Post by PorkyPies on Feb 6, 2009 12:40:05 GMT 1
GOING BACK
for Margaret Macmurray.
I switch off the ignition,
the other side of their clipped privet hedge
and taste again her last kiss
in Aberystwyth
where her breast pressed
into me.
I was fifteen years old,
embarrassment growing harder.
I pulled away, and she
pushed back into me.
We danced this strange dance
at the back of a chippy
where the taste of her red lipstick
survived the fish and chips.
Sheep Inheritance
I am a sheep
That’s what the family call me
A black one. I have tried painting myself
a colour they want me to be
gone through all the rainbow
each one just seems to slide off
like its not meant, not suited
worst still I’ve dripped all over their best
carpets, stained, for everyone to see,
talk about, while they chew and swig down
a bit more bigotry
WEEPING WILLOW
Crying? Us? You must be joking !
We are the sunshine trees.
Yellow, bursting out of the ground,
a fountain.
Come here, cool yourself
under my slender arms,
bring a bottle, a picnic,
sit inside and find a new world.
Half-an-hour, that’s all.
Start again. You’ll like it.
Us weeping? Not a tear.
TOURIST ATTRACTION
We are sheep or slaves
walking in a long line,
towed by a man on his tractor
to a Police Station with its face
blown off.
He shouts “Stay on the tarmac -
everything else is landmined!”
We chug past without looking:
bright red swastikas and dicks
painted on white walls where family life
once sang out its parties, now piled up
in the front garden.
He points to Serbian cannons.
There’s a silence we’ve never heard before:
no birds, no cats, no dogs.
Going Back To Then
For Sandra 1967
I am me
that’s not meant to be a rude thing
but I don’t want to be you
not anymore
I dreamed of nothing else but being you
the pain burned holes in my hurt
I just wanted you to look at me
say hello, smile. Yes a kiss
would be too much to ask.
So instead you waved,
the kind that said
yes, we can be friends
nothing else.
for Margaret Macmurray.
I switch off the ignition,
the other side of their clipped privet hedge
and taste again her last kiss
in Aberystwyth
where her breast pressed
into me.
I was fifteen years old,
embarrassment growing harder.
I pulled away, and she
pushed back into me.
We danced this strange dance
at the back of a chippy
where the taste of her red lipstick
survived the fish and chips.
Sheep Inheritance
I am a sheep
That’s what the family call me
A black one. I have tried painting myself
a colour they want me to be
gone through all the rainbow
each one just seems to slide off
like its not meant, not suited
worst still I’ve dripped all over their best
carpets, stained, for everyone to see,
talk about, while they chew and swig down
a bit more bigotry
WEEPING WILLOW
Crying? Us? You must be joking !
We are the sunshine trees.
Yellow, bursting out of the ground,
a fountain.
Come here, cool yourself
under my slender arms,
bring a bottle, a picnic,
sit inside and find a new world.
Half-an-hour, that’s all.
Start again. You’ll like it.
Us weeping? Not a tear.
TOURIST ATTRACTION
We are sheep or slaves
walking in a long line,
towed by a man on his tractor
to a Police Station with its face
blown off.
He shouts “Stay on the tarmac -
everything else is landmined!”
We chug past without looking:
bright red swastikas and dicks
painted on white walls where family life
once sang out its parties, now piled up
in the front garden.
He points to Serbian cannons.
There’s a silence we’ve never heard before:
no birds, no cats, no dogs.
Going Back To Then
For Sandra 1967
I am me
that’s not meant to be a rude thing
but I don’t want to be you
not anymore
I dreamed of nothing else but being you
the pain burned holes in my hurt
I just wanted you to look at me
say hello, smile. Yes a kiss
would be too much to ask.
So instead you waved,
the kind that said
yes, we can be friends
nothing else.
