Demon

Demon

"Creep home. Keep alone down alley cracks,
deep hungry tracks, bones hollowed slack,
where weeping clouds mourn bricked up back
streets. Funerals wait to attack. Wide

black sleepless eyes breathe whispered blinks.
Seeping bruises purple pinks.
The church tower sinks in a graveyard throne.
The last heir's breath. Keep on. There's

a thin arm. Open hand.
Rat rail fingers, money fanned.
A choked calm. Silence planned.
A too gentle man. Don't stop.

Keep strong! Walk on.
Eyes wrapped round the road home.
Keep going. Never drop.
Stop lonely hopes from growing.
Keep wing clipped feet from slowing
as neck hairs hook
the gloaming.

He has a thin arm. Palm flat.
Life lines like a road map.
Wants to soothe those aching heels.
He understands how this pain feels.

A careful grin on shadow's cheek
offers comfort. Here's a seat.
His eyes talk beneath speech.
Promising something sweet.

Keep strong!
Walk on.
Watch toes
point home.
When your lonely
hopes start burning,
cover your neck.
Resist
the gloaming.

A thin arm stretched forward
could pull a faltering one toward
a gorge of claws. When sores sting sharp
that voice plucks like a distant harp.

That melody can hook in ears,
a life choked memory reclears
of lidless love, not capped by fears.
A desperate smile appears

and with the hollow of tomorrow so far away,
the future can be forfeit for one happy today,
just one grain of colour in a desert of grey
and a curse of 'Come what may!'

This Demon, waiting for the meek,
will promise everything you seek.
Knows all the perfect words to speak.
Show him you're not weak!

Keep strong! Walk on.
Eyes wrapped round the road home.
Keep going. Never drop.
Stop lonely hopes from growing.

Keep strong! Walk on.
Eyes wrapped round the road home.
Keep going. Never drop.
Keep wing clipped feet from slowing.

Keep strong!
Walk on.
Watch toes
point home.
When your lonely
hopes start burning,
cover your neck.
Resist
the gloaming.

Stabilisers Taken 1987

Stabilisers Taken 1987

Boys love bikes.
I hate mine.
Stabilisers taken,
Mum and her cuddles inside as
clumsy Step Dad holds my saddle,
runs close. I pedal.
Don’t let go!

Down a back alley street, so far from my pillow,
handle bars jiggle under sweat wet palms.
Spokes growl grumble. Belly drum rumbles.
Feet cartwheel like bumbling clowns
on Big Top’s opening night.
Propelled by fright, I glance back to see him
laugh at me.
He’s let go.

I fumble. Teeter.
Clumsy me!
No safety net beneath trapeze.
He laughs

then I laugh too.
Ha!
I let go.
Woah!
Crack through air like ring master’s whip.
Phased.
Amazed.
Shot free of my cannon. Rocket and fly!
Tear through skies whose horizons had fallen
down the back of a hug.

Mum might be cooking.
I feast on speed.
My tummy, a circus.

Song

Song

We're bob sledding
down Dusty Springfield's beehive,
wind alive with drums and strings.

Ears whipped, spin to ground.

Racing pulses.
Mine wins!
This songbird unlocks a mind cage.
Magic flits out,
dips behind curtain rail.
Close the window before it gets out!

We dance in the kitchen.
Sing to mug of tea.

Tomorrow, I Will Go Dancing

Tomorrow, I Will Go Dancing

Today, I’m eating margarine straight from the tub
and I feel so guilty however hard I scrub.
My wrist's unbandaged, I’m trying not to rub
but I’ve so many sores that need lancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

My fingernails are rusty. Head full of ills.
Chest hot and tender as stomach spills.
But tomorrow, I’m going to get these little pills.
See, everything about me needs enhancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Tomorrow, you’ll go dancing, in your glitter tat.
Absinthe! Vodka! You never get fat.
Laughing. Smiling. All that goes with that.
Today, I feel anxieties advancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Hear my father’s voice, warped and splintered today,
he says “Misery will find you, boy, you’ll never get away.”
My dick feels like a beehive on a warm, summer’s day
when I see pretty things all preening and prancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Everyone there’s friendly. Falling into song.
I want to be loved. I’ve been lonely for so long.
Tomorrow is a vessel, sail way from all this wrong
where bitches say I’m ugly and can’t sing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Today, I feel your laughter and it’s gnawing in my head.
It's biting out the blisters where you burned until I bled.
If I panic ‘til I can’t breathe, feel I’d be better dead,
well, I tell myself that risk is worth chancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

I want to join the happy crowds, glorious and glad.
I want to like pop music. Never feel bad.
My therapist’s implying that I choose to be this sad.
I tell her, “You know nothing… but if you’re asking...
I think she's asking?
She's asking.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.”

Diamonds

Diamonds

We are ring without stone.
Rich belong to rich.
Diamonds are mean,
clean jewels for tidy, shiny families.
Diamonds, a boy’s worst friend.
They’re forever.
Aren't they?
Reminding what will never be.
Lingering fingers flaunt sharp rocks.
Always pointing.

Wizard

Wizard

There is a wizard downstairs
in the flat below.
He wears a pointy hat
and a dressing gown
and he makes rainbows for me.

He wipes the dust from his spell books
- mixes it with tomato juice,
eye of black bean, crust of tooth paste,
microwaves it in a pudding bowl
and then

...

tells it secrets.

Heating up rainbows,
there is a wizard downstairs
with a bumper-carred grin.
One eye all Ferris wheels,
one eye the underside of a scratched CD.

He can't do hellos or goodbyes
but knows everything in between.

He knows what tea leaves think
after they've been read,
can see the faces talking
in the damp patch in his kitchen
-corrects their algebra
-makes them blush.
Patchworks his bedroom with postcards and photos,
says they switch places when he sleeps.
I believe him.

I think about him when I'm at work
as I type other people's words
on a computer that doesn't even
have a name.

He names everything.

The kettle is called Ursula Pink.
She embodies the ghost
of a menopausal midwife.
Poor Ursula.
Lime scales her children.

Morgan the dish rack wishes
he could swap places with the plates.
"Confounded scoundrels!"
Let them carry him for once.

The toaster is Catherine Taylor-Clarke
(Double-barrel, 'cos she's posh),
will burn your bread if you look at her wrong.
but Wizard says he would never change her,
he likes her as she is,
If she just did what he wanted all the time,
she'd be boring.

When Wizard talks,
words start fire working his lips,
tiny explosions tease on his tongue.
I want to study them,
pick them up when they look cooler,
but I'm scared they'd blow up in my face.

This man is a bonfire of love,
a Hero,
will fly you on a carpet
through a thousand lands
of impossibly beautiful dreams
all inside his flat.

He won't go outside anymore.
Says his magic won't work out there.
It's happening here,
where he makes me rainbows
and I make his tea.

Stranger Dress

Stranger Dress

One day, when I was bored
I dressed myself in strangers.
They made me think that I was beautiful.
Pressed diamonds in my lap.
There were wild, flashing colours
Everywhere my heart touched

And every frown I saw became
A harbour to a smile,
And every sobbing drunk I touched
Was sober… for a while.

I threw off the rags I’d worn,
I’d been a slave to labels.
Never even realised
all this freedom could be mine!
Pulling out the panic
from me celebrating madness.

I know
My wardrobe doesn’t have
A thing to wear through rain,
I know
That all my jewels are fake
As any artist sane,
I know
That all the men I wear
Like cloth, will quickly fade,

But
Still, I’m glad, when I got bored
I chose the clothes that suit me!
Dolled up like a princess,
I won’t go home today.
I grabbed a fist of fancy jewels
And never had to pay.

I’ll never miss the drab and grey
Tatters I wore yesterday
Because the first time you feel happy
Can never be taken away.