, a hero,
unknown though, for country; club yes, but there, with football grain hysteria,
1985, a long time ago; MP Oran two, CRE Constantine zero.
A warm beer, or three, with sardines in a main street bar we ate,
a quiet Anglosphere, discreet in language, in tone
for there, la Guerre d’Independence exists, to bait
the Légion Etrangère history of the Francophone.
The noodles go in, followed by mushroom and fish ball, rising
in the heat of the water; the lettuce goes in for a quick skin.
I scoop up, without much ease, into the waiting dishes, prising
the oleaginous-free slime, refusing to go in.
They eat at the inbound grey table, a warm lethargy there
with a half-soft light of an uninteresting lamp;
binti goes out again, for tuition in the breezeless evening air,
whilst I wash up, and watch the two-remaining camp,
a portrait of simplicity, of a relaxing pre-night peace;
but next morning, the cold light, grey dawn, approach to take
me, in a half-naked bed, where quiet caressing, touch increase
the mime that might come with the encroaching break.
New scholar Xiao Yin
The morning began in heat, watching the car pull up, with a mother of two,
announcing that she was coming to class, taking badminton girl’s place.
It was pleasing to me, of course; by the table, she began to tell me something new
of her life here, the light gold-brown hair, gauzy pink lips enhancing the grace
of trim, elegant colour body, high-quality legs, the brief white shorts accentuating
the contour and area; she told me the anger at the erosion of schooldays here,
with going to other classes, in a sick, comprehensive way, the result incubating
the destroying of the fabric of a good education, blowing away a tear.
There is to be no lounging around doing nothing when both girls are away in wage,
just a few years from now; I told of the German group, in Atbara on a train coach
many years ago; getting on, the woman thought exploring the rough earth at their age
better than being at home, watching the TV and weak time encroach,
but back to here, to the point… I enjoy watching the warmth of her mouth, but maybe
can detect a certain imperfect melancholy with what has happened, growing to take
up residence to annoy at the back of her eyes, to tell of the heartache of the key
that put a break on migrating to a pasture congenial, with no bigot or uproar to break.
announcing that she was coming to class, taking badminton girl’s place.
It was pleasing to me, of course; by the table, she began to tell me something new
of her life here, the light gold-brown hair, gauzy pink lips enhancing the grace
of trim, elegant colour body, high-quality legs, the brief white shorts accentuating
the contour and area; she told me the anger at the erosion of schooldays here,
with going to other classes, in a sick, comprehensive way, the result incubating
the destroying of the fabric of a good education, blowing away a tear.
There is to be no lounging around doing nothing when both girls are away in wage,
just a few years from now; I told of the German group, in Atbara on a train coach
many years ago; getting on, the woman thought exploring the rough earth at their age
better than being at home, watching the TV and weak time encroach,
but back to here, to the point… I enjoy watching the warmth of her mouth, but maybe
can detect a certain imperfect melancholy with what has happened, growing to take
up residence to annoy at the back of her eyes, to tell of the heartache of the key
that put a break on migrating to a pasture congenial, with no bigot or uproar to break.
A bag of medicine
They went out tonight, to take a passport photograph of the two
but returned empty, after a dinner of nasi goreng kampung at the ‘Green Apple’,
whilst I here, after a long, hot afternoon of science, try to grapple
with writing that kept on refusing time and again to go through.
To Encik Azlie, the pharmacist, there to enquire
about Germacourt, that might cause skin infection to take time out and pause,
a pack of one hundred pcs of pus-absorbing, neutral and emotionless gauze,
plus Essentiale, and a vitamin supplement, neither of which I asked for, nor require.
With small girl’s help, I put cling-film over the lettuce and cucumber, then place
in the fridge for tomorrow, without the suffering of yellow-leaf hepatitis
or an outbreak of some obscure ice-carrying gastroenteritis
cutting away the interior of the gut, tight in embrace.
A wholesome hole above my ankle, where three months ago,
a careless spouse kicked me, turning in the early hours of the morning, hard and curt,
a post-Achilles tendon operation giving birth to stiffness and hurt,
to begin an era of excreting pus in gauze with no blood flow.
The boy shows a clinical interest, rather in the way an executioner might regard the prey;
a cold, dispassionate analysis, followed by a brusque assertion, that began to imply
that he might, with grasping and squeeze-powering hands, like to try…
‘Hum, looks bad, you must clean the yellow, let me help you.’ No way.
but returned empty, after a dinner of nasi goreng kampung at the ‘Green Apple’,
whilst I here, after a long, hot afternoon of science, try to grapple
with writing that kept on refusing time and again to go through.
To Encik Azlie, the pharmacist, there to enquire
about Germacourt, that might cause skin infection to take time out and pause,
a pack of one hundred pcs of pus-absorbing, neutral and emotionless gauze,
plus Essentiale, and a vitamin supplement, neither of which I asked for, nor require.
With small girl’s help, I put cling-film over the lettuce and cucumber, then place
in the fridge for tomorrow, without the suffering of yellow-leaf hepatitis
or an outbreak of some obscure ice-carrying gastroenteritis
cutting away the interior of the gut, tight in embrace.
A wholesome hole above my ankle, where three months ago,
a careless spouse kicked me, turning in the early hours of the morning, hard and curt,
a post-Achilles tendon operation giving birth to stiffness and hurt,
to begin an era of excreting pus in gauze with no blood flow.
The boy shows a clinical interest, rather in the way an executioner might regard the prey;
a cold, dispassionate analysis, followed by a brusque assertion, that began to imply
that he might, with grasping and squeeze-powering hands, like to try…
‘Hum, looks bad, you must clean the yellow, let me help you.’ No way.
Johann Pachelbel
C major
Tonight I played - no, no, do not laugh or mock - Pachelbel, with Rhiannon.
She got the music from amongst the horde of music book-array-in-uproar;
G major
I know the sequence, played tonic triads with the bass, in fugue and canon.
She played the melody in a sort of quiet, tropical equilibrium, to bore
A minor
through into the warm, inert night air; then, at a later time, the song begins to appear...
‘Oh, the bird, pretty bird, will you sing for now, will you sing, just a petite melody’,
E minor
quivering in crotchets and semiquavers, increasing in tempo and tear.
The mathematics book; linear equations, ratio, proportion; you don’t know, you told me.
F major
Neither do I in entirety, sweetheart; then we went through the book, with care
in explanation, trying to make sure you have good grasp of the work that you must know
C major
to prepare for your life in the out-reaching world, open and often tough there,
that we wait for, but I know that with chess, piano, now clarinet, you can grow.
F major
At the back, we talked about the problems; your knowledge now rich in growth and hue.
I got my beer from the fridge, happy in the knowledge you came to me to talk, to try
G major
to impart an element of your learning life, to tell me the things that are important to you.
Then Henry came to ask me about a Lego cruiser in the Star Wars fleet he wants to buy.
Coda
He went to bed; in binti room, glued to a TV, unseen, unthinking, Mum asleep.
Tonight I played - no, no, do not laugh or mock - Pachelbel, with Rhiannon.
She got the music from amongst the horde of music book-array-in-uproar;
G major
I know the sequence, played tonic triads with the bass, in fugue and canon.
She played the melody in a sort of quiet, tropical equilibrium, to bore
A minor
through into the warm, inert night air; then, at a later time, the song begins to appear...
‘Oh, the bird, pretty bird, will you sing for now, will you sing, just a petite melody’,
E minor
quivering in crotchets and semiquavers, increasing in tempo and tear.
The mathematics book; linear equations, ratio, proportion; you don’t know, you told me.
F major
Neither do I in entirety, sweetheart; then we went through the book, with care
in explanation, trying to make sure you have good grasp of the work that you must know
C major
to prepare for your life in the out-reaching world, open and often tough there,
that we wait for, but I know that with chess, piano, now clarinet, you can grow.
F major
At the back, we talked about the problems; your knowledge now rich in growth and hue.
I got my beer from the fridge, happy in the knowledge you came to me to talk, to try
G major
to impart an element of your learning life, to tell me the things that are important to you.
Then Henry came to ask me about a Lego cruiser in the Star Wars fleet he wants to buy.
Coda
He went to bed; in binti room, glued to a TV, unseen, unthinking, Mum asleep.
Grazing horse
March 2007
I come by without help, but with courage, to retreat
in a mutation of unthinking inequality;
the car comes back whining, the shuffle of shoes on the concrete
broadcast the shattering of peace and tranquility.
The quick snort of the hand break, the clack of the gear,
the prison key turning, the click of the entrance tell me
that the evening has gone on the breeze, up in the atmosphere,
to play cards with the those who know nothing but ignorance in pity.
I watch in admiration, a grazing horse, waiting for a young woman with the rope to try
to pack her things on its back, waiting for a warm, young breeze to come by.
07 20
On the old, grey, food-scar table, watching me
in the early hours of a sun, weak and warm,
a group of battered apples knot in concert washed-up company
in the refuge of a plastic, third-world, indigent corm.
A grating, mocking bird in the garden chirrups ‘cheap, cheap, cheap.’
Eat
A steel dog-bowl mackerel, with light stuffing of chili, came
with an ancient dish, a protracting spinach, green, and game;
a plate of imitation Chinese character bore the rice, now lime juice tame.
A toothpaste mug of water, in hydration, went through
the lunch, a lounging-couch quiet-just-me quarter past two.
Nebulous Neuron Who goes there, might go there.
I rest in the afternoon, on bamboo mat, in the rear; a shadow passes by
the bottom of the door. I shout to question, unknowing, ‘Who goes there?’
I hear Rhiannon, a brisk yet willowy squash racquet bint of thirteen, cry
in squeaking ignorance of common English parlance, ‘Go where?’
I come by without help, but with courage, to retreat
in a mutation of unthinking inequality;
the car comes back whining, the shuffle of shoes on the concrete
broadcast the shattering of peace and tranquility.
The quick snort of the hand break, the clack of the gear,
the prison key turning, the click of the entrance tell me
that the evening has gone on the breeze, up in the atmosphere,
to play cards with the those who know nothing but ignorance in pity.
I watch in admiration, a grazing horse, waiting for a young woman with the rope to try
to pack her things on its back, waiting for a warm, young breeze to come by.
07 20
On the old, grey, food-scar table, watching me
in the early hours of a sun, weak and warm,
a group of battered apples knot in concert washed-up company
in the refuge of a plastic, third-world, indigent corm.
A grating, mocking bird in the garden chirrups ‘cheap, cheap, cheap.’
Eat
A steel dog-bowl mackerel, with light stuffing of chili, came
with an ancient dish, a protracting spinach, green, and game;
a plate of imitation Chinese character bore the rice, now lime juice tame.
A toothpaste mug of water, in hydration, went through
the lunch, a lounging-couch quiet-just-me quarter past two.
Nebulous Neuron Who goes there, might go there.
I rest in the afternoon, on bamboo mat, in the rear; a shadow passes by
the bottom of the door. I shout to question, unknowing, ‘Who goes there?’
I hear Rhiannon, a brisk yet willowy squash racquet bint of thirteen, cry
in squeaking ignorance of common English parlance, ‘Go where?’
The ticket to where
On the morning of August 10 I bought…with cash, a single one-way ticket…
here now is the sports report…in this edition, rugby, cricket…
the counter man with beard, long hair… an early trip, I’m on my way…
a good away result for Ayr…the right back kept the ball in play…
Child nil, Adult one…to get to Heathrow for the plane…
St Mirren beat Hibernian…the match was played in heavy rain…
Fifty pounds (a bit extra) fare… no doubt conditions would apply…
signed Gethin Jones from Aberdare…a cracked rib, and elbow in the eye…
A line of numbers on the back…maybe important but nothing to me…
next year have an all-weather track… year-round training reality…
The Newport train now measured rate…platform-waiting, cool morning air…
Hong Kong the Cup, Taiwan the Plate…4 times holder, Golden Bear…
Cwmbran biscuit, then grazing through…Usk bird, town clock, ruin gaze…
Inter 3, Ajax 2…the Singapore Open delayed by haze…
Watch the Inter-City coming in…conductor buzzes train away…
Aberdeen get a well-earned win…10, 000 came to watch them play…
Increasing pace when Llanwern goes by…broke baguette of chicken into bits…
the centre scored the opening try …Tucuman were beaten by Biarritz…
Reading workmen, a crowding place…but thankful for the coach now waiting…
withdrawn from the two-thirty race…the Clerk of the Course instigating…
An under-hour of lightweight nap…refreshing prior to the check-in bore…
Boca three points to close the gap…bring a round up with the final score…
Whilst checking ticket, get seat by rear…gave Watford brother a hand phone ring…
now that the new season is near…might feel Wasps resurgent sting…
But no time to get through interchange…but means it’s more boring for me…
the back row we might re-arrange…East might come on at number three…
I engage in Canadian family chat…whilst waiting for tip-top security…
Trescothick useful with the bat…hit bowlers with impunity…
A long line of waiting for the plane…but rich Arab gets electric cart…
Sri Lanka third test spoilt by rain…the England batting ripped apart…
Hear and watch the pre-flight talk…then by the aircraft we scramble up…
racing at Leominster, Hereford, York… the first round of the Thomas Cup…
Watch other aircraft turn and queue…full thrust, the roaring, runway rumble…
the quarter finals, Greece are through…Malaysian hockey takes a tumble…
Then wave bye-bye to the English coast…wait for the next ten hours to go…
with 3 for 10, Warne was the toast…both openers gone was a major blow…
I try to get down into peace…when flight attendant interruption…
oh, Tiger’s sliced it, he’s in the rough…the Union’s new-alleged corruption…
Ah, bite to eat, relax, imbibing…watch part of Europe glowing bright…
that’s the end of the sports report…next bulletin at 10; for now, good night.
here now is the sports report…in this edition, rugby, cricket…
the counter man with beard, long hair… an early trip, I’m on my way…
a good away result for Ayr…the right back kept the ball in play…
Child nil, Adult one…to get to Heathrow for the plane…
St Mirren beat Hibernian…the match was played in heavy rain…
Fifty pounds (a bit extra) fare… no doubt conditions would apply…
signed Gethin Jones from Aberdare…a cracked rib, and elbow in the eye…
A line of numbers on the back…maybe important but nothing to me…
next year have an all-weather track… year-round training reality…
The Newport train now measured rate…platform-waiting, cool morning air…
Hong Kong the Cup, Taiwan the Plate…4 times holder, Golden Bear…
Cwmbran biscuit, then grazing through…Usk bird, town clock, ruin gaze…
Inter 3, Ajax 2…the Singapore Open delayed by haze…
Watch the Inter-City coming in…conductor buzzes train away…
Aberdeen get a well-earned win…10, 000 came to watch them play…
Increasing pace when Llanwern goes by…broke baguette of chicken into bits…
the centre scored the opening try …Tucuman were beaten by Biarritz…
Reading workmen, a crowding place…but thankful for the coach now waiting…
withdrawn from the two-thirty race…the Clerk of the Course instigating…
An under-hour of lightweight nap…refreshing prior to the check-in bore…
Boca three points to close the gap…bring a round up with the final score…
Whilst checking ticket, get seat by rear…gave Watford brother a hand phone ring…
now that the new season is near…might feel Wasps resurgent sting…
But no time to get through interchange…but means it’s more boring for me…
the back row we might re-arrange…East might come on at number three…
I engage in Canadian family chat…whilst waiting for tip-top security…
Trescothick useful with the bat…hit bowlers with impunity…
A long line of waiting for the plane…but rich Arab gets electric cart…
Sri Lanka third test spoilt by rain…the England batting ripped apart…
Hear and watch the pre-flight talk…then by the aircraft we scramble up…
racing at Leominster, Hereford, York… the first round of the Thomas Cup…
Watch other aircraft turn and queue…full thrust, the roaring, runway rumble…
the quarter finals, Greece are through…Malaysian hockey takes a tumble…
Then wave bye-bye to the English coast…wait for the next ten hours to go…
with 3 for 10, Warne was the toast…both openers gone was a major blow…
I try to get down into peace…when flight attendant interruption…
oh, Tiger’s sliced it, he’s in the rough…the Union’s new-alleged corruption…
Ah, bite to eat, relax, imbibing…watch part of Europe glowing bright…
that’s the end of the sports report…next bulletin at 10; for now, good night.
The house is tight for the night
25 March 2007 c 2200
I enjoy ‘Come dine with me’; there are
a number of interesting menus, good commentary, witty
with people with imagination; tonight, mushroom,
bacon and cheese, lamb - I can always enjoy -
with vegetables, the deserting dessert, gooseberry pie.
Here though, the house is tight for the night now.
The latter was not to my taste, thinking of gooseberries years ago;
the rest was good, but the witticism…maybe a little forced, though.
Andrew phoned, interesting; much of the time I enjoy talking to him.
In some ways, we are quite alike; in others, we are not.
I try the housing in Coventry, but the connection,
or lack of it, is walking,
I cannot get through; third-world technology.
Here though, the house is tight for the night now.
I quip, for that, a hasty, thoughtless affront, is quite unfair,
a callous remark in the post-meteorological, breezeless, humid air.
The voice begins activity on the phone, 22 15.
It is time for another beer; my only refuge; my only lonely refuge,
I put the fan on swing, full blast, with global warming
the reality of oncoming mayhem, whatever some think;
the woman is now getting to the doors, window, light, the night tame.
Here though, the house is tight for the night now;
here though, the night is tight for the house now.
I enjoy ‘Come dine with me’; there are
a number of interesting menus, good commentary, witty
with people with imagination; tonight, mushroom,
bacon and cheese, lamb - I can always enjoy -
with vegetables, the deserting dessert, gooseberry pie.
Here though, the house is tight for the night now.
The latter was not to my taste, thinking of gooseberries years ago;
the rest was good, but the witticism…maybe a little forced, though.
Andrew phoned, interesting; much of the time I enjoy talking to him.
In some ways, we are quite alike; in others, we are not.
I try the housing in Coventry, but the connection,
or lack of it, is walking,
I cannot get through; third-world technology.
Here though, the house is tight for the night now.
I quip, for that, a hasty, thoughtless affront, is quite unfair,
a callous remark in the post-meteorological, breezeless, humid air.
The voice begins activity on the phone, 22 15.
It is time for another beer; my only refuge; my only lonely refuge,
I put the fan on swing, full blast, with global warming
the reality of oncoming mayhem, whatever some think;
the woman is now getting to the doors, window, light, the night tame.
Here though, the house is tight for the night now;
here though, the night is tight for the house now.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
1922 1993 The man with golden hair
The train on the bridge, with copper wagons of empty clank
jolt over a barren winter arch; houses bare of warmth watch in time.
The mascara soot, the engine smoke perfume wait to rank
their way onto the rough theatre of a desolate country in blasé grime.
jolt over a barren winter arch; houses bare of warmth watch in time.
The mascara soot, the engine smoke perfume wait to rank
their way onto the rough theatre of a desolate country in blasé grime.
The slagheap, a wonder of the modern world, the Pyramid of Grime;
a cheap, warm, labour-grey morning, with no sun or spring; two families there
watch, unspeaking, but an ignorant dog ignores the malaise of the time.
The pastel part houses, without auto-identity, wait in the morning air.
On the corner by a lamppost, a mother and daughter wait in rank
watching the father go by the unlit pub; a discreet distance away,
another man waits, in patient retiring umbrella support, to thank
the aura of the French azure sky, by the bon appetit of Swansea bay.
watching the father go by the unlit pub; a discreet distance away,
another man waits, in patient retiring umbrella support, to thank
the aura of the French azure sky, by the bon appetit of Swansea bay.
The bleak brick, the wetting grass, watch a tawny time.
By no autumn trees, the vicar greets with a father’s care.
Quiet buildings wait, a grey atmosphere in smoking climb.
The haute couture chill wind and urchin rain keep the pub bare.
A young couple, in chic terrace-talk, hold each other, uncaring of the grime,
wait for the upcoming bus, by rigorous telegraph post, in rank.
The warm ochre house, the girl in bright ruby dress, watching in time
the train on the bridge, with jolting copper wagons of empty clank.
The Pelican
July 1970, Cambridge, UK
I
Evening in the Rift Valley
Setting Sun, orange skies,
Shadows appear, darkened plains
Cool, scented, even mysterious,
A lost world.
Insects scream and whistle
A leopard barks in the valley,
Hunting baboons. The warm wind
Rises over the Rift, hitting, powerful;
Standing motionless against the sky, above.
African Beggar
Squatting in the hot dry murrum dust
At the side of the road, white-haired,
His black blanket clutched round his pitiful brown body,
He stares vacantly out of his one reasonable eye.
His hands, claw-like, clasp his stick.
A reptilian film of dry skin covers his arms and legs.
Red suppurating sores, festering in the mid-day sun,
Pockmark his limbs, a feast for the
Dozen buzzing flies, treading on, and licking the delicacy.
His face, hideously distorted by leprosy, a mask of flesh.
The nose gone, the mouth a toothless hole, dried up.
The acacias offer no shade from the sun.
IEvening in the Rift Valley
Setting Sun, orange skies,
Shadows appear, darkened plains
Cool, scented, even mysterious,
A lost world.
Insects scream and whistle
A leopard barks in the valley,
Hunting baboons. The warm wind
Rises over the Rift, hitting, powerful;
Standing motionless against the sky, above.
African Beggar
Squatting in the hot dry murrum dust
At the side of the road, white-haired,
His black blanket clutched round his pitiful brown body,
He stares vacantly out of his one reasonable eye.
His hands, claw-like, clasp his stick.
A reptilian film of dry skin covers his arms and legs.
Red suppurating sores, festering in the mid-day sun,
Pockmark his limbs, a feast for the
Dozen buzzing flies, treading on, and licking the delicacy.
His face, hideously distorted by leprosy, a mask of flesh.
The nose gone, the mouth a toothless hole, dried up.
The acacias offer no shade from the sun.
I wait for Wei Ting
and Chloe
circa March 2007 begin/Sept 2007
I wait patient, the air warm, the powering fan turning high
the insecticide radiation, slowing in pungency
the birds bursting through foliage, as if thinking to score a try
crunching colour into gear
in tee-shirt, tight shorts, on the crossbar of table, legs resting bare
relaxing, quiet new reading half to herself, without pressure
I watch from away, by the end of the patio where
warm foliage birds bursting through
on Friday, Chloe meandering in, but happiness not embarking here
a no-eat breakfast effort; at first, not much interest
but comprehension of Science book, a pleasure now coming near
relaxing on the bare patio, quiet reading, new
to type of plant, leaf, colour, or animal fur or paw
I like to watch the young memory hitting
top gear; then, she’s off, crunching on the lane, now hot, raw
meandering Science coming near
What is the point of unsubtle indoctrination
passing off by the main newspapers as formal education?
What is the joint between those who,
with logic and intellect, get the gist?
But those lost without wisdom and knowledge
are running away in the earth’s mist
turning through pressure, now embarking in meandering memory near
The Reign of the Rain
20 March 07
The patio floor of night-cicak grey,
the southeast sky a menacing grey,
the window frame, a two-tone grey,
with the plunging, light-provoking rain.
The bulbul pair in perching grey,
the water filter coating grey,
the garden rake is waiting grey,
with the plunging, coagulating rain.
The palms rise up on background grey,
the flooding of a tarmac grey,
my tee shirt of a tight-hug grey,
with the plunging, irritating rain.
The roof top graining pipe flowing grey,
the mosquito net, a keep-out grey,
the post box in a merging grey,
with the plunging, low-fat, upright rain.
The post-breakfast kitchen table grey,
the floor covering is water-from-the-dishes grey,
the prepare for midday fresh-fridge grey,
with the plunging, tomato-lettuce rain.
The thick clouds break in the thunder grey,
our talking turns to can’t-hear grey,
a picture of a cold-war grey,
with the plunging, bombing-rocket rain.
We talk of country frontier grey,
the Pyrenees and Andes grey,
then waltz on to old-time music grey,
with the plunging, ruan, pipa rain.
The birds wait it out in tree-wet grey,
a solo petite-run mongrel grey,
the girls wear gear-against-water grey,
with the plunging, motorcycle rain.
Waiting here in a prison grey,
the fingers type computer grey,
It’s not this-time-of year-wet grey,
with the plunging, uninspiring rain.
I wash thaw gut red snapper grey,
the noise of turning-mixing grey,
the bubble of a steam-rice grey,
with the plunging, whining, hungry rain.
The patio floor of night-cicak grey,
the southeast sky a menacing grey,
the window frame, a two-tone grey,
with the plunging, light-provoking rain.
The bulbul pair in perching grey,
the water filter coating grey,
the garden rake is waiting grey,
with the plunging, coagulating rain.
The palms rise up on background grey,
the flooding of a tarmac grey,
my tee shirt of a tight-hug grey,
with the plunging, irritating rain.
The roof top graining pipe flowing grey,
the mosquito net, a keep-out grey,
the post box in a merging grey,
with the plunging, low-fat, upright rain.
The post-breakfast kitchen table grey,
the floor covering is water-from-the-dishes grey,
the prepare for midday fresh-fridge grey,
with the plunging, tomato-lettuce rain.
The thick clouds break in the thunder grey,
our talking turns to can’t-hear grey,
a picture of a cold-war grey,
with the plunging, bombing-rocket rain.
We talk of country frontier grey,
the Pyrenees and Andes grey,
then waltz on to old-time music grey,
with the plunging, ruan, pipa rain.
The birds wait it out in tree-wet grey,
a solo petite-run mongrel grey,
the girls wear gear-against-water grey,
with the plunging, motorcycle rain.
Waiting here in a prison grey,
the fingers type computer grey,
It’s not this-time-of year-wet grey,
with the plunging, uninspiring rain.
I wash thaw gut red snapper grey,
the noise of turning-mixing grey,
the bubble of a steam-rice grey,
with the plunging, whining, hungry rain.
Thought of once upon a moment in time
2007
Part 1 Yearning in the night
In a moment of thought, lying on the couch, in weighty monotony,
I flick the TV control, but I think nothing here to interest me;
if it went off air for good, I wouldn’t care...
I have spent four plus hours on editing, yet
the exhaustion does not come; why tonight could I not
keep away from the path of the bottle?
It was 11 30 when I opened a can; I lay on the sofa,
completely awake, unable to think of the sleep as an option.
I cannot sleep without it.
That is a lie, for I can, but it kicks in near alarm clock time,
throwing me a wretched condition,
with neither enough sleep, nor enough pleasure before it.
Ah, I yawn, for the first time tonight, or...check the time;
It is now, on a windless and humid night, 01 07 in the morning;
if I go to lie down, I will worsen the condition.
The alcohol is beginning to kick in, although the typing,
whilst mini error-inclined, is surprisingly clear of
gratuitous mega inaccuracy.
My right ankle worries me; the antibiotics to trim
the swollen area are not seeming to be efficient,
maybe tomorrow will see an enhancement.
Come on, kick in, kick me to sleep.
I yawn again, a good sign; maybe sleep will take
me away in next to no time.
I am going to shower before bed; but that is nothing new.
I am aware of being too tired to be angry tonight,
and that is a good hint that I am on my way.
What is happening to the squeaking machine?
Now, it seems back to normal, to let me
continue on my odyssey alone.
Part 2 extrapolating the inner refrain in the air
I used to play it - on disc - an old work, from the old house,
the pipa plucking at the long-lost heartstring to bring
the sun to zenith temperature, the arpeggio notes ring,
there are pictures in a book, of a snow mountain, with desert aridity,
a Chinese flute, xindi, warbles, like a tiring bird into humidity,
the winging flock of ducks fly away in my thought,
the lotus, the thin ripple of the water embrace, quiet, taut,
I imbibe an unusual tea - it looks like a date, or pebble, but
in hot water, a flower opening - from a glass of slender-stem cut;
a shower, in gesticulating soap, the erosion of the sweat churn,
hanging out the dhobi at foolish mid-morning time; I return
in green crab, starfish against the aquamarine of the ocean gyro,
in a cool, pale shirt, buoyed up in recent time by a leaking biro;
the erhu is biting at the rein to escape the grass plateaux,
galloping away, eating the wind with the bow and arrow;
the guzheng enjoyment to explore, in modest wooden polish pace,
the emotion of the many strings of the slowing, fading race;
through the window,
the air can barely whisper a challenge to the tree.
Part 1 Yearning in the night
In a moment of thought, lying on the couch, in weighty monotony,
I flick the TV control, but I think nothing here to interest me;
if it went off air for good, I wouldn’t care...
I have spent four plus hours on editing, yet
the exhaustion does not come; why tonight could I not
keep away from the path of the bottle?
It was 11 30 when I opened a can; I lay on the sofa,
completely awake, unable to think of the sleep as an option.
I cannot sleep without it.
That is a lie, for I can, but it kicks in near alarm clock time,
throwing me a wretched condition,
with neither enough sleep, nor enough pleasure before it.
Ah, I yawn, for the first time tonight, or...check the time;
It is now, on a windless and humid night, 01 07 in the morning;
if I go to lie down, I will worsen the condition.
The alcohol is beginning to kick in, although the typing,
whilst mini error-inclined, is surprisingly clear of
gratuitous mega inaccuracy.
My right ankle worries me; the antibiotics to trim
the swollen area are not seeming to be efficient,
maybe tomorrow will see an enhancement.
Come on, kick in, kick me to sleep.
I yawn again, a good sign; maybe sleep will take
me away in next to no time.
I am going to shower before bed; but that is nothing new.
I am aware of being too tired to be angry tonight,
and that is a good hint that I am on my way.
What is happening to the squeaking machine?
Now, it seems back to normal, to let me
continue on my odyssey alone.
Part 2 extrapolating the inner refrain in the air
I used to play it - on disc - an old work, from the old house,
the pipa plucking at the long-lost heartstring to bring
the sun to zenith temperature, the arpeggio notes ring,
there are pictures in a book, of a snow mountain, with desert aridity,
a Chinese flute, xindi, warbles, like a tiring bird into humidity,
the winging flock of ducks fly away in my thought,
the lotus, the thin ripple of the water embrace, quiet, taut,
I imbibe an unusual tea - it looks like a date, or pebble, but
in hot water, a flower opening - from a glass of slender-stem cut;
a shower, in gesticulating soap, the erosion of the sweat churn,
hanging out the dhobi at foolish mid-morning time; I return
in green crab, starfish against the aquamarine of the ocean gyro,
in a cool, pale shirt, buoyed up in recent time by a leaking biro;
the erhu is biting at the rein to escape the grass plateaux,
galloping away, eating the wind with the bow and arrow;
the guzheng enjoyment to explore, in modest wooden polish pace,
the emotion of the many strings of the slowing, fading race;
through the window,
the air can barely whisper a challenge to the tree.
Mathematics 101
Bicycle + (∞ asphalt + √ speed + sand x000) = crash (cut knee x hot water = 3 agony)
‘Falling off a bike is not a good experience, but it does improve your cycling skills.’
‘I am battle-hardened.’
‘I need to go to physiotherapy to learn to walk again.’
Henry Homer, aged 15, Thursday 8 March 2007
To Mathematics tuition yesterday afternoon
to study plus and minus indices,
the tyres whirring on the asphalt, in tune
with the birds of the breeze
in the hurting sun, high and hot.
A post-lunch shower, then two forty-five went by,
he went out in the full sun, with three
or four pals, to work out if the horizontal was a or b, or x or y
algorithm in rigidity
in the hurting sun, high and hot.
Not too slow, that’s what he told me, but not too fast
when tyre went on strike, refusing to grip
in the full sun’s late pm blast,
he heard, and felt, the road rubble rip,
in the hurting sun, high and hot.
Going along the sandy, asphalt top
the bike then went collapsing to the right,
in a turning, mechanical bop,
gripping the sweating handlebar tight
in the hurting sun, hot and high.
The others laugh in a non-mean way
out a scraping skin, wincing
as kneecap matches the road top to play
a biting accent as the sting goes in, pinching,
in the hurting sun, high and hot.
Back home to tell me of the prang, in quiet mourning,
the knee cap pouring a lick of blood; I watch
the trouser roll up to exhibit the pawning
of the skin for a rough scrape-graze blotch,
in the hurting sun, hot and high.
My group too, in anguish; one girl, left by mother, crying.
I try to find out what is wrong, but they don’t, they can’t tell me.
I make a chant, they join in; it works, laughter, but it’s trying.
We talk of plants and animals, invertebrate, fly, mosquito, bee
in the hurting sun, high and hot.
Now, the next afternoon’s setting light is getting near;
take 10 pm coach for a capital two-night break
from the coast, to watch the highlands chill appear
in pewter and tea point in time; but I ache
in the hurting sun, hot and high.
The amah whips up nasi goreng; the wok
on the metal ring, rice-freeing scraper bang
in perpetual, cheap, gamelan harmony; then, knock
in chopped fish ball, carrot, garlic; a rough, pungent tang
in the caring sun, warm and gone.
‘Falling off a bike is not a good experience, but it does improve your cycling skills.’
‘I am battle-hardened.’
‘I need to go to physiotherapy to learn to walk again.’
Henry Homer, aged 15, Thursday 8 March 2007
To Mathematics tuition yesterday afternoon
to study plus and minus indices,
the tyres whirring on the asphalt, in tune
with the birds of the breeze
in the hurting sun, high and hot.
A post-lunch shower, then two forty-five went by,
he went out in the full sun, with three
or four pals, to work out if the horizontal was a or b, or x or y
algorithm in rigidity
in the hurting sun, high and hot.
Not too slow, that’s what he told me, but not too fast
when tyre went on strike, refusing to grip
in the full sun’s late pm blast,
he heard, and felt, the road rubble rip,
in the hurting sun, high and hot.
Going along the sandy, asphalt top
the bike then went collapsing to the right,
in a turning, mechanical bop,
gripping the sweating handlebar tight
in the hurting sun, hot and high.
The others laugh in a non-mean way
out a scraping skin, wincing
as kneecap matches the road top to play
a biting accent as the sting goes in, pinching,
in the hurting sun, high and hot.
Back home to tell me of the prang, in quiet mourning,
the knee cap pouring a lick of blood; I watch
the trouser roll up to exhibit the pawning
of the skin for a rough scrape-graze blotch,
in the hurting sun, hot and high.
My group too, in anguish; one girl, left by mother, crying.
I try to find out what is wrong, but they don’t, they can’t tell me.
I make a chant, they join in; it works, laughter, but it’s trying.
We talk of plants and animals, invertebrate, fly, mosquito, bee
in the hurting sun, high and hot.
Now, the next afternoon’s setting light is getting near;
take 10 pm coach for a capital two-night break
from the coast, to watch the highlands chill appear
in pewter and tea point in time; but I ache
in the hurting sun, hot and high.
The amah whips up nasi goreng; the wok
on the metal ring, rice-freeing scraper bang
in perpetual, cheap, gamelan harmony; then, knock
in chopped fish ball, carrot, garlic; a rough, pungent tang
in the caring sun, warm and gone.
Get bronze
Thursday 5 April 2007 22 22
I am hot, sweating, melting, in an ignoble air and base humidity.
I order the reopening of the glass window that young boy shut a few minutes ago.
Chloe, a weekend regular, in chubby embarrassment, came to tell me
that she will not come tomorrow, Primary Sports Morning, but that, I already know.
But I didn’t enlighten her, being happy to walk here and chat.
I told her to run hard, maybe get a Gold Medal, see if she can trounce
the rest; she comes, much of the time, quite cheerless to class, but I change that
with a warm-up infantile joke, to go back with bright, breezy bounce.
I am breaking my own rule, of not permitting the mug next to the computer, tonight.
this is something I tell the children; the danger of dropping liquid keyboard imbecility;
right, right the water now is glistening in anticipation of watching me ignite
in a burst of most uncouth, open-minded, non-racist electricity.
The green and white leaf of the hibiscus wink on a bright birdsong morning break,
the washing machine rotates in efficient motion and elegant monotony.
I wash up the grim, battered wok, bleak breakfast trappings, eating the air to take
the penchant for the warm light green of a remote, hazy sun-brush tree.
The next morning, she told me she got bronze.
I am hot, sweating, melting, in an ignoble air and base humidity.
I order the reopening of the glass window that young boy shut a few minutes ago.
Chloe, a weekend regular, in chubby embarrassment, came to tell me
that she will not come tomorrow, Primary Sports Morning, but that, I already know.
But I didn’t enlighten her, being happy to walk here and chat.
I told her to run hard, maybe get a Gold Medal, see if she can trounce
the rest; she comes, much of the time, quite cheerless to class, but I change that
with a warm-up infantile joke, to go back with bright, breezy bounce.
I am breaking my own rule, of not permitting the mug next to the computer, tonight.
this is something I tell the children; the danger of dropping liquid keyboard imbecility;
right, right the water now is glistening in anticipation of watching me ignite
in a burst of most uncouth, open-minded, non-racist electricity.
The green and white leaf of the hibiscus wink on a bright birdsong morning break,
the washing machine rotates in efficient motion and elegant monotony.
I wash up the grim, battered wok, bleak breakfast trappings, eating the air to take
the penchant for the warm light green of a remote, hazy sun-brush tree.
The next morning, she told me she got bronze.
Then, the micro-moment went away.
♂
I watch a put out washing bamboo morning,
the cut grass, bowl with dhobi, wood pegs hang,
the sun attracts the fly, and bulbul gang.
Then, with hack mist cologne, I went away.
♂♀
I watch a run-down, rough-street, bumpy morning,
abandoned broken go-cart track, the empty row
up for sale, just crash-bar earth-sink tyres grow.
Then, in misery, I went away.
♂♀
I watch a jumpy, terror no-want morning,
rubbish lorry, cake house, book shop, Pok Eng Tin,
corner, bus stop, new shop housing, we pull in.
Then, in absent negligence, she went away.
♂
I watch a roaming paper-broadsheet morning,
walk with big bag, tight entry where news is caught,
business, unit trust, east coast, sports report.
Then, in chunky brown arms, he went away.
♂
I watch a teeming bag of rubbish morning,
the pavement pick up of jam-pack waste last night,
the chock-a-block bag, thrown to lorry’s height.
Then, in Town Council kit, he went away.
♀
I watch a purple health care worry morning,
take my card, then pace gloomy what’s-wrong chart,
acne, bone, cholesterol, muscle, heart.
Then, in baju kurung chic, she went away.
♂
I watch an orange wet wipe swabbing morning
mop my pelt in doctor’s grip; swollen, raw,
the plunging hurt from oozing crust to core.
Then, in cutting new gauze, I went away.
♂
I watch a council worker plant clean morning,
the concrete box now neat trim in centre flow.
There, premature wooden shop owners go.
Then, in Cephalaxin hope, I went away.
♀
I watch a motorbike hush back lane morning,
tight breakfast rubber band, with carry care,
to take an hour away from dentist chair.
Then, in tudung elegance, she went away.
♂♀
I watch a lay-by bus stop waiting morning,
a young buck and his girl, with bearing, bear
in poignant way, the exhausting am air.
Then, in key ignition quake, I went away.
♂♂
I watch a general chitchat layback morning,
two Malay men read, at ease in open air
by wooden shop, the news of here and there.
Then, in roar annoying noise, I went away.
♂
I watch a garden refuse bucket morning,
hobble up bird lane to light up where
high tree with raucous birds meet combat air.
Then, in weary trying stroke, he went away.
♀
I watch a tight jeans army yes-Ma’am morning,
pen scratching, scoring, writing full amount,
a punching calculator button count.
Then, in tank-top U2 green, she went away.
♂
I watch a hot soup sunset cook into night,
white potato, ginger, carrot cutting trim,
wintry lettuce, upmarket guava rim.
Then, the thrusting main pipe water went away.
♀
I watch Malay tuition teach into night,
a hand wash shower, new clothing, tied back hair,
take plate away, goodbye, lounge table bare.
Then, the grubby, titbit remnants went away.
♂
I watch Malaysian birdlife peck into night,
oriole, robin magpie, iora: tame
poking garden bird I still don’t know the name.
Then, the picture Laurence Poh caught, went away.
I watch a put out washing bamboo morning,
the cut grass, bowl with dhobi, wood pegs hang,
the sun attracts the fly, and bulbul gang.
Then, with hack mist cologne, I went away.
♂♀
I watch a run-down, rough-street, bumpy morning,
abandoned broken go-cart track, the empty row
up for sale, just crash-bar earth-sink tyres grow.
Then, in misery, I went away.
♂♀
I watch a jumpy, terror no-want morning,
rubbish lorry, cake house, book shop, Pok Eng Tin,
corner, bus stop, new shop housing, we pull in.
Then, in absent negligence, she went away.
♂
I watch a roaming paper-broadsheet morning,
walk with big bag, tight entry where news is caught,
business, unit trust, east coast, sports report.
Then, in chunky brown arms, he went away.
♂
I watch a teeming bag of rubbish morning,
the pavement pick up of jam-pack waste last night,
the chock-a-block bag, thrown to lorry’s height.
Then, in Town Council kit, he went away.
♀
I watch a purple health care worry morning,
take my card, then pace gloomy what’s-wrong chart,
acne, bone, cholesterol, muscle, heart.
Then, in baju kurung chic, she went away.
♂
I watch an orange wet wipe swabbing morning
mop my pelt in doctor’s grip; swollen, raw,
the plunging hurt from oozing crust to core.
Then, in cutting new gauze, I went away.
♂
I watch a council worker plant clean morning,
the concrete box now neat trim in centre flow.
There, premature wooden shop owners go.
Then, in Cephalaxin hope, I went away.
♀
I watch a motorbike hush back lane morning,
tight breakfast rubber band, with carry care,
to take an hour away from dentist chair.
Then, in tudung elegance, she went away.
♂♀
I watch a lay-by bus stop waiting morning,
a young buck and his girl, with bearing, bear
in poignant way, the exhausting am air.
Then, in key ignition quake, I went away.
♂♂
I watch a general chitchat layback morning,
two Malay men read, at ease in open air
by wooden shop, the news of here and there.
Then, in roar annoying noise, I went away.
♂
I watch a garden refuse bucket morning,
hobble up bird lane to light up where
high tree with raucous birds meet combat air.
Then, in weary trying stroke, he went away.
♀
I watch a tight jeans army yes-Ma’am morning,
pen scratching, scoring, writing full amount,
a punching calculator button count.
Then, in tank-top U2 green, she went away.
♂
I watch a hot soup sunset cook into night,
white potato, ginger, carrot cutting trim,
wintry lettuce, upmarket guava rim.
Then, the thrusting main pipe water went away.
♀
I watch Malay tuition teach into night,
a hand wash shower, new clothing, tied back hair,
take plate away, goodbye, lounge table bare.
Then, the grubby, titbit remnants went away.
♂
I watch Malaysian birdlife peck into night,
oriole, robin magpie, iora: tame
poking garden bird I still don’t know the name.
Then, the picture Laurence Poh caught, went away.
The bread for the morning lay on the table
24 February 2007 01:00:00 - 25 February 2007 22:27:55
The computer is switched on; the ions are flowing,
watching, in the breeze of the fan, night-time going,
the mug that is empty now lay on the table.
The piano is waiting as if in despair,
whilst the patio light throws out the night air,
the picture of Lotte girl lay on the table.
It’s five minutes past one in the high morning here,
the post-monsoon breeze bringing nothing to cheer,
the petite Chinese flower pot lay on the table.
I drink to help the night-time array,
a cold Dressner beer and a Guinness away,
the woman of commerce bag lay on the table
In the early-bit morning of unseeing sleep,
out in the rear, the tight tangerines weep,
the Gardenia breakfast bread lay on the table.
By the front room cold flooring, I watch and reflect,
the sofa is peering as if to inspect
the Interlace Group bags that lay on the table.
The Lottes girl in a tight skirt wants to try
to get me to notice her beauty and thigh,
the high protein calendar lay on the table.
The television was now turning in for the night,
the carport arena was engaged in white light,
the flowering of batik work lay on the table.
The bulbul of warble and mock-combat rest,
the warm, unremitting night close to their breast,
the crop of the Post Office lay on the table.
But they think I don’t know that they’re watching me.
The computer is switched on; the ions are flowing,
watching, in the breeze of the fan, night-time going,
the mug that is empty now lay on the table.
The piano is waiting as if in despair,
whilst the patio light throws out the night air,
the picture of Lotte girl lay on the table.
It’s five minutes past one in the high morning here,
the post-monsoon breeze bringing nothing to cheer,
the petite Chinese flower pot lay on the table.
I drink to help the night-time array,
a cold Dressner beer and a Guinness away,
the woman of commerce bag lay on the table
In the early-bit morning of unseeing sleep,
out in the rear, the tight tangerines weep,
the Gardenia breakfast bread lay on the table.
By the front room cold flooring, I watch and reflect,
the sofa is peering as if to inspect
the Interlace Group bags that lay on the table.
The Lottes girl in a tight skirt wants to try
to get me to notice her beauty and thigh,
the high protein calendar lay on the table.
The television was now turning in for the night,
the carport arena was engaged in white light,
the flowering of batik work lay on the table.
The bulbul of warble and mock-combat rest,
the warm, unremitting night close to their breast,
the crop of the Post Office lay on the table.
But they think I don’t know that they’re watching me.
Punctuating agony
Wednesday 3 May 2006
For Singaporean poet Chiew Gam Wak,
‘When a love beautiful Changi Airport gone broke’, for which he got two years for suggesting incompetence, and three strokes of the cane for bad English.
A morning in Terengganu
circa 2 30 am
wake up, biscuit, water, tablet for knee
air-con off, bed again
gaze at zero, brain numb
kira-kira 4 pagi
mug of weak coffee, biscuit, awake
rear knee stiff, rough to walk, make tea
overcast, a grey morning, with light rain
circa 7 30 am
washing finishing now, breakfast gone.
mee hoon, tak sedapnya; birdsong persistent monotony
yellow flower, green undergrowth, yellow, green, on and on
kira-kira 1030 pagi
morning going on, slow, knee easing up
amah comes through; I drink plenty of tea
10 30 shower, extra birds begin to chat, take another cup
circa 11 am
I armchair quiet, birds flitting by palm, flower, little to inspire
mid-morning, she taps in for Hong Leong credit card expiry
oh, mee hoon again, lunch, yum, yum
Air Puteh sister-in-law, a two-hour bread-trek
in air that would grace the Golden Gemini Bakery
a bag of mini-loaf, thin-cut, brown
the other in wet highlight-humidity sarong, cooking
the longest time in history
the depth-charge juice, ‘crisp’ leaf, stem maim
wife comes in, hot, tired, yet able to begin a long-talk telephone
of boring, ah sorry, insipid, ah bye, anonymity
then she sighs, the plate, the tap, too; potato, cold fish, rice
How exciting; woe is me.
For Singaporean poet Chiew Gam Wak,
‘When a love beautiful Changi Airport gone broke’, for which he got two years for suggesting incompetence, and three strokes of the cane for bad English.
A morning in Terengganu
circa 2 30 am
wake up, biscuit, water, tablet for knee
air-con off, bed again
gaze at zero, brain numb
kira-kira 4 pagi
mug of weak coffee, biscuit, awake
rear knee stiff, rough to walk, make tea
overcast, a grey morning, with light rain
circa 7 30 am
washing finishing now, breakfast gone.
mee hoon, tak sedapnya; birdsong persistent monotony
yellow flower, green undergrowth, yellow, green, on and on
kira-kira 1030 pagi
morning going on, slow, knee easing up
amah comes through; I drink plenty of tea
10 30 shower, extra birds begin to chat, take another cup
circa 11 am
I armchair quiet, birds flitting by palm, flower, little to inspire
mid-morning, she taps in for Hong Leong credit card expiry
oh, mee hoon again, lunch, yum, yum
Air Puteh sister-in-law, a two-hour bread-trek
in air that would grace the Golden Gemini Bakery
a bag of mini-loaf, thin-cut, brown
the other in wet highlight-humidity sarong, cooking
the longest time in history
the depth-charge juice, ‘crisp’ leaf, stem maim
wife comes in, hot, tired, yet able to begin a long-talk telephone
of boring, ah sorry, insipid, ah bye, anonymity
then she sighs, the plate, the tap, too; potato, cold fish, rice
How exciting; woe is me.
Periphery π = 3.142
3 α
What it means to a cripple of mental retardation?
1β
I think and I sit here; I multiply and wander there,
4 γ
to find the answer to my anguish, monotony,
2δ
my unhappiness, but I know the truth would bait.
3ε
The answer that’s for hire to anyone;
1ζ
just it has taken me a long time with my two, to care
4 η
with piano, chess and general knowledge
2 θ
of mathematical and emotional checkmate.
3ι
I think of a cone, sphere, pyramid waltzing in embrace,
1κ
to enhance the quality of time, and art
4 λ
In bed last night, I thought, at 1 30, to contemplate
2 μ
the shape, and size, and the colour of the universe.
3 ν
an exercise without point or arc, radiating into my brain, a race
1 ξ
against lying alone, as always, a pie chart
4 ο
with area and segment, a circumference, to triangulate
2 π
the mattress and pillow, of plus, minus talk, terse.
Pythagoras’ theorem A
The quality of the flavour of the joint is equal to the quality of the flavour of the potatoes and turnips on the other two sides, in a correct prepared roast.
Why
you don’t just fry the fucking fish, in a pattern batter of multiple, factor, and then prime
a
raw jazz salad of lettuce, obtuse onion, cucumber, tomato, with rough polygon pepper; go
with
the juice sequence of a minor lime, with a disease-looking numerator, of parallel cut.
Then
enjoy the odd and even area and volume, the perimeter, the 12-hour clock time.
You
go off into the digit place, watching the equilateral multiples grow.
No
matter to think of the cheap packet of ‘chicken’ slice, in a watery centilitre, quiet; but
why?
The alpha and the omega
Tonight, the fridge, wok, weather came with perfume, at home,
with a cool, brisk, fragrant alpha-breeze, chafing at the back door frog-point hinge;
the dinner was a cook-from-frozen pack fish-in-breadcrumb bit,
non-taxing-exertion, wallowing and hissing in indolent ease,
that turned as if on an axis, to a crisp-in-its cut
gold-wet-hot wedge, after frying, modest-in-its rut.
When I lift them, they show me the combining juice cocktail run, as if to please
one, as in an inspection; a gentle incision in the succulence to emit
in a polite no-can spit way, a refreshing tang in a cheap entertainment binge,
rather than the mock-pomposity of an omega hostess with perfume, at home.
What it means to a cripple of mental retardation?
1β
I think and I sit here; I multiply and wander there,
4 γ
to find the answer to my anguish, monotony,
2δ
my unhappiness, but I know the truth would bait.
3ε
The answer that’s for hire to anyone;
1ζ
just it has taken me a long time with my two, to care
4 η
with piano, chess and general knowledge
2 θ
of mathematical and emotional checkmate.
3ι
I think of a cone, sphere, pyramid waltzing in embrace,
1κ
to enhance the quality of time, and art
4 λ
In bed last night, I thought, at 1 30, to contemplate
2 μ
the shape, and size, and the colour of the universe.
3 ν
an exercise without point or arc, radiating into my brain, a race
1 ξ
against lying alone, as always, a pie chart
4 ο
with area and segment, a circumference, to triangulate
2 π
the mattress and pillow, of plus, minus talk, terse.
Pythagoras’ theorem A
The quality of the flavour of the joint is equal to the quality of the flavour of the potatoes and turnips on the other two sides, in a correct prepared roast.
Why
you don’t just fry the fucking fish, in a pattern batter of multiple, factor, and then prime
a
raw jazz salad of lettuce, obtuse onion, cucumber, tomato, with rough polygon pepper; go
with
the juice sequence of a minor lime, with a disease-looking numerator, of parallel cut.
Then
enjoy the odd and even area and volume, the perimeter, the 12-hour clock time.
You
go off into the digit place, watching the equilateral multiples grow.
No
matter to think of the cheap packet of ‘chicken’ slice, in a watery centilitre, quiet; but
why?
The alpha and the omega
Tonight, the fridge, wok, weather came with perfume, at home,
with a cool, brisk, fragrant alpha-breeze, chafing at the back door frog-point hinge;
the dinner was a cook-from-frozen pack fish-in-breadcrumb bit,
non-taxing-exertion, wallowing and hissing in indolent ease,
that turned as if on an axis, to a crisp-in-its cut
gold-wet-hot wedge, after frying, modest-in-its rut.
When I lift them, they show me the combining juice cocktail run, as if to please
one, as in an inspection; a gentle incision in the succulence to emit
in a polite no-can spit way, a refreshing tang in a cheap entertainment binge,
rather than the mock-pomposity of an omega hostess with perfume, at home.
A muggy-Monday-morning May
I wake to morning’s touching paw
terrace light through window’s core
to find out that it was only four
a pre-bleep-switch-on-washing May
I don’t want sleep to re-appear
rub wife’s thigh, quick scan her rear
turn and put my leg, thigh near
a warm-back-groaning-Ai-Hwa May
Nine thirty, time for young Yi Qin
adjective and pronoun win
mistake; an unembarrassed grin
a don’t-want-pronounce-the-last-t May
Ten thirty, now Miss Hew in place
to read about the sordid race
to get a berth, the two embrace
a sail-to-get-a-new-life May
Reliance girl, bare thighs again
tourist, ticket, aeroplane
airline, airport code explain
a watch-discreet-the-bare-skin May
Tee-shirt, brief shorts cut up high
force myself to look at thigh
tomorrow, kampong eggs, buy-bye
a try-to-keep-my-hands-off May
Two laughing girls from two to three
Year One, in Kwang Hwa Primary
read ladybird three A, three B
a fish-can-see-you-jump-boat May
They count and spell from zero, one
to hundred; then, they think it fun
go on to thousand, ten million
an-even-odd-count-number May
Young boy, young girl get numbers right
they cotton on, quick, eager, bright
then animals that sting, kick, bite
a sniff-cough-swallow-new-word May
Piano practice, time to go
andante, pianissimo
You finish theory homework? No
An-angry-Hong-Ying-teacher May
Thick foliage of itching gnat
palm, hibiscus, hang and chat
hosepipe bathes on dry grass mat
a-morning-clear-sky-garden May
A Chinese pattern plate tau fu
a glass of tea, or maybe two
ten centimetre fish, crisp through
a-whole-grain-hot-rice-cabbage May
Poor tired car in pm heat
fending off the sun’s harsh beat
keropok, goring pisang treat
a-Macik-tea-time-chilli May
Binti bed, boy party, out
wife away in catwalk pout
from fridge, a few small cold tins rout
a-fan-no-use-in-warm-air May
To basketball, she’s going when
the sun beats low on concrete, then
they’ll finish playing round, maybe, ten
a-slam-ball-jump-net-get-point May
8 May
A cicak on the front door frame
I like to think perhaps it came
to show off to me its hunting game
a-sticky-no-fall-eat-fly May
Polish, scrabble, toss ashtray key
a rough array in front of me
I lounge in equanimity
a-lazy-evening-dumb-brain May
In top hat, bow-tie men go through
the flower bistro avenue
a gallant Comment allez-vous?
a-picture-old-time-Paris May
Two pictures on lounge wall she hung
new morning glory bell-mouth rung
calligraphy by one Ben Ch’ng
a-brush-stroke-Chinese-painting May
With the hatchet, garlic chop
watch cabbage boil full to the top
the soup in a rumba bop
a bubble-burn-hot-oil May
Car port, night light, thanks to me
number plate, 4-0-3-3
now rusting regularity
a poor-antique-white-Proton May
21 May
Cut orange, yellow flowers, bring
in colours that would grace the Qing
I jest. But think the thought’s the thing
a Pontypool-warm-gold-ring May
Two raucous, brazen, big birds ‘whaoh’
high up in the front palm tree bough
wife ends the sleeping session now
a headache-tablet-drowsy May
terrace light through window’s core
to find out that it was only four
a pre-bleep-switch-on-washing May
I don’t want sleep to re-appear
rub wife’s thigh, quick scan her rear
turn and put my leg, thigh near
a warm-back-groaning-Ai-Hwa May
Nine thirty, time for young Yi Qin
adjective and pronoun win
mistake; an unembarrassed grin
a don’t-want-pronounce-the-last-t May
Ten thirty, now Miss Hew in place
to read about the sordid race
to get a berth, the two embrace
a sail-to-get-a-new-life May
Reliance girl, bare thighs again
tourist, ticket, aeroplane
airline, airport code explain
a watch-discreet-the-bare-skin May
Tee-shirt, brief shorts cut up high
force myself to look at thigh
tomorrow, kampong eggs, buy-bye
a try-to-keep-my-hands-off May
Two laughing girls from two to three
Year One, in Kwang Hwa Primary
read ladybird three A, three B
a fish-can-see-you-jump-boat May
They count and spell from zero, one
to hundred; then, they think it fun
go on to thousand, ten million
an-even-odd-count-number May
Young boy, young girl get numbers right
they cotton on, quick, eager, bright
then animals that sting, kick, bite
a sniff-cough-swallow-new-word May
Piano practice, time to go
andante, pianissimo
You finish theory homework? No
An-angry-Hong-Ying-teacher May
Thick foliage of itching gnat
palm, hibiscus, hang and chat
hosepipe bathes on dry grass mat
a-morning-clear-sky-garden May
A Chinese pattern plate tau fu
a glass of tea, or maybe two
ten centimetre fish, crisp through
a-whole-grain-hot-rice-cabbage May
Poor tired car in pm heat
fending off the sun’s harsh beat
keropok, goring pisang treat
a-Macik-tea-time-chilli May
Binti bed, boy party, out
wife away in catwalk pout
from fridge, a few small cold tins rout
a-fan-no-use-in-warm-air May
To basketball, she’s going when
the sun beats low on concrete, then
they’ll finish playing round, maybe, ten
a-slam-ball-jump-net-get-point May
8 May
A cicak on the front door frame
I like to think perhaps it came
to show off to me its hunting game
a-sticky-no-fall-eat-fly May
Polish, scrabble, toss ashtray key
a rough array in front of me
I lounge in equanimity
a-lazy-evening-dumb-brain May
In top hat, bow-tie men go through
the flower bistro avenue
a gallant Comment allez-vous?
a-picture-old-time-Paris May
Two pictures on lounge wall she hung
new morning glory bell-mouth rung
calligraphy by one Ben Ch’ng
a-brush-stroke-Chinese-painting May
With the hatchet, garlic chop
watch cabbage boil full to the top
the soup in a rumba bop
a bubble-burn-hot-oil May
Car port, night light, thanks to me
number plate, 4-0-3-3
now rusting regularity
a poor-antique-white-Proton May
21 May
Cut orange, yellow flowers, bring
in colours that would grace the Qing
I jest. But think the thought’s the thing
a Pontypool-warm-gold-ring May
Two raucous, brazen, big birds ‘whaoh’
high up in the front palm tree bough
wife ends the sleeping session now
a headache-tablet-drowsy May
The train now approaching platform one
is the 14 25 from …
Ernest ‘Platform One’ Boring, I man I once knew
who spent each weekend afternoon, again and again,
with notebook and pen, watching train after train;
then had chicken and chips, in a café in Crewe.
Ah, what came first, chicken or the egg? You tell me, old boy, again and again.
Ah, yes, poor old Ernest; who, in the morning,
when the alarm clock goes off at exactly four fifteen,
pledges loyalty to Labour, to Empire, the Queen;
a man who would have had a two-month old yawning,
Baby’s asleep again, amazing, baby’s asleep again, amazing, again and again.
A discourse on the merits of margarine and butter
might be enough to make the most gentle go barmy;
but instead of being a clerk, if he’d joined the Indian Army,
Mother Theresa, for certain, would have fled from Calcutta.
That Indian bint on Big Brother, I bet she uses butter to make chapattis, or ghee, again and again.
Always well turned-out, shoes polished, wearing a club tie, neat;
not the most chatty chap, but always polite,
wishing the neighbours a pleasant ‘Goodnight’,
in the way of Dixon of Dock Green, at the end of the beat,
I’ll be off now. Plenty to do. Goodnight, then, again and again.
In speech, you have a true gentleman of economy, of approach,
too much talk, things go to waste;
therefore, not too slow, nor in haste,
reminiscent of a new but boring National Express coach,
ha ha ha, that’s good oh, yes, ha ha ha again and again.
Using a modest amount of masculine cream,
a careful play with the razor theatre,
the smooth skin now feels much better.
The girls in the office, ha ha ha, will find me attractive, part of the team.
Use Jade perfume. Not them, me. (some hope),
again and again.
A careful comb of rich Brylcream thin hair,
admiring, in the bathroom mirror, a minor physique,
touching a now-baby ex-lieutenant smooth cheek,
thin macho-moustache, with a military care,
‘I shall return’. Montgomery, I think, or was it Rommel…? again and again.
With an old cricketing tea cloth for company,
that he bought on holiday on the north Yorkshire coast,
breakfast is butter and honey on perfect crisp toast,
with Quaker oat porridge, a pot of PG tips tea,
good enough for chimps, good enough for me, ha ha ha again and again.
The news, both here and abroad, counts for little or naught,
but, having to walk home when the roads were in ice
an experience that Ernest didn’t find nice,
he pays close attention to the weather report,
oh, that’s what I thought, I knew it, I knew it, I knew that, again and again.
Pin striped suit he bought in a menswear shop in Kew,
to work in a white shirt, grey tie, umbrella, bowler hat;
he bids farewell to part-time housekeeper, Mrs Gnat.
That woman just buzzes about the place,
ha ha ha, gnat-buzz, get it? Ha ha ha, he tells you,
again and again.
To the office where he works as a clerk,
with County Council chock-a-block table
to answer questions about cement, tar and cable
to work out the water rates of the park
that can’t be right, let’s try again, bloody solar calculator, don’t work here, again and again.
At 10 30, in a wedge of currant cake
with almost complete computer-like precision,
he makes, with much care, the type of incision
a top quality neuro-surgeon might make,
oh, perfect, just perfect, yes, perfect, again and again.
In quiet fashion, sips his one-sugar morning tea;
milk, a tiny amount, too much wouldn’t be right;
tea must be a firm khaki, or colonial copper, not off-white.
People these days should get a grip on reality,
GCSE, that's the problem, again and again.
At lunch-time, a modest spoon of canteen cottage pie;
he eats the wet, limp cabbage uncomplaining,
but chooses cauliflower when it’s raining,
then goes for milkshake in the teashop nearby,
How are you, my dear, you look beautiful, again and again.
On Friday, to make the luncheon complete,
whilst we enjoy work, the weekend is near;
in a half-empty pub, a cider or beer,
a strawberry yoghurt, a weekend treat,
I love the rich pink, gorgeous, oh, yummy, yummy, yummy, again and again.
Back home, shoes clean, jacket hung neat,
in apron, eating a best-buy tart, begins to prepare
the evening meal, with tender but uninspiring care;
frozen carrots, peas, corn, with budget cold meat,
hum, hum, hum, hum, I think I’ll cut my thumb, again and again.
He seldom will grill or fry, or roast;
it’s not just a question of ease, or health,
but one must be prudent, careful with one’s wealth;
therefore, a simple (but nutritious) cheese on toast,
go from coast to coast, with my cheese and toast, I love you, again and again.
Except on Sunday, when for a change
May to October, he uses not one egg, but three
to make an omelette, a reckless gastronomy,
with supermarket herbs, but the eggs, free-range,
you think eggs can get bird flu? I mean, you think it might be …again and again.
Monday to Friday, the Richard Clayderman collection;
humming to Marriage d’Amour, he thought
of how Mummy really was pleased he had bought
it, stroking the toy piano with affection,
you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true, again and again.
But at the weekend, if there’s time to spare,
with one pound scissors, from Shanghai,
in immaculate way, he clips toe nails, fingers, hair;
then, with Optrex, washes out each eye,
one day, I’ll gargle this stuff by mistake, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, again and again.
The sock collection, of concrete grey
not one small hole, or hint of a tear
washing fifty two, time for a new pair.
They’re worn out; but thrown away?
Recycle, that’s what we do, don’t let it go to waste, no, no, of course we don’t, again and again.
for if filled with earth, they can produce
new plants - mustard, cress, parsley, thyme...
he had no success with prunes or lime.
The conclusion? Old socks are not without their use.
No waste, no want, reuse, reduce, recycle, that’s the way for Mother Earth again and again.
In a bed-and-breakfast (quite cheap) in Cumbria,
he met, a mature, retired dental technician from Neath,
of matron build; he enquired about scale, polish, gum disease, teeth;
the next morning, without a cup of tea, she left for Northumbria.
Why? Can’t fathom it out, getting on so well, wonderful body, big arms, rugby type, you know, again and again.
That was a fine holiday, a one-week break, he thought;
a peck on the cheek - no groping - to show his affection;
but, he sighed, quiet, when in recollection,
that his attempts at courtship had come to naught,
again and again.
(Did you manage to take off her …? No, I didn’t. She broke your thumb? Oh, dear me, old chap.)
The train at Platform One is the 14 25 from Newport, calling at Hereford (pronounced Herry-ford, pubs, horse racing , butchers, useless football team, cattle market, three choirs etc), Leominster (pronounced Lem’ster, old chap, pubs, horse racing, wretched platform, looks like Chuck Norris was practising there, a bank etc), Ludlow (pronounced Ludlow, pubs, horse racing), Church Stretton (pubs, pretty women on the platform), Craven Arms (pubs, pretty women on the platform), Shrewsbury (pubs, horse racing, three-pint Guinness Sarah doing The Telegraph crossword, scruffy platform, scruffy bloody train,) and Crewe (hotel bar, bar on Platform One, bloody cold wind, and me, Capt Ernest Boring…Ha ha ha ha ha , that’s me, Ernest Boring
I’m off to bed. With Ernest? Ha ha ha . With Ernest? Ha ha ha
Too long in the tropics, you know. Mother told you in 1989. Ha ha ha
Another gin? Ha ha ha, make it a double. Where’s Sarah? Did you kiss? Did you have sex? Ha ha ha.
I think you… oh, here’s the Brighton-Glasgow. It calls at Portsmouth, Winchester, Oxford, (bloody snobs) Gloucester, good rugby, or used to be, Malvern, public school girls, white socks, etc rather nice, Dudley, Worcester, wonderful racing, cricket too, Tene, Wolverhampton, grubby, well, used to be, meat depot type of place, ha ha ha, how do I know why, just sounds like a meat depot place, ha ha ha, no, why? Warrington, the less said the better, rugby league, ever watched it? No, too much of a snob, exciting, union’s got the edge, it seems to me, yes, you are a snob, met a chap from Warrington once, Malaya, engineer, Merchant Marine, amazing chap, Preston, used to have football there a hundred years ago, won the FA Cup in the 20’s or somewhere, Lancaster, why on earth they wanted a university here beats me, out in the wilds, must get a special type of student, probably got good canteen food and mixed showers, then Carlisle, amazing place in the evening, sunset, borders mystery, half expect to see a gang of Picts laying waste to the town, ha ha ha, then across the… Richard? Where are you? Richard? Richard? …Cad’s popped off to find Sarah, I imagine ha ha ha… oh, my goodness, look at that, look at that, don’t get that every day, that’s for sure, what a treat, made my day, look at that, there must be at least thirty cement wagons, where’s the calculator, oh, it’s in the bloody office, that’s ten tons per wagon…
Ernest ‘Platform One’ Boring, I man I once knew
who spent each weekend afternoon, again and again,
with notebook and pen, watching train after train;
then had chicken and chips, in a café in Crewe.
Ah, what came first, chicken or the egg? You tell me, old boy, again and again.
Ah, yes, poor old Ernest; who, in the morning,
when the alarm clock goes off at exactly four fifteen,
pledges loyalty to Labour, to Empire, the Queen;
a man who would have had a two-month old yawning,
Baby’s asleep again, amazing, baby’s asleep again, amazing, again and again.
A discourse on the merits of margarine and butter
might be enough to make the most gentle go barmy;
but instead of being a clerk, if he’d joined the Indian Army,
Mother Theresa, for certain, would have fled from Calcutta.
That Indian bint on Big Brother, I bet she uses butter to make chapattis, or ghee, again and again.
Always well turned-out, shoes polished, wearing a club tie, neat;
not the most chatty chap, but always polite,
wishing the neighbours a pleasant ‘Goodnight’,
in the way of Dixon of Dock Green, at the end of the beat,
I’ll be off now. Plenty to do. Goodnight, then, again and again.
In speech, you have a true gentleman of economy, of approach,
too much talk, things go to waste;
therefore, not too slow, nor in haste,
reminiscent of a new but boring National Express coach,
ha ha ha, that’s good oh, yes, ha ha ha again and again.
Using a modest amount of masculine cream,
a careful play with the razor theatre,
the smooth skin now feels much better.
The girls in the office, ha ha ha, will find me attractive, part of the team.
Use Jade perfume. Not them, me. (some hope),
again and again.
A careful comb of rich Brylcream thin hair,
admiring, in the bathroom mirror, a minor physique,
touching a now-baby ex-lieutenant smooth cheek,
thin macho-moustache, with a military care,
‘I shall return’. Montgomery, I think, or was it Rommel…? again and again.
With an old cricketing tea cloth for company,
that he bought on holiday on the north Yorkshire coast,
breakfast is butter and honey on perfect crisp toast,
with Quaker oat porridge, a pot of PG tips tea,
good enough for chimps, good enough for me, ha ha ha again and again.
The news, both here and abroad, counts for little or naught,
but, having to walk home when the roads were in ice
an experience that Ernest didn’t find nice,
he pays close attention to the weather report,
oh, that’s what I thought, I knew it, I knew it, I knew that, again and again.
Pin striped suit he bought in a menswear shop in Kew,
to work in a white shirt, grey tie, umbrella, bowler hat;
he bids farewell to part-time housekeeper, Mrs Gnat.
That woman just buzzes about the place,
ha ha ha, gnat-buzz, get it? Ha ha ha, he tells you,
again and again.
To the office where he works as a clerk,
with County Council chock-a-block table
to answer questions about cement, tar and cable
to work out the water rates of the park
that can’t be right, let’s try again, bloody solar calculator, don’t work here, again and again.
At 10 30, in a wedge of currant cake
with almost complete computer-like precision,
he makes, with much care, the type of incision
a top quality neuro-surgeon might make,
oh, perfect, just perfect, yes, perfect, again and again.
In quiet fashion, sips his one-sugar morning tea;
milk, a tiny amount, too much wouldn’t be right;
tea must be a firm khaki, or colonial copper, not off-white.
People these days should get a grip on reality,
GCSE, that's the problem, again and again.
At lunch-time, a modest spoon of canteen cottage pie;
he eats the wet, limp cabbage uncomplaining,
but chooses cauliflower when it’s raining,
then goes for milkshake in the teashop nearby,
How are you, my dear, you look beautiful, again and again.
On Friday, to make the luncheon complete,
whilst we enjoy work, the weekend is near;
in a half-empty pub, a cider or beer,
a strawberry yoghurt, a weekend treat,
I love the rich pink, gorgeous, oh, yummy, yummy, yummy, again and again.
Back home, shoes clean, jacket hung neat,
in apron, eating a best-buy tart, begins to prepare
the evening meal, with tender but uninspiring care;
frozen carrots, peas, corn, with budget cold meat,
hum, hum, hum, hum, I think I’ll cut my thumb, again and again.
He seldom will grill or fry, or roast;
it’s not just a question of ease, or health,
but one must be prudent, careful with one’s wealth;
therefore, a simple (but nutritious) cheese on toast,
go from coast to coast, with my cheese and toast, I love you, again and again.
Except on Sunday, when for a change
May to October, he uses not one egg, but three
to make an omelette, a reckless gastronomy,
with supermarket herbs, but the eggs, free-range,
you think eggs can get bird flu? I mean, you think it might be …again and again.
Monday to Friday, the Richard Clayderman collection;
humming to Marriage d’Amour, he thought
of how Mummy really was pleased he had bought
it, stroking the toy piano with affection,
you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true, again and again.
But at the weekend, if there’s time to spare,
with one pound scissors, from Shanghai,
in immaculate way, he clips toe nails, fingers, hair;
then, with Optrex, washes out each eye,
one day, I’ll gargle this stuff by mistake, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, again and again.
The sock collection, of concrete grey
not one small hole, or hint of a tear
washing fifty two, time for a new pair.
They’re worn out; but thrown away?
Recycle, that’s what we do, don’t let it go to waste, no, no, of course we don’t, again and again.
for if filled with earth, they can produce
new plants - mustard, cress, parsley, thyme...
he had no success with prunes or lime.
The conclusion? Old socks are not without their use.
No waste, no want, reuse, reduce, recycle, that’s the way for Mother Earth again and again.
In a bed-and-breakfast (quite cheap) in Cumbria,
he met, a mature, retired dental technician from Neath,
of matron build; he enquired about scale, polish, gum disease, teeth;
the next morning, without a cup of tea, she left for Northumbria.
Why? Can’t fathom it out, getting on so well, wonderful body, big arms, rugby type, you know, again and again.
That was a fine holiday, a one-week break, he thought;
a peck on the cheek - no groping - to show his affection;
but, he sighed, quiet, when in recollection,
that his attempts at courtship had come to naught,
again and again.
(Did you manage to take off her …? No, I didn’t. She broke your thumb? Oh, dear me, old chap.)
The train at Platform One is the 14 25 from Newport, calling at Hereford (pronounced Herry-ford, pubs, horse racing , butchers, useless football team, cattle market, three choirs etc), Leominster (pronounced Lem’ster, old chap, pubs, horse racing, wretched platform, looks like Chuck Norris was practising there, a bank etc), Ludlow (pronounced Ludlow, pubs, horse racing), Church Stretton (pubs, pretty women on the platform), Craven Arms (pubs, pretty women on the platform), Shrewsbury (pubs, horse racing, three-pint Guinness Sarah doing The Telegraph crossword, scruffy platform, scruffy bloody train,) and Crewe (hotel bar, bar on Platform One, bloody cold wind, and me, Capt Ernest Boring…Ha ha ha ha ha , that’s me, Ernest Boring
I’m off to bed. With Ernest? Ha ha ha . With Ernest? Ha ha ha
Too long in the tropics, you know. Mother told you in 1989. Ha ha ha
Another gin? Ha ha ha, make it a double. Where’s Sarah? Did you kiss? Did you have sex? Ha ha ha.
I think you… oh, here’s the Brighton-Glasgow. It calls at Portsmouth, Winchester, Oxford, (bloody snobs) Gloucester, good rugby, or used to be, Malvern, public school girls, white socks, etc rather nice, Dudley, Worcester, wonderful racing, cricket too, Tene, Wolverhampton, grubby, well, used to be, meat depot type of place, ha ha ha, how do I know why, just sounds like a meat depot place, ha ha ha, no, why? Warrington, the less said the better, rugby league, ever watched it? No, too much of a snob, exciting, union’s got the edge, it seems to me, yes, you are a snob, met a chap from Warrington once, Malaya, engineer, Merchant Marine, amazing chap, Preston, used to have football there a hundred years ago, won the FA Cup in the 20’s or somewhere, Lancaster, why on earth they wanted a university here beats me, out in the wilds, must get a special type of student, probably got good canteen food and mixed showers, then Carlisle, amazing place in the evening, sunset, borders mystery, half expect to see a gang of Picts laying waste to the town, ha ha ha, then across the… Richard? Where are you? Richard? Richard? …Cad’s popped off to find Sarah, I imagine ha ha ha… oh, my goodness, look at that, look at that, don’t get that every day, that’s for sure, what a treat, made my day, look at that, there must be at least thirty cement wagons, where’s the calculator, oh, it’s in the bloody office, that’s ten tons per wagon…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)