Monthly Archives: August 2011

Filey Brigg

Somehow they’d got onto the subject of creation,
Two specks of Yorkshire jet traipsed Filey bay,
They held hands and he snare shuffled on physics’ drum,
M Theory, quantums and bluff formulae.

While he talked about star stuff and some bigger bangs,
She said that too soon there’d be nowt left to measure,
And when that had happened we’d lose something vital,
The spirit would pour out of humans forever.

If we are reduced to knowing all that could happen,
She said to his scientist white coated face,
What would the mystery of living then rest on?
If nothing could be uncertain or misplaced?

I’d settled for knowing if you’re going to shag me,
He thought while maintaining his superior air,
Insulting the landscape by reducing its beauty
To numbers, geometry and minutiae.

When really beneath it he was watching her breasts move
Thinking of parting her ice-cream-white thighs,
To find elegant proofs of sex verses true love,
But instead he mouthed words that were grey, dark and dry.

She warmed to her subject and he had no response,
Now his thoughts were of bedsheets and breakfast and cock,
And it so didn’t help the Brigg is Yorkshire’s stone penis,
Parting the vulva of North Sea with rock.

He shook sex out of his head like a dog river banked,
And tried to assert Dawkins’ Delusion of God,
He wanted to rid himself just for now of this canker,
This maleness that beat him down flat with its rod.

If he could listen to her without wanting to fuck her,
Just for once find the woman behind her behind
Take pleasure in the words, not just words of pleasure,
He knew there was something new he could find.

She ploughed on in summation against science’s end,
While he sweated frustration and nodded and bluffed,
Managed to string something on solar formation,
While Gods of the Sea laughed and laughed… laughed and laughed.

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I’ve Planted Poems Everywhere

Don’t move. This house is a booby-trap
I’ve written in tilt-switches under the salty plaster,
typed them into the dark between floorboards
and have pulled a razor tripwire from this pen.
Thin inklines of gunpowder crisscross the carpet.

Under the bath, a poem ticks down to zero,
it’s full of frustrated TNT and its Mickey Mouse Timer
keeps slipping on a rusty spring.
If it goes off there, you’ll be left breathless and watershocked
You’ll stumble from the bathroom spattered with liquid soap;
words sliding damp cordite into your nostrils.

This tin has a poem of sweaty gelegnite
perspiring in the hot dark of the oven.
You can smell it cooking if you get your nose close enough to the page.
If it goes off there’s going to be a plume of dead recipes
fluttering down like shot birds.
The windows will melt like scalding cheese.
Your kitchen will be a funeral for food.

You’ll pull the pin from this poem by accident,
and it’ll go off in your face. The words will be sharpnel
and you’ll shell-shock your way into the street screaming.
I lashed it to the bedpost especially to get you while you slept.
It got tangled to your hair and it’s waiting for you to roll over.

And when I come home,
be careful how you pull down the zip of my coat
and unbutton the strained cloth front of my shirt.
Suicide poems are pocketed in a vest primed to explode
when I recite my terrorist prayer about God, loving life,
riding eagles into heaven.

They are poems about death and the clawing of life out of death.
They are filled with the bolts and glass and screws of the bits of this house we’ve dismantled.

I swear if this house falls below fifty poems an hour it’s gonna blow.

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