nectar for food

a rabbit speaks:

he wrote poems about me

before i was kitten-born

black ink, no taste, smell

on paper, tree-like, thin

rustles beneath feet.

i did not hear them.

i lived, green fields

slopes

field banks

burrows dark, warm.

but i sensed what he said

he gave us names, lives

singled us to

within our kind.

now i am alone

live lone life.

myxie, he calls me

poem words

rabbits sniff, smell

butt blind, sickened

rabbit from my home.

i will die.

i eat bright colours

garden dark, dawn

petal flavoured scent

i am king, god

nectar for food.

I sing to the air

A bird speaks:

I slouch, some beggar starved of hope,

Feasted on the stale discards of past,

Towards dawn. I am wing-tired, slow,

A body, prime-passed, not now dead,

Long dying. I think morning thought,

What birds do, their always living,

Being, since the hour birth begins.

And other thoughts come, as thoughts must:

"Remember soon!" I do not know

As day arrives what this day is.

'Round me - again I do not know -

I live it now - it is just there -

Are roof-tops, grey, acute, spartan,

Dense, green bush, barbed as dwellings are,

My dwelling, my unwelcome hearth.

And then wires, black, unearthed wires

Hum beneath feet, chanting on, on.

Others stand as well - I know this.

No need for thought as I awake.

They wait. I wait. There is stillness.

We watch the ever-present night.

It is tense now, alert, frozen,

The movements of creatures, studied,

Preyed upon. And it is soon dead -

Night must know this - the lamb of dark -

Night risen, always daily dead.

And without a sound, new doom falls,

Rises with seeing, sight of things.

The sun comes from the east, jewelled

Like Juliet - a star of day.

It slaughters what it finds, rest's sleep,

Scavenges the corpse it kills, dark.

And night, recently gloried, fat

Is gone. All dreams, shivering, pass.

And then the song. Others sing first.

I wait. I will remember. Day.

Until a voice - I know that voice.

There is a sweet, butterfly sound,

And notes, bright-coloured, gambolling,

Caressing thoughts as new lambs do.

And there is joy-ordinary

All about. The very air breathes

Delicious life, speaks memories,

High shrilling, not now forgotten.

And I reply, gladly reply,

Remember the known, always known,

And I sing to the air, loudly,

I sing day's coming to the air.

Jerusalem Maybe

Jerusalem Maybe

I made Britain from what I saw,
Sanding paint, breathing toxic dust.
It shaped before me by chance hand,
Stubborn remains of what had been.
And its edges, coloured and ragged,
Jutted from land into a sea
Of cold, clean, sand-smooth, grey plaster.

And then the island shape was gone,
Cleansed from sight, like imaginings.
And I painted anew, slow, white,
Deliberate strokes, spread even,
Equally flat, smooth edge to smooth.
And what I created as God,
King, painter, was a plain, white wall.

I wondered then, my labours done,
If this new land, formed above dust,
Perfect, Jerusalem Maybe,
Was the space we might occupy,
If one day, all that makes us real,
Different and original,
Is allowed forever to pass.

Romeo Still

You wore varicose veins beneath your dress
Lumped flesh, Rosaline, and a flowered silk.
Your hair, you garnished in a purple dye
Youth carried on, recycled for that time.

Together, you sat on a home-made stage
Piano played before out tea arrived.
We watched on, vacant all; ladies, urine stale
Gentlemen staring silence in staled suits.

I loved you, Rosaline, Romeo still
You were alive, though mirrored, shadowed so
And when your coarse voice had sung, it was me
My applause you heard, shuffled feet ignored.

Juliet rescued me, my Rosaline
Dressed in home-blue, perfumed in cigarette
Her gravelled voice rang loudly as we danced
Shuffling side to side, almost turned about

And when her pilgrim's touch did pass along
Kettles of sweet, milk tea, champagne tonight
It was soft words, forgotten Rosaline
That lifted my feet, found my sullied seat.

There, Rosaline, Romeo still, I sat
Staring long silence, as gentlemen must
Our brief romance was a forgotten, gone
Some pains of love, love-deeds passed to past thought

I am Cat

I am God, said the cat
Lying on my back
Absolute relax
Idle-claw stretching
Stretching idle-claw

I am Queen, said the cat
All this world is mine
In Summer heat sublime
Soft-paw preening
Preening soft-paw

I am Rule, said the cat
Warm stone underneath
Flesh food at my feet
Play-flesh teasing
Teasing play-flesh

I am Death, said the cat
Lightening attack
Live bird on your back
Flower-bird breathing
Breathing flower-bird

I am Bird, said the bird
Miraculous escape
Fresh sun on my face
Flower-bird soaring
Soaring flower-bird

I am Cat, said the cat
Rising to my feet
Bare stone underneath
Dry-food waiting
Waiting dry-food

A November Sonnet

It is enough, perhaps, that you are near;
You bring a moist caress, a seeming sweat,
And even lovers loved learn to forget
Those other touches they once held so dear.
But November, my love, believe, sincere,
That it is you, your dusk, your always wet
That pains me most, once gone, ensures regret,
And makes of festive dates an empty cheer.
So, ninth month in name, eleventh in time
May you always remain, embrace with chill;
And if your weeks should pass, your days should end
Leave something of your cold, your damp sublime,
That mortals, such as I, might live until
You come again, return to me, my friend.

Flight from Manchester

It cost a fortune to be there, flying from

Manchester's airport. I paid in soul first. Pangs.

Birth. Growth. Reluctant ageing. Reluctant age.

And I carry my payment all about me.

Signs of Dublin, other streets, daily trodden

On, leaving memories and forgotten things.

And afterwards, other charges, more, unseen.

An airport tax, a security guard, proud,

Friendly in his voice, eyeing the suspicion,

Offence of water. Recently bought. Caesar

Paid a fortune to buy this unwelcome thing.

"I'm afraid you can't take that liquid through, sir."

Water is no terrorist. Freedom fighter

Rather. Liberating flesh, keeping it young.

But, Judas without a kiss, I leave its crime

Unquestioned. Hand water to death. Its end-time.

Inside, treachery forgot, just memories,

I pay more, more money-fortunes on the same.

The taxi-driver knew this. Cost-a-fortune

Of things. He flew Cheap Air. Paid more to return.

And afternoons drives littered streets, crumpled shapes,

People in theatre doors: 'Best show in town.'

We pass, forgetting now, beneath spring-shine sun,

Talk, Saturday afternoon, a sky-blue team.

He'd "seen it all before, you see. The despair.

City going down. Sold out. In all his years

Can't complain now. Treated well. Fans. Kids go free.

We're not used to success, but". Me neither, I say.

They're billion billionaires own his team.

I sweat, spring-shine sun. Pay a fortune on clothes.

I fly Cheap Air too. Just like him. Jet-setting

As masses do. Save a fortune. Vodka-coke

Ladies, from a bottle, "not his business",

Go to Milan, "mix it in toilets", giggle

Without water. I travel on to Dublin,

Loud holiday hats, girls in pink, boys in black.

They talk numbers: one; two; three; four; five; and down

In one. Loud talk of youthful pleasures, their own.

I age. I do not eat in Hard Rock Cafe

And afters of lager-beer. Always comes up

In morning. I think rather, cost-a-fortune,

Of Dublin streets, long trodden, daily cleaned.

Until we're there, passenger scramble. Bend. Wait.

Race start. I might spend a fortune of time, sat,

Cool in my seat; and might save a fortune too,

No energies spent. But I observe, aged soul,

That cost-a-fortunes, save-a-fortunes still cost.

And thought-done, collect things, forget much, go home.