Drugged Humidity
I could break my own face
If I had no fear
The heat does not come
It simply is
Like it is a divine presence
A fact of all nature
All being
I suck in air
As a parched man sucks in water
The cats blame me for everything
(As they always do)
The flies hit the mirrors and windows
In mock suicide
(I am their Lord)
The moths wait for death
They are nobody’s burden
It never ends
This struggle
This dry dread
Sweat like wasted fluid
Like the body saying “NO”
And rebelling against sense
And love means nothing
Without another
And so one sits
And waits
Waits for better air
And moisture
The rains will come
Soon
The breath of God
The pouring of life
The purging of evil
Words on a wind
Tongue on the odd breeze
I can see where fever grows
As fungus envelops a dead tree
Or anxiety in an empty room
Christ
Let the rain come
Great God Pan
Let the fields flow
With green
And flowers
Like smiling children
Let fresh out of school
Hydration
walking slow
bare armed
bare arsed
bare headed
in the summer rain
like being reborn
and I scream at the flowers
to show some respect
and they turn away from me
ashamed
I love this time of year
naked toes clipping the edges
of patio stones
a lone crow looking on
and the trees know well-enough
not to interfere
In Your Chamber
I think of you in your chamber
alone
listless
idle
cold
thinking of me
maybe
if I’m so honoured
your flesh stirred up from milk
your hair the colour
and taste of honey
I want to kiss your neck
so you need not turn
kiss your forehead
so you need not lean back
kiss your eyes
so you need not look upon my
unsightliness
I wish I could be there with you
and smell what you can smell
and taste what you can taste
we could walk as King and Queen
or failing that perhaps
as the Gods of a New Light
I await the
opening your door.
Orwell’s Marmalade
The following verse is a thoroughly tongue-in-cheek response to this letter by a Mr Peter Betts of Liverpool, published in The Guardian, 26th February, 2020, quoted here in full: “It would surely be a mistake to conclude the marmalade correspondence this year (Letters, 24 February) without recalling that George Orwell had his very own recipe. However, in an unpublished essay for the British Council, entitled British Cookery, an editor commented, “Bad recipe! – too much sugar and water”.”
Oh, not a joy for all! For truth and
And liberty are too sweet for some!
“Too much sugar!” they bellow.
“Much too much water too!” they
Add. Would they rather water the
Tree of freedom with the blood of
Enemies? Or maybe of the innocent?
The blood of a slain elephant perhaps?
Nay, with nothing to offer but their
Bloated words and obese sentences,
They are not fit to spread truth upon
The toast of the common good! For
Shame sirs! We will remember you,
For we have a list…and what would
Those at Wigan indulge in, fresh from
Their agonous toiling for their capitalist
Taskmasters, if not a spare shilling
Spent on a little extra sweetness?
Blood Inheritance
the days are long since his death
waiting for the sun to set in the west
and for the moon to appear from the blue
his body is long gone
and yet we seem to feel it
watching us
in the grey light of winter
we wait for any news to come
we know it won’t
but hope is our oxygen
and our blood itself
the blood he himself gave us.