Sick Autumn

Sick autumn when the leaves scattered are wet

And skitter in gutters. Pale autumn hiding

Cattarh coughs in traffic fumes, tragic colours,

Terminally ill. An old man stained with mucus

In a hospital bed, coughs like revved-up engines

Scars like scattered leaves, tears like autumn rain.

And it is the widow fainting, casting a veil

In the gutter, the driveway, the lonely sunslant.

Sad wilt of my heart that cast this dry leaf

Groundwards; an uprooted tree falls uselessly.

Autumnal rains make the silent boys heartsick,

Beside the plexi-glass window. Hairwet, eyes shrouded.

Big raindrops on my hairline. Frost at eight

In the morning. Even the sun at noon is sick,

Pale and wan. I should sleep all autumn,

And give birth to dreams. That's the only health.

Internal Combustion Engine. Splat of a Puddle.

And the Girls are Swearing. Downstairs the Door Slamming.

Scratch Acid

In the room, showing the girls my record collection.

The hardcore ones first. Guess this CD.

It's Bad Religion. A roar of guitar. And she sings "We're Only Gonna Die". (Next is Fugazi).

The CD's in the cardboard box.

Next we put on the tapes one by one. Guess the song.

(Songs from the White Album on side one). First the one that Ringo sings. Then Obladi Oblada.

Next, a cream-coloured tape. Scrawled on the front: "Acid". What are you listening to acid? She says pressing play.

(No acid rock just caramel coloured and candy coated dark songs.)

Play that one "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" suggests the girl.

The Other Side of the Bridge

I have reached the other side of the bridge but I don't move from there. I am too lazy to penetrate up into the heartland, through the country, to home.

The Bridge as it's end is made of wooden slats. An Indiana Jones rope bridge. A checkpoint the traveller has to pass.

And on this precarious bridge I make my home. Bed down with my sleeping-bag. I and the lads. With me I have two boys, brothers of departed friends.

One I call "the Wee Man". He is about ten. Strong and snivel-nosed. Goes about bare-torsoed and wild-haired. The other is a mere babe. And his first words were curses. I constantly have to look out for him. Once when brushing a fly from his nose he almost toppled from the bridge. I had to grasp his plump little body.

(Sometimes I think, that when the campfire is extinguished for the night and the lads are asleep, I'll steal off up into the mainland and make for home.)

When they send the news media out to the bridge I call the lads "my brothers". They show us on the 6:30 news in grey footage.

The announcer says the state has failed us. But we are proud. We strap ourselves to the top of the bridge and shout. We wave our arms in defiance.

Roaring with pride on the bridge.

Across the Bridge

Over the English Channel is an iron bridge. And while the legitimate traffic goes on below refugees crawl along the top.

Refugees from France, escaping misfortune or scandal. Running away from a ruined life.

The top of the bridge is all covered with tarpaulin. A thousand feet up in the air.

The refugees crawl along.

A cragged-faced old woman guides a young lady. She has dark hair and is disguised in a shawl and long skirt. She is in banishment and is weeping like a movie actress. At any moment she could drop from the roof of the bridge. She crawls along, cursing and weeping.

After the middle section of the roof has been crossed it begins to slope down. And the tarpaulin becomes transparent plastic sheeting.

The old lady warns her there may be a gap in the plastic. Because of the terrorists.

"Beware of the terrorists my dear", she whispers.

(Aftermath to the Night in College)

(I had thought myself alone in the college. Petty theft from empty rooms.

Leave a surprise under the desk I will later occupy. Silver tinfoil.

Now in full day I descend the back stair. And come at the bottom of the spiral to a door. It is the priest's door.

I see his name written in the wood. Homely brown.

Down the stairs behind me a redhaired girl bustles with her bag. Brushes past me and straight through the priest's door closing it behind her.

Must be a Catholic girl.

And if I could only go in too.

Instead I see the big window. And outside of it the big vista. A winter field illuminated by a summer sun. Like a hologram of Van Gogh. Spectral in liquid and frost.

And my bare feet feel free.

I realise I can leave the college any time I like. And if I can leave why not leave.

Take the back road.)

A Night in College

As punishment, and to make up time, I have to spend a night in college.

I choose a room on the 3rd floor. An unused classroom. And my bed is a mattress in the corner.

Sleeping there at night to make up the time. With my lamp and a book at bedtime.

But after a night of fretful sleep the dog is barking to be let out. I angrily throw back the duvet and march downstairs to let him out.

It is around seven in the morning and the college is empty. I see long sunlight slant through the windows.

I am in my pyjamas, which consist of a thin jersey and a threadbare pair of trousers. As I traipse barefoot through the halls, I see that some of the staff have arrived and are eyeing me.

And in the crowded entrance hall I meet the administrator. A hard-faced woman in a business suit.

-I'm sorry, we weren't aware of your part-time status. Your attendance must be verified. You'll have to spend another week.

I accept it all, shabby and soft-eyed.

Accusation

Morning after the rushing rollercoaster night.

I wake up surprisingly early and find myself coherent.

As yet unaware of last night's misdemeanours and confusion.

I go downstairs and into the kitchen. Having cereal and get a cup of tea.

My mother sits tetchy in the dining-room. Wants to know how I have spent the night. And with whom.

Halfway up the stairs with my cup of tea I hear the accusation. Stinging bitterly.

Turns me back around for an argument. And over by the kitchen sink I smash a plate. Turn upside down a fruitbowl.

My voice becomes huge. Booms and shrieks. My face becomes skeletal. My jaw disjointed. Haggard and despairing. And all the time shouting, and rounding on her in the corner. Incredible curses burning from my mouth. My face distorted.

Vivid red by the formica kitchentop.

another small conventional poem

Love that we find in the old time books

Seems to be based on gestures and looks,

Strolls by the Seine and silvery brooks,

Found by the side of wayward routes;

And always it follows a certain trend,

However so precious and pure a blend,

We read that the lovers whose visions tend

To undying ardour and love without end,

Are finally lovers who stand condemned.

How vain then, their signals and gestures and games,

Their most solemn, most joyful, reverses and gains,

When all of their noblest passion drains

Like a roaring river swollen with rains,

Into the land of "nothing remains".
And he who that greatest god has passed by,
Nature's bounty is apt to deny,
And say to the world with half-closed eye:
"That is not a green field, that, not a blue sky,
The world without her is a void and a lie."
And all of his noblest passions die,
While she remains, elludingly,
Within the land of "time gone by".

Rollercoaster

One more time round on the rollercoaster.

But if we could bed down on the rollercoaster and sleep. Our simultaneous mattress.

With Christmas coming up and the chores have to be done. Floor has to be swept.

In order to placate my angry mother I must win Christmas medals. A laurel wreath of tin awarded by the Republic of India.

A khaki badge from Marshal Tito.

Swooping on the rollercoaster. Like the one at Alton Towers. Theme park vista. Past the false lake and the ceramic dragon. The girls nearby.

But the girl beside me in the bed drowsily tries to wake me. I see her grey t-shirt, her plump arms.

But I'm weary and want to sleep on. Lapse back into the rollercoaster dream. Three Christmas medals to be won. And the floor to be swept.

(a fap)

Opening the magazine to a convenient brunette inside. With her unobtrusive makeup. And her finger in her mouth.

Six or so pages of her poses in a mocking striptease.

A tight top wrinkled up. To reveal the breasts tender-nippled. And o her thighs.

And the nightclub lads, sweaty and excited, are shouting me on.

Because she has the thing jumping in her palm. And is applying the mouth. As if to cop a sudden blow. Relentlessly plugging away at the cock. Like so much dead unfeeling flesh.

And when the strip is semi-complete, not yet centre-spread or spread-eagled. Unexpectedly intense. Four or five shoots or dribbles of cum. A wave to ride on.

And the lad's voices are howling the completion. And the glitter-faced girls in the girl bands smile. In red excitement.

(Meanwhile, the Buster Gang are planning a bank raid.)

The Victorian love letter

It is with some species of lethargic insouciance that I regard each sympathetic vibration that thrills through my paltry frame tonight, at sight of your loveliness. It was as twere an epiphany, a penultimate joy that acts only as a rough prelude to fulfillment, which, I have no doubt, will arrive. Every shameful action, each wave on which I ride, were only an act of purer sacrifice, sullying itself in flesh only, as an offering to a goddess may partake of the grossest matter, the more fully to transcend it, and leave it behind. Thus it is that I am smitten, Cupid-wise and Venus-dazed, at sight of that which men, in their ignorance, suffice to name your beauty. ... ....I write to you as one chastened and humbled, not by the misuse of others but by my own importunate weakness.

On repeated exposure to your presence, the charms of which it were hardly in my power to surmise, I experienced a specific condition, which, while hesitating to name, words failing somewhat before its full intensity, I can only ascertain as an involuntary response to the powerful stimuli of the visual and indeed auditory phenomena offered and represented by yourself. For the sake of delicacy and propriety, while not appearing to skirt the issue, a condition of what can only be described as physiological arousal accompanied in due course by the commensurate and appropriate responses took place. It is with some shame that I own that solitude, and its concealing darkness, were frequently resorted to, and that these secret sojourns were accompanied by actions whose widespread occurrence should not lessen their shame, and which I can only excuse by a defence of temporary madness as relief was sought from the aforesaid tension. This temporary frenzy of mine was, I now fully confess, not unconnected to your wondrous beauty and Venusian form, and, before it was abated, I had attained a not uncommon pleasure from the mental contemplation thereof.

It may very well appear that the allure of the ample bosom was like unto that siren song which tempted the unwary sailor onto the precipitate rocks of his erstwhile doom. And yet, was there aught in that headlong rush, that delighting in the fruits of Elysian splendour, which was base or opportunistic? Nay, rather it represented that effulgence of feeling which, exceeding its proper bounds, strayed not thereby into realms untainted by any but the most noble refinements of affection.

And, since my conscience permits me neither restraint nor inaction, but compels me instead, ever to match the timbre of my actions to the tune of my desires, I stand by my acts as one condemned, perhaps exiled, but secure in the perfect knowledge of that moral fervour which issues forth, without hindrance, only from that confluence of a loving heart and mind which must needs express itself in action, being not content with words only.

And thus it is that I, an unhappy pilgrim at the shrine of your exalted beauty, do lay down this unseemly passion as a sacrifice which, though hardly transcendent, partakes, in its earnestness and vigour, in some portion of rarefied and noble candour bordering almost on the spiritual. Think not therefore of this entreaty and confession as issuing from one drawing presumption from an excess of solitude, but rather from one who will ever remain, your most humble and obedient servant, "M. Noir".

The Authoritarian Paradigm

The authoritarian paradigm is this; bring people in for cheap labour purposes and pit them against the native population. Maintain the economic conditions that keep them down. Constantly, through the media, dangle consumer objects in front of their faces. Constantly, through the media, espouse complete cynicism and nihilism covered with a thin veneer of hypocritical liberal piety. Impose rules on them you do not adhere to yourself. Scapegoat and stereotype the resulting frustrations and contradictions.

As for the respectable members of society, let them be hopelessly selfish and corrupt. Let the politicians be self-seeking. Let them fiddle their expenses, robbing the taxpayer blind if they can get away with it.

Sooner or later the double standard is revealed: The utter selfishness of the politicians. The corruption of the police. The hypocritical, sickening, morally repugnant secrecy and chicanery of the press. For years on end, let short-term profit be the means and the end to cover a moral vacuity. Let the banks become confidence tricksters offering easy credit to all and sundry. For thirty years, systematically kill the industries, and starve them of investment. Float all your profits in speculation in dubious financial markets. When that particular house of cards collapses, solve the problem by drowning the banks in taxpayer money.

Then when the lesson is thoroughly learned and the looting starts, when people unconsciously begin to act out all that has been projected on to them and all that they have absorbed, you can put yourself forward and appear to be the solution. You can use the old tactics and the old language again, without shame; the divide and rule. Those stereotypes will come in useful, they will serve your purposes. Your purposes will be, and are: The maintenance of good conditions for profit-making, at any social cost.

My Big American Car

Driving in my big American car. Right hand drive.

Beside me, the mayor's blonde daughter smiling. She asks me if I need all the seats.

I say I guess not. So I sell her the driving seat for eleven dollars.

I like driving in a car with no driving seat. More leg room that way.

I love my big American car. It's big and white and secret, like a mafioso car in a movie.

I drive far up a dirt track. On a reconnaissance mission. Electric lights on in the car by means of a switch.

Contrary to the highway code, I switch all lights off. Because I'm on a secret mission.

I peep out from the curtains I have drawn across the side windows. And drive very slowly.

I see in the distance the back of my own house. There's a bedroom curtain half-drawn. There's a lightshade slanting from the ceiling.

(Secret knowledge of abandoned rooms.)

I reach the end of the dirt track. With difficulty I sweep the car into a U-bend and back toward the main road.

Heading fast toward the main road and home.

Tadpole

Having a bath. A necessary task but the water is lukewarm.

I get naked and get in. Water up to the navel.

The water is rather murky and unwholesome. But I'm determined to have a bath.

I notice with a creepy feeling that darting about in the water are four or five tadpoles. Swimming around my hindquarters and thighs.

I catch ahold of one of the tadpoles, bring it up to the side of the bath and squash its head against the rim. Leaves a slimy stain.

Its transparent tail remains. Disgusting.

I shout feebly to my mother behind the locked door about the tadpoles in the bath.

"Don't kill the tadpoles".

I catch the largest remaining tadpole. Which is so big as to have developed frog features.

I put it in a jar and transfer it to the bathroom sink. A towel round myself.

And when the sink empties it leaves a ring round the basin. And a gurgle in the plug.

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(Latest news from central Africa: The Strawberry Republic has been declared.)