13

I could write as if I was a tree, but I am not, nor ever have been a tree of any kind

I could write as if I was the sea, but if you inspect closely that is not true I think you will find

I could write of seas, and trees, and wannabes, but how could I write about me

I could write of those eighteen-thousand nights of laying by, or making love, and wonder at how the body is so efficacious in recovery

I could write of those fifteen-thousand mornings of waking up, together or alone, embraced by joy or pain, and wonder at the minds ability for reinvention

I could write of sleep and sex, yet still I expect, I could not write, I could not write about me

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12

A poet, a writer, a parent
An engineer
A mind, a body, a man
An engineer
A pupil, a failure
An apprentice
An engineer
On a fault line, to a fault line
To becoming an engineer
Without purpose
For a purpose
As an engineer
A person, a parent
A successful businessman
Only money
Only income
A lost soul
Of an engineer
A wanderer
A waster
Off the fault line
Of the engineer
A pauper
A reader
No longer an engineer
A poet, a writer, a parent
A lover, yes a lover then
Anything, but to be an engineer

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Touch, Feel, Wonder

So soft, and so damned gentle
So wonderful
And yes, so vaguely existential

So precious, and so damned parental
So magical
And yes, so slightly elemental

So roving, and so damned referential
So particular
And yes, so faintly over-intentional

So cute, and so damned city central
So absolute
And yes, so mildly deferential

So fierce, and so damned mental
So infinite
And yes, so sure of her credential

So soft, and so damned gentle
So steadfast
And yes, so filled with immense potential

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And Houses

I was going to build something, using words; I had already rearranged two long phrases, to be used as embankments.

I went to an old friends house, he was making breakfast, his small children played on the floor, one of them weed, and a pool of pee coloured water, began to cover the floor.

I said it was the child, but my friend thought it was the washing machine leaking, in the room next door.

I drove the builder's lorry down the cut de sac then along the avenue (I used to live in both places). I had to be really careful, because there were children playing in the road.

Outside my old house there was a very tall pile of builder's rubble, as though an extension was being constructed. I was scared, I thought the pile was going to tumble over.

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Songs, And Books, And Houses

I'm at the airport now

Really my life has been so so very easy

I'm in no rush in the mornings now

I'm happy to let the breeze make me feel so so easy

The young man rushes by

I couldn't even say your name

The young man fusses, wondering why

Was it something to do with life's endless game

I returned the book

What was that all about

Did you take a second look

Did you hear me shout out

I heard nothing

I hear no call out

I handed you the book

What was that all about

I handed back the book

What was that all about

I handed back the book

It was the first gift, when we started out

I handed back the book

What was that all about

I handed back the book

Bought in Santa Monica, without doubt

I handed back the book

What was that all about

I handed back the book

Five Memos For The Millennium

Within, without; I went by the airport

Without a single thought of Jersey

Yet here, only half a mile down the road

My thoughts are already at Mon Plaisir

I'm on the motorway now

The cruise control is set

I sort of second guessed

Mon Plaisir was beautiful for you too

Perhaps even more peaceful, and inspiring

Before I arrived on your doorstep

When you had created a homely space

For your friends, and your young family

To that end was I a disruption

Did I corrupt your innocence

To that end just what did I tip up

Did I not offer any more sound sense

I'm not always too good in the moment

Sometimes I struggle to concentrate

Take last Friday, when I saw you

I couldn't find the time, I was in such a state

Something to do with inappropriate preparation

Something to do with my own confused situation

My less than hopeless social skills;

Once more reaching for the out door, before fully entering the in door

I want to strip you back

I want to clear away the make up

I want to strip you, down to the barest tack

I want to make you, to raise your breasted cup

Why didn't we ever find such freedom

What was it always defence or attack

Why did we tie the knots of freedom

Why did we not find our way back

How fortunate am I

To have someone who cuts so deep into my psyche

How fortunate am I

To have someone speaking to me and my Reiki

Now it's a song

Which I don't really want to talk over

A song

Which very much makes me think of you

You are my Last Of The English Roses

What was I, before I ever thought of you

You are my Last Of The English Roses

What was I, before I ever thought of you

You are my Last Of The English Roses

What was I, before I ever thought of you

You are my Last Of The English Roses

What was I, before I ever thought of you

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