Poems




Telesue


n. one of the hundreds of people that look like Sue from far away, but who are in fact strangers.



Cottoning on too late, the Herne Hill train sparking slow
away into the sleet, that you are not you, but a telesue
coming in from the wings of the platform to play a cameo,
and I remember the background buzz of a fancy dress shop
as past tense as your maiden name, the pop and slup
of trying on fancy dress masks of cow heads, stormtroopers
and elven faces – shrieks as the elastics stripped our hair, stooped
almost kissing as I freed you and you freed me, and lost touch.
Now you’re just an AOL email address and a year, a smudge
in a photo from that Halloween party, you and your Carlsberg
leaning focusless into the frame, and here in the sleet the telesue
lips a favourite-coloured scarf against the wind, but Sue, real Sue
there are days I don’t believe in doubles or daydreams, when
you’re behind every windscreen of every car coming the other way.







Poem in Which I Drift Off While an Astrophysicist Tells Me About What Makes His Relationship Work


the morning in the yard, wiping toast crumbs off my jeans.
For god’s sake – I was excited by – let’s call it data.

Imagine a small piece of matter
about my size,

now imagine it’s morning, let’s say 6:31 am,
mist in the conifers, a cuckoo, then in the road, reversing, a car

sure red’s as good a colour as any,
then let us say, spaghetti.

Spaghetti is like the bath overrun:
that’s you or me crossing the event horizon

matter, or Mike so warm on my chest, brooding
he is my very own human electric blanket

the day
stretching out, the windows a string of zeroes.

Let’s say the darker the matter the better the punchline
and memories live on with the length-meaning of n.

There is a kind of equilibrium to sadness
the death of someone so close to you; do eight minutes pass

before it ghosts into you – a fork’s rising heat? No.
The Northern Lights’ lavender green dust

happens to be the sun, I can’t fill the void.
Flying at 3,000 times the speed of sound,

that’s the way he makes me feel, his self-diagnosing
the tea bag bobs in the water, the Beach Boys upstairs.

Ah, this is your lifeline, it is like the Orion test
booster exiting the Florida cirrus –

this is where your love line crosses –
mine does the same, here, observe,

to kiss you took years of research
there are some things you can explain

anything else
come down to the kitchen and dance with me.










Ceasefire Song


Time was when we crossed and drew,
and one by one chose oil, chose you,
and, over the top, we mottled and slew.

We took on subjects like suffering for love.
In the bowls of the fallen, the flowers nod.
The point of still-life vanishes in blood.

Once we’d raised our colours and made our attack
we signed our names with regrets – after the fact.
If only we’d stopped, stepped up, stood back.








The Gekkering


Lights off at Elmie’s fried chicken shop,
     a shout, a double-take of noise in the polythene
            of the building site opposite, more of a howl—

a vixen calls out, the echo skims its double on the return,
     sticky rib bones in next door’s garden, cider bottle caps.
            A lapwing watching the curl of the street astonished

by nothing, now nothing can be heard and not seen.
     We fall for the fox’s howl and howl, the howl
            as much for refuge as territory, as summoning,

piercing the navel, the night bus stesh stesh,
     cutting the engine in Streatham garage water—
            the howl, this howl like a toddler longing now

for what possible logic might lie behind leaving,
      a thirsty Alsatian for its rotting owner,
            ranging the human nerves for every colour of fear.

Around her haunches a sodden newspaper
     and from her reflex, breath which drifts over
            the algae on the white plastic water slide.

Shiverless, her fur wettens steadily
     in the empty kind of rain that is either falling
            or landing. In the near-blue of the grey

the sudden colour lit by kitchen lights
     downstairs where our neighbour shoos, useless,
            through the living stencil of his own reflection,

the needle-thin hair, the stitching form of her;
     a muzzle stiffening to a blurred bright world
            to yield to whatever will tread for her

from the black perimeter; some spirit of foxness,
     some colossus of fox, gigantic as an AM carrier wave,
            grawking through the carpark, splitting the sheath,

the luxury concrete, fur trickling with brick dust and sparks,
     teeth like the splitting of railings, here to gekker
            the sleep-deprived out of their cotting
                and the earth.





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*To gekker - To make a series of stuttering throaty vocalizations in the manner of foxes when encountering a rival.