♂
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.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
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…
Ornithological meandering
A poor attempt of a writer, when in a mood of solitude and neglect,
trying to overturn the inescapable run of the life, energising,
trying to fathom out the deep way that those that think might agree, or reject,
that in a certain form, alkali and acid might be one in neutralizing.
Yawning, I try to tell them of my good heart and thought, yes, and intransigence,
to dispose of, in hospital efficiency and hygiene, the lies, the rumours that get
have been inculcated amongst them, to brainwash by those of lesser intelligence,
to weaken the clean, masculine dignity of a simple, but cultivated human being, yet
one who wishes no-one harm or abrogation of duty, no out-stinging of humiliation,
yet thought by many to be an old, inadequate specimen of proto-humanity, without tolerance.
No, I cry out, that is not me, that is the manipulation of mind and manner; that is an aberration
of the truth, by those who seek simplicity and hurt, albeit in ignorance.
Press gang those people, lash them, bare back, crying, then begging by increment,
to the mast of Nemesis, who does, she told me, take my place in the argument.
In the tardy part of afternoon, common tailorbird with, I think, a bulbul came
with their mates, to disrupt, in arrogant way, a class on animal, plant cell, four types of tissue,
chloroplast, amoeba; they warbled away, inconsiderate of the young people trying to tame
a textbook they have just a semblance of normality, little understanding of concept and issue,
and to them, a useless-in-everyday-life language.
trying to overturn the inescapable run of the life, energising,
trying to fathom out the deep way that those that think might agree, or reject,
that in a certain form, alkali and acid might be one in neutralizing.
Yawning, I try to tell them of my good heart and thought, yes, and intransigence,
to dispose of, in hospital efficiency and hygiene, the lies, the rumours that get
have been inculcated amongst them, to brainwash by those of lesser intelligence,
to weaken the clean, masculine dignity of a simple, but cultivated human being, yet
one who wishes no-one harm or abrogation of duty, no out-stinging of humiliation,
yet thought by many to be an old, inadequate specimen of proto-humanity, without tolerance.
No, I cry out, that is not me, that is the manipulation of mind and manner; that is an aberration
of the truth, by those who seek simplicity and hurt, albeit in ignorance.
Press gang those people, lash them, bare back, crying, then begging by increment,
to the mast of Nemesis, who does, she told me, take my place in the argument.
In the tardy part of afternoon, common tailorbird with, I think, a bulbul came
with their mates, to disrupt, in arrogant way, a class on animal, plant cell, four types of tissue,
chloroplast, amoeba; they warbled away, inconsiderate of the young people trying to tame
a textbook they have just a semblance of normality, little understanding of concept and issue,
and to them, a useless-in-everyday-life language.
The night of the frog mana katak?
2007
The night of the frog; Rhiannon came from sofa to me in the rear;
how can a ‘jumping thing’ come out from the cushion foam?
On reflection, if porch netting ajar, front door mosquito net clear
I thought that a frog might be able to come into the home.
The frog, a young thing, was sitting on the floor, unaware
of the new excitement it was beginning to create;
it noticed me, and jumped across and into the air
to get away, the rear legs seeming to inflate,
ending up, cocksure, behind the business table.
I opened the glass French door, the mosquito net;
whilst nervous, it was quite clear that it was able
to, and wanted to try to escape, but yet
it went back again. I rattled the telephone wire connection
stretching behind the table, in awkward way, with my arm
to try to get the frog to do another window inspection;
She held the curtain, somewhat jumpy, to stop any frog harm
Then Katak, at long last, escaped onto the front porch, to wait
unconcerned, by the uninterested bicycle tyre there
maybe, for the breeze to bring in a mosquito bait
then, ready, I assume, to enjoy the rest of the night air
We pushed back the furniture; she had a frog-free peer
then got back, with some concern, into the now danger-free zone
whilst I, as usual, went back to the now warm-beer rear,
with the other garden amphibians, the night, thought, me, in tone
wife, in front bedroom, chats with half the local population.
the girl lounges, watching television; the boy using computer game;
I, watching the rear frogs watching night, nsect, think of the isolation
here; this time last year, I waited for health to appear, to tame
the mat-hugging monotony of the emptiness of infection
now, I ask, what is the point of trying, attempting in the first place
when the odd are stacked in a way that no-one without
power, influence can try to move, if they attempt in the first place
a theme that runs through wretched fabric, the cloth of the human race
a frog comes into the house; in the night, an emerging philosophy
quiet, except for a Hong Kong singer, of inconsequential tone;
I, in prejudice, think, inane lyrics; in amoeba-type insipidity
thug computer game; inane show; ubiquitous, quenching hand phone
the typewriter -
a dinosaur, I can’t resist it - of office tech meant, for many
teacher, lecturer, poet, office girl etc, a part of their time
the clattering, clicking, tearing paper, movement of the return key
the noise of amateur consistence, carbon copy of waning mime
the frog grunting stiletto again;
I quip; I have no idea - a young one trying to get a mate
the girl bids me, ‘Mee’, Mum, a happy-it-is-Thursday goodnight
that tomorrow, no school, a thing they by any means don’t hate;
a rest is as good as anything, one must concur, but right?
The frog tonight; what did he think?
Why?
The barons of capitalism thought little of break and holiday;
that’s why they made money
a love of their work
a rich-memory old age, health, creating for generations to come
enjoying an 80 year acquaintance with business, appreciating
a life of active honey
it was lots of work, little play makes me
a happy boy; it was their rule of thumb
The night of the frog; Rhiannon came from sofa to me in the rear;
how can a ‘jumping thing’ come out from the cushion foam?
On reflection, if porch netting ajar, front door mosquito net clear
I thought that a frog might be able to come into the home.
The frog, a young thing, was sitting on the floor, unaware
of the new excitement it was beginning to create;
it noticed me, and jumped across and into the air
to get away, the rear legs seeming to inflate,
ending up, cocksure, behind the business table.
I opened the glass French door, the mosquito net;
whilst nervous, it was quite clear that it was able
to, and wanted to try to escape, but yet
it went back again. I rattled the telephone wire connection
stretching behind the table, in awkward way, with my arm
to try to get the frog to do another window inspection;
She held the curtain, somewhat jumpy, to stop any frog harm
Then Katak, at long last, escaped onto the front porch, to wait
unconcerned, by the uninterested bicycle tyre there
maybe, for the breeze to bring in a mosquito bait
then, ready, I assume, to enjoy the rest of the night air
We pushed back the furniture; she had a frog-free peer
then got back, with some concern, into the now danger-free zone
whilst I, as usual, went back to the now warm-beer rear,
with the other garden amphibians, the night, thought, me, in tone
wife, in front bedroom, chats with half the local population.
the girl lounges, watching television; the boy using computer game;
I, watching the rear frogs watching night, nsect, think of the isolation
here; this time last year, I waited for health to appear, to tame
the mat-hugging monotony of the emptiness of infection
now, I ask, what is the point of trying, attempting in the first place
when the odd are stacked in a way that no-one without
power, influence can try to move, if they attempt in the first place
a theme that runs through wretched fabric, the cloth of the human race
a frog comes into the house; in the night, an emerging philosophy
quiet, except for a Hong Kong singer, of inconsequential tone;
I, in prejudice, think, inane lyrics; in amoeba-type insipidity
thug computer game; inane show; ubiquitous, quenching hand phone
the typewriter -
a dinosaur, I can’t resist it - of office tech meant, for many
teacher, lecturer, poet, office girl etc, a part of their time
the clattering, clicking, tearing paper, movement of the return key
the noise of amateur consistence, carbon copy of waning mime
the frog grunting stiletto again;
I quip; I have no idea - a young one trying to get a mate
the girl bids me, ‘Mee’, Mum, a happy-it-is-Thursday goodnight
that tomorrow, no school, a thing they by any means don’t hate;
a rest is as good as anything, one must concur, but right?
The frog tonight; what did he think?
Why?
The barons of capitalism thought little of break and holiday;
that’s why they made money
a love of their work
a rich-memory old age, health, creating for generations to come
enjoying an 80 year acquaintance with business, appreciating
a life of active honey
it was lots of work, little play makes me
a happy boy; it was their rule of thumb
By the beach picture 1, picture 2
An evening in the fog by the beach
I wait in the garden, the mosquitoes trying to get a bite
whilst I try to photograph a blushing bird or two
but escaping by virtue of sharp eye and thought
the fungi on the base of extinct tree, a worm escaping
I try to photograph a small bird, the camera
from time to time retracting, without warning
the bird in self-defence eyeing a new joint to hang out in
a choice mansion, the bamboo tree
The Malay girls opposite are students, I think
with fasting-break bite grub in small hanging bag
come back on bike, baju kurung waving in the air
another woman, short sleeve, man go past on the desert track
With a dog in tow, scratching kerb grass, a pretty Chinese woman
greeting me, walking on in slight embarrassment, maybe
my son and comrades, bicycle cowboys, enjoying the zero-breeze
a group of young Malay men go by on taut motorcycle
I watch, through a gap in the palm tree
the setting sun winding up for the night, the filthy air, hazy, thick
here, where the half-light of the extinct evening might almost be gone
A fog in the evening by the beach
My wife came back with a bag of three eggs
I waited in the car in evaporating cheer
before she came out, complaining, a surprise, she was hot
it wasn’t just me who had a tough time
where heat and humidity throw out a beating exhaustion
Jalan Pantai, a gloom on sea, air, cars with lights on pre-7 pm
Malay group beginning to eat, under mock-mushroom umbrella
motor-bike in tow, a couple in love’s gaze
to Kuala Dungun, going in slow, air con moaning
the new and old buildings, the bright-lit Green Apple
burgers and chips no doubt, of generous ration
I, in ignorant prejudice, not having gone there
watching the workers, the absence of customer, then
in the Fuji shop, behind the counter, the mother of two
former young girl students.of mine, the dual-carriage traffic-bare
check on absent progress of daughter’s French book
which is why she is out now 22 07
along Jalan Paka of empty restaurant, although the Pattani
a Thai-Malay, was full, a popular place, others inferior
a small portion of customer, watery table, undercooked chair
through narrow lane near-collision motorcycle race
yet another cold night at this juncture,
yet another Hamburg cold beer, on high
here, where the half-light of the extinct evening might almost be gone
I wait in the garden, the mosquitoes trying to get a bite
whilst I try to photograph a blushing bird or two
but escaping by virtue of sharp eye and thought
the fungi on the base of extinct tree, a worm escaping
I try to photograph a small bird, the camera
from time to time retracting, without warning
the bird in self-defence eyeing a new joint to hang out in
a choice mansion, the bamboo tree
The Malay girls opposite are students, I think
with fasting-break bite grub in small hanging bag
come back on bike, baju kurung waving in the air
another woman, short sleeve, man go past on the desert track
With a dog in tow, scratching kerb grass, a pretty Chinese woman
greeting me, walking on in slight embarrassment, maybe
my son and comrades, bicycle cowboys, enjoying the zero-breeze
a group of young Malay men go by on taut motorcycle
I watch, through a gap in the palm tree
the setting sun winding up for the night, the filthy air, hazy, thick
here, where the half-light of the extinct evening might almost be gone
A fog in the evening by the beach
My wife came back with a bag of three eggs
I waited in the car in evaporating cheer
before she came out, complaining, a surprise, she was hot
it wasn’t just me who had a tough time
where heat and humidity throw out a beating exhaustion
Jalan Pantai, a gloom on sea, air, cars with lights on pre-7 pm
Malay group beginning to eat, under mock-mushroom umbrella
motor-bike in tow, a couple in love’s gaze
to Kuala Dungun, going in slow, air con moaning
the new and old buildings, the bright-lit Green Apple
burgers and chips no doubt, of generous ration
I, in ignorant prejudice, not having gone there
watching the workers, the absence of customer, then
in the Fuji shop, behind the counter, the mother of two
former young girl students.of mine, the dual-carriage traffic-bare
check on absent progress of daughter’s French book
which is why she is out now 22 07
along Jalan Paka of empty restaurant, although the Pattani
a Thai-Malay, was full, a popular place, others inferior
a small portion of customer, watery table, undercooked chair
through narrow lane near-collision motorcycle race
yet another cold night at this juncture,
yet another Hamburg cold beer, on high
here, where the half-light of the extinct evening might almost be gone
Taiwan Farewell
17 December 2006 A Sunday morning
Taiwan Farewell
the children went to Kuantan two days ago
to spend a week with aunt down there
to study, swim, and in general, enjoy
the place of love, no worry nor care
there was no rough surf on the beach
I didn’t watch the trees, nor hear the roar
I didn’t think to be on my own
I knew I had to get out to teach
awake around five thirty, as customary
take water to get the kidney kick-start
brush teeth, shave, kettle, back to bed
with thigh between her legs, apart
but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
a warming sweet way with spoons of hone
a breakfast of cocoa, and raw porridge oat
with the early light marching into the morning
no doubt thinking about the new day’s bloat
but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
a warm shower gets the cool day away
shorts and tee shirt, khaki, green
a dab of cologne from Japan
the feel of fresh, alert and clean
but watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
the squeaking grill, tearing away
in noise that would wake up a railway tramp
the spray in choking super-megacide
I wait, mosquito-free, by the terrace no-fly camp
but I know I’m going to be on my own now
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
to think of things no man can teach
Chloe, year two; check body parts
no, not that; bird feather, claw, beak
trunk, soft-stem plant, from the day before). Now
magnet can repel, attract, be strong or weak
but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
Yi Qin with non-stop, flick-back hair
then atom, compound, element
the earth’s resources we excavate
then chat with her Mum, trim, elegant
but watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
a break, with greeting hydrate water
some typing on the word machine
before a tummy-bare Miss Hiew
tests graph of function, half-knowing, but keen
but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
Big Brother comes; we then retrace
the unknown course of inequality
with variable, fixed, and ratio
if we know a, we can find out b
but watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
I know I’m going to be on my own no
to think of things no man can teach
the garden would grace Robin and his merry men;
a bright point of yellow, orange arrow too
bring a polychrome monsoon camouflage
to the everywhere rain-rousing hue
but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
a breezing lunch, just reclining
on the sofa, watch her try
on trainers; passport, money, bag
she kisses me a warm goodbye
but I know I’m going to be on my own now
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I think of things no man can teach
the amah’s gone, the washing done
just the clicking keyboard, quiet fan close by
the forlorn piano, abandoned phone
the whole waits to break down and cry
but I know that I’m on my own now
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I think of things no man can teach
the twilight expands, the trees scrum and turn
in the onslaught of the non-stop rain
the flooding way, the half-washed car
I think of her warmth again, again
watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf on the beach
I know that I am on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
Taiwan Farewell
the children went to Kuantan two days ago
to spend a week with aunt down there
to study, swim, and in general, enjoy
the place of love, no worry nor care
there was no rough surf on the beach
I didn’t watch the trees, nor hear the roar
I didn’t think to be on my own
I knew I had to get out to teach
awake around five thirty, as customary
take water to get the kidney kick-start
brush teeth, shave, kettle, back to bed
with thigh between her legs, apart
but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
a warming sweet way with spoons of hone
a breakfast of cocoa, and raw porridge oat
with the early light marching into the morning
no doubt thinking about the new day’s bloat
but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
a warm shower gets the cool day away
shorts and tee shirt, khaki, green
a dab of cologne from Japan
the feel of fresh, alert and clean
but watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
the squeaking grill, tearing away
in noise that would wake up a railway tramp
the spray in choking super-megacide
I wait, mosquito-free, by the terrace no-fly camp
but I know I’m going to be on my own now
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
to think of things no man can teach
Chloe, year two; check body parts
no, not that; bird feather, claw, beak
trunk, soft-stem plant, from the day before). Now
magnet can repel, attract, be strong or weak
but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
Yi Qin with non-stop, flick-back hair
then atom, compound, element
the earth’s resources we excavate
then chat with her Mum, trim, elegant
but watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
a break, with greeting hydrate water
some typing on the word machine
before a tummy-bare Miss Hiew
tests graph of function, half-knowing, but keen
but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
Big Brother comes; we then retrace
the unknown course of inequality
with variable, fixed, and ratio
if we know a, we can find out b
but watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
I know I’m going to be on my own no
to think of things no man can teach
the garden would grace Robin and his merry men;
a bright point of yellow, orange arrow too
bring a polychrome monsoon camouflage
to the everywhere rain-rousing hue
but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
a breezing lunch, just reclining
on the sofa, watch her try
on trainers; passport, money, bag
she kisses me a warm goodbye
but I know I’m going to be on my own now
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I think of things no man can teach
the amah’s gone, the washing done
just the clicking keyboard, quiet fan close by
the forlorn piano, abandoned phone
the whole waits to break down and cry
but I know that I’m on my own now
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I think of things no man can teach
the twilight expands, the trees scrum and turn
in the onslaught of the non-stop rain
the flooding way, the half-washed car
I think of her warmth again, again
watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf on the beach
I know that I am on my own now
to think of things no man can teach
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