A Smear Campaign

I saw you,

you know.

You didn’t see me

but I saw you.

I was walking past

and you were sat in Emma’s Café

with your back to the window.

There were others in there, too –

an engaged couple,

engaged in tea and toast.

You made sure they could not witness

what I saw.

But I saw,

and I know what you did.

And if you knew that I had seen

I hope you would have been

mortified.

From the front –

the fair facing front –

the innocent public facing front –

it would have seemed that

you were just fondling

your spectacles,

just resting your eyes perhaps

from too long use of

an outdated prescription.

But from behind

I could see

that the right arm of those

spectacles

was delving deep,

deep into the orifice of your right ear

searching the dark recesses

for that itching

bitching

wax.

And I could feel your relief

from

that gnawing,

teeth-clenching

itch

as the shovel-ended

spectacle blade

performed its

miraculous mining.

But I’m no fool.

I would not hang around to see the

denouement,

the moment of

spectacle,

the grand reveal

as laden arm

was slowly withdrawn

from now empty ear.

But how was your tea?

And where is that load now?

Was it surreptitiously wiped on a paper napkin

and left with your dirty plate?

Or was it smeared across your open palm

and then hands rubbed together

until it had

seemed 

to disappear

only actually to be spread

homoeopathically

across every

handle you handle

every

surface you brush

every 

child's head you stroke

every 

barehanded loaf you hold?

Your efflorescent

effluvium

lubricating the world.

Malcolm

When Malcolm leaves the theatre

he likes to pretend he is one of the dancers.

He flings his scarf 

around his neck 

and he strides

through the Stage Door.

A crowd of fans

 are waiting outside.

They separate as he floats past,

nose in the air...

Excuse me

Let me pass 

Important person coming through.

They excuse him.

They let him pass.

They are waiting for

 Alessandra Ferri

 and David Wall

not for Malcolm

or Julian

or me.

Perms and Trims

When we walk into town

we go past Condells

the Ladies’

Hairdressers.

There must be

things

that go on in there

because they put

net curtains

in the window

and there are pictures

of ladies heads

with hair

like this

or like that

and Dads aren’t allowed

in

or boys,

only Mums

and girls.

The Mums come out

smelling of hairspray

and handbags

and the hair

always looks

stiff and important.

I can go in the barber’s

with Dad

but it’s boring.

There are newspapers

on the seats

but no comics

and a there’s a long wait,

so we never go on Saturdays.

If I have my haircut

Mr Trippet

puts a plank across the arms of the chair

and I have to

sit on that

because he’s too tall

to reach me otherwise.

He wraps a big sheet

round me

and buzzes my head with

his clippers.

“Shall we call you Shaun?”

says Mr Trippet.

He tells me

would I like spray?

Yes, please.

(Even though Mum makes me wash my hair straight away after.)

I cover my eyes

and he sprays.

Then he brushes his soft brush

all the way round the back of my neck

and untucks the cloth

he had tucked into my collar

and he gives me a tissue

to rub the itches with

while Dad pays.

“Something for the weekend, sir?”

says Mr Trippet

“Not this weekend, Jack,”

says Dad,

every time.

Then they laugh.

But

at Condells

the ladies don’t have haircuts

they have

trims

and perms

and blowjobs.

This is a bitter pill

This is a bitter pill

you offer me,

a bitter pill

it tastes of bile and pain

of vomit and despair

a hard encrusted

purgative

on your outstretched hand

What is your aim?

to fool me

into thinking

I am getting better

at this game?

No

pain

is no way forward

it is from the past,

a learned response,

and one I choose not

to inflict upon myself

again

neural pathways

may be redrawn

hearts

may be taught

to forgive

to love

hands

to touch,

to brush skin,

to stroke hair,

to heal

So take this pill

you wish to see me swallow

take it

and dispense it

elsewhere

I have no time for your

so-called

medicine.

Grandma And The Web

I taught Grandma how to use the internet

I hoped it would improve her final years

But I did not anticipate

The troubles that would lay in wait

And now I fear it’s all ending in tears.

I bought her a nice tablet and a dongle thing

I bought her quite a clever little mouse.

I thought she could watch kittens

as she sat and knitted mittens

or whatever grandmas do about the house.

I taught her how to write a little email

and I showed her how to take a pic or two

now she’s photoshopping,

phototinting, photocropping

I’m not sure that’s what grandmothers should do.

And now Granddad has got in on the act

He’s potty for the poker and the ebay

He likes to spend his cash

though it may be rather rash

and there’s really nothing anyone can say.

I got them onto facebook and on Google plus

I told her about myspace - which was silly.

I knew there’d be a scandal

when I heard her Twitter handle

You can tweet her now @grandmaloveswilly

And now I fear it’s started to go wrong

I bought her a webcam - she’s gone absurd.

Now there’s a film called “Grandma’s Tits”

that has fifty thousand hits

and, believe me, it’s not about the bird.

And she and Granddad like to chat on skype

They call me up but don’t know the cameras on

There’s Grandma eating Snickers

In just her bra and knickers

And granddad wearing nothing but his thong.

I think I’ll have to put a stop to it

I can’t let them carry on as such

They’re really just too randy

and the webcam is too handy

And Grandma’s Sextape really was too much.

Standing Stone

Yes,

it’s a field

and here at its heart

a standing stone

a lichen-licked

and mossy

monolith

the effort

I shouldn’t wonder

of an afternoon or two’s labour

by some

Neolithic team

of hard handed

locals

here,

now,

nudged by cows.

We’ve found our way here

silently

having argued on the path,

and now I’ve followed you

over the grass

to sit for

a moment’s sulking

in this dewlapped

pasture

to contemplate

the time

we’ve spent together

and the changes,

imminent,

that threaten our co-existence

do you even like me anymore?

And this stone

just is

here,

now,

and whether we leave hand in hand

or with me

continuing

to drag my heels behind you

actually doesn’t matter

much

now

does it…