Beers In Your Bedroom

Beers in Your Bedroom
(for Rachael K, for helping me save my life)

We have beers in your bedroom.
My fears would be intoxicating without you.
Outside, car alarms shout at shadows,
a woman’s scream stabs the night.

Inside, together
we are alive.
Your flat's above it all.
Door locked. Window open.
Glows from fag stubs, thin white dukes,
light a corkscrew path to morning.

Our tongues brighten dark.
These moments taste of unconcentrated truth,
Chaucer and tumblers of Fat Boy Slim.
We tape Woman’s Hour to play backwards,
exchange identities under skin.
Hail bloody fairies and horns.

We dress up in old lovers’ ideas.
Hang ours up to dry. See what drips out first.
Dissect entrails of aborted stories.
Whole scripts wait in a typewriter’s puckered spool
between shy, naked poems
printed only on sheets of dusk.

"Then, we unwrite the imperfect pop song.
Kurt Cobain and Kiki Dee sing
Don’t Go Breaking My Heart Shaped Box."

Our nights are so heavy with talk
we might even... break through these floorboards,
crash into the spiked streets below,
so I cuddle your sentences. Grip tight.
Sit secure in our obscurity.

We're the extra features on a DVD
those with jobs are too busy to watch,
but we watch them and talk
ourselves down in thick blankets of sun.

Let us sleep through the violence of minutes and hours
that wage war against today’s tired minds,
too burdened with action to slow down and think.
I drink to the courage
of these thoughtless grunts on the front line.
Raise my empty bottle.

We’ve drunk the night dry.
My voice lids won’t keep open.
You wrap my words up warm.
Still, I know that they would freeze
out there
at bus stops, supermarket queues,
or sat, without vowels,
at office desks and the water cooler.

Spirit

Spirit (a duet poem, spoken by Wizard and the man)

“The soul of an ancient eight-armed
ninja drag queen dragon king
is locked inside my shower
and joins in when I sing.
Sometimes we dissect biscuits,
wonder why the sky’s so long.
Yes, I go in naked.
Nothing sexual’s going on.

But is my hoover lying when he
begs me not to clean
because he swears there’s goblins in my
carpet never seen?
He says they put the milk back
in the fridge when I forget.
But drag queen dragon king and me,
we haven’t seen them yet.”

Panic doesn't understand
my brother's new wife's Sunday dinner etiquette
or what my hands ought to do in interviews
or what to say to friends of friends' Dads.
Panic's clumsy.
Breaks things.
Has no respect for folk who really are what they own-
comfortably cluttered with too many rooms,
never touched, never looked at.

“Ursula the kettle said
her work wear makes her blue
so I wrap her up in tinsel
every time she makes a brew.
I never met a human
on this Earth or anywhere
who every time they make the tea
puts tinsel in their hair.”

Sometimes when I’m out
my heart starts to throat slap,
flap like dying fish,
taste like grated carrot in sawdust and sherbet dip.
Panic tells me I've too many fingers.
want to escape,
eyes want to roll loose,
eyes kick inside lids,
steel tear-capped kicks.
Eyes bite,
Panic slavers.
Everyone else sips cocktails and nods.

...

I've not lost it.
There's a key
in my skull
engraved:

"Here,
put this in your ear."

Listen.
The key turns my ear lock.
Listen.
I hear nothing.

Leave sounds for real folk,
clumping around in their fancy size nine realities,
big, ugly feet.
Their ideas look like feet,
stuffed deep in sock,
sweaty,
hidden ugly.
Too repressed to know Panic
if it bit them on the brain.

“They’re just husks of mortgage. Suduku stained."

I don't have feet
or anything ugly.
I am the subtext of wordless night,
the blinding light of total darkness.
See, you can't hold down the sky.
Gentle as tide, pulled from body,
free of frenzied skin, beyond breath,
bound to bone by
the thinnest of truths.
I’m a weightless parade wrapped round
a sun beam guiding my body home.
Guide it home.
Guide me home.

"But is my hoover lying when he
begs me not to clean
because he swears there’s goblins in my
carpet never seen?
See, you can’t see what matters
caught up in the city drone.
There’s shelves of elves in sequined bells
hop scotching here at home.
The thinnest of truths
binds the moons and oceans, Sun to Earth.
We’re rock unsolid fantasy,
know what magic’s worth.
Everything we need is here.
Fantastic, roof to floor!
Nothing outside this flat matters.”

No.
I know what my body is for.

It might not be for my brother's wife's dinner
or money or make-up or manners

but I think it's for caring when someone else panics
and helping them find their way home.

Do You See This Night?

Do You See This Night?

Do you?
This towering, ancient
sour dream tree of petrified tears...
For years, this night
has blocked all hope of sunrise.
This night is solid wood

but I am going to break its branches.

This night's soiled roots
that have tugged so tight around my throat
are going to loosen...
are going to lose.

I’ve been bullied,
broke and aloned.
Now I’m blessed with restless passion.
Turn bruises into shields.
Like liquid metal I am cooling my anger
into the greatest weapon.

Crack!

This night is splitting wood.

I am the axe against its bark,
bite like acid at the trunk.
With relentless vision,
eyes like machetes
and sweet strong pride, unshakeable.
My belief is unbreakable as I chop
chop
down
this
night.

Crash!

Unclog clear skies.
Breathe out my dreams.
Smell their freshly cut spices.
Taste their quivering nervous heat
as dust particles kiss the air.

This night is dead.
Felled.
Count the rings inside.
Each ring within its split core marks another year
I made it through.
I made it!
These rings are the rungs I’ve climbed
to find myself behind this night's silhouette.
I embrace the years I have conquered,
and will never fear the joy of ageing.

Joy of life without this night
No longer telling myself
"I am weak.”
Moon drowned words.
Shadow obscured sight.
I watered this night with my tears.

I wish... I could hold a fraction of the colour
that sparks and cracks inside me now
and convey it back through time,
back to when this night clung tightest
show myself,
"This night will end!"

Look around.
Already seeds of another night
are being sown at my feet.
A dark sapling claws at my ankle.
It is trying to take root.

Purple

Purple

Purple is there
making butterfly hands in an eye's corner,
in top hat shadows when you should be sleeping.
Smells of joss sticks and cold lakes.

Purple might be naked,
off somewhere
with eye-liner swirls round large, flat nipples
and a moan like thunder self harming.
Or,
maybe strutting
in straps of chiffon and velvet stripes
dancing down somebody else's street.

Lives in a handmade book
about eating disorders and lunar eclipse.
Did stop a boy from hanging himself.
Heard it's in diazepam and fairies.

Your imaginary friends might have liked Purple more than you.
Purple's nice to your Mum when you're not even there,
gets all scented oil and Stone Henge about it.
Didn't go to maths.
Blames dyspraxia and forests.

Purple is not 'no-trainers' clubs
or ironing.
Doesn't like meal deals
or long, ironic novels.

I think Purple was my first kiss.
Or
at least its memory.
Tasted like pumpkin seed,
black coffee,
skin bitten off round the nail.

When toddlers see ghosts it is Purple.

It is the language of time travel,
what's inside the sun,
inside your finger
and lips
and the words that you chose
not to say.

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.