Morning kiss

I mustered a tentative and voiceless 'morning'
to a fellow walker to work
he regarded me with distant disdain
It was only afterwards
I thought
that my mouth moulding
the silent mumbled 'M'
must have resembled
a precocious
presumptuous
puckering
a sly, lascivious kiss

Sore Knees

Sore Knees

He came back into the church and saw a familiar figure kneeling in the last row of seats.

'Are you still here, Mrs Douglas?'

Father Patrick closed the main double door, sliding the bolt into position to secure the right hand side.

'They've been signalling again, Father.'

The old woman wrapped her rosary beads around her hand, unwrapped them kissed the cross and held it momentarily to her forehead, then lips, then chest.

'Ah, have they, have they indeed?' said the priest, his voice gentle, unsurprised. 'And what did they tell you this morning?'

'Oh Father, I can't tell you.'

'Oh no,' he said. 'Is that so? Keeping secrets, are we?'

'Oh no, Father, but they made me swear.'

The priest continued to tidy the hymn books onto the table at the end of the aisle.

'And it's still the same candlestick they are using, is it, Mrs D?'

'Oh yes, Father, the third from the left. The flame flickers. You'll have seen it, Father.'

'Morse code?'

'Well, Father, something like that?'

'Well maybe I should leave that one unlit, and then they couldn't bother you during mass. What do you think?'

'Oh no, Father, that would never do! How would they get their messages through?'

'Well, I'm sure I don't know, Mrs. I'm sure I don't know. I'll be locking up the church now, Mrs D. Is Derek coming for you?'

'Ah, no, Father, I'm walking home today.'

'Oh! Are you sure?'

'Yes, yes. I'll be fine. I've nothing to worry about today. Derek's gone to London to fetch little Millie, and they said they'd be fine. So I'm walking home.'

You'd be very welcome to come to the Presbytery for your lunch, if you'd like..?'

Father Patrick continued the invitation under his breath for only His Maker to hear

'...But please don't!'

She shot him a look full of foreboding.

'No, no, Father, no I will be fine...'

Well, can I help you up, Mrs D? Pauline will be wondering where I am. She's a stickler for punctuality.'

Another dark look shot his way. 

'If you'd be so kind, Father.'

The priest took her slightly proffered hand and allowed the pressure she put upon it. She rocked back a little, raised her bottom and rested it on the seat behind her. Then slowly pushed on Father Pat's hand and the back of the seat in front, transferring the weight off her knees until she was sitting back in the chair.

Father Pat saw the wince of pain cross her face as she manoeuvred herself.

'Oh dear,' he said, 'sore knees, Mrs?'

'Oh Father I mustn't complain...'

She shuffled her bottom on the seat, preparing to stand.

Again Father Pat saw the muscles around her mouth constrict, wrinkling her lips around a silent agonised cry. She glanced up at him.

'Sure Jesus suffered much more than I, Father.'

'He was a professional, Marjorie, that was his job.'

'Oh no, no! You naughty man!' said the old woman. 'What would the Bishop say?'

She allowed her mock shock to settle into a soft chuckle.

'So what were they telling you this morning?'

'Oh Father, they said... no I Mustn't, I can't!'

Oh, come on now, mother. If it's a message for me well they've chosen you to deliver it. Come on now – out with it.'

'But they'll be angry!'

'No they won't. Come on now.'

She cast her eyes around the empty church before signalling for the priest to lean in closer.

'It is about Pauline, Father,' she said, her whispered voice full of portent.

'Pauline?'

'Yes.'

'What about her?'

'They said... she's poisoning you.'

'Pauline? Poisoning me?'

'Yes, Father.'

'Oh dear, oh dear.' He couldn't prevent the smile that crept across his lips.

'It's no joke, Father. That's what they told me.'

'Ah so that's why you won't come to lunch!' He raised his hand to his mouth to pull the smirk from it.

Mrs Douglas just looked at him with searching eyes.

'I have to say I find it hard to believe...'

'Of course you do, Father, because she's such a good soul. We all know that. All the good things she does. The flowers. Cleaning the church. And with those bosoms...'

'Indeed. So why would she want to poison me, Mrs?'

'Oh Father, no! She doesn't want to poison you.'

'No?'

'No! She can't help it!'

'Right... right...'

'The old woman gripped his hand and pulled him close.

'She is being... controlled, Father.'

'Controlled?'

'Yes, Father.'

'Right... Who is... controlling her? Did they say?'

'Oh yes, Father. They told me, but...'

She stopped, looked at him intently. He could see real anguish in her eyes as she struggled to form the sentence.

'You won't like it, Father...'

'Won't I?'

'No, Father. You won't like it at all.'

'Oh dear. Well I'm prepared now. Come on Mrs D, hit me with it. Who is controlling my housekeeper?'

Her fingers tightened around his wrist again.

'The U.R.C.!' She whispered the words and again cast her eyes around the church.

'Really? The U.R.C.?'

'Yes, Father.'

'Right. And did they mention if it is the National Council of the United Reformed Church that have taken control of Pauline's mind? Or is it just the local congregation?'

'Oh Father!' She looked even more troubled. 'Do you think it might be Reverend Dalton?'

'Mrs Douglas, I hardly think...'

'Oh no! It's all my fault! It's all my fault!'

'Calm yourself, dear lady, calm yourself!'

'I shouldn't have told you. I know it! They'll be so angry.' She started to rock herself back and forth, screwing the rosary beads in her fingers and lifting them to her lips.

'It's all right, Mrs Douglas. Just sit quiet.'

'Father, oh, Father! What have I done?'

'I'll bring you a glass of water. I've got some in the sacristy. Just wait here, I'll fetch you some. Calm yourself. I'll be back in a moment.'

As he walked the length of the church he turned to see the old lady still rocking in her seat. He pushed his hand through the side slit in his cassock and into his trouser pocket. He clicked his phone to life and flicked quickly through to his contacts. By the time he reached the sacristy the ringing tone was answered.

'Yes, Father?'

'Hello, Derek... It's, er, Father Pat...'

'Yes, Father, I know.'

'Yes, I'm afraid it's your mother...'

'What now?'

'The usual, I'm afraid. She said you were in London though. Is that right?'

'No, no, I'm just in the Admiral. London was yesterday. I'll be straight round.'

'If you could. If you could.'

He hung up, poured a glass of water from the glass jug on the side table and carried it back to the woman.

She was calm now.

'Lovely flowers this morning, Father. She's done a good job this morning.'

'Pauline? Yes. A good job.'

'She's a good soul.'

'She is, Mrs D, she's a good soul.'

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Caliban

What wild Caliban is this within?
The bastard monster progeny of my lust
that stalks the bloody corridors of my heart
squeezes the weakest part of me
inhabits these bones against my will
seeps like lymph beneath my skin

he steals this blood
sets adrenaline running
pumps the drug
into spongy lobes of flesh
invades these fingers
sends senses humming
tangles thought and feelings
weaves meat into lascivious mesh

Yet I abhor this seething fat-pricked grunt
who hunts raw, purple-lipped prey
his clawing digits open bleeding holes
part curtains of God-manipulated clay
delve into damp recesses
where my soft daydream led
and some swift satisfaction lay

and yet his eyes are mine
mine his hands, his tongue
mine his devouring teeth
mine his salivating orifice
his penetrating priapism
his appetite
his hunger
his lust
mine
his, my wanton amorality
his Cyclopean cannibal code
he fucks with the shade
of my shadow
leeches the colour from my cheek
bleaches my humour
moulders the outskirts of my soul
starves me of the oxygen of joy

he, my brother is
my mirror twin
my double-dazed reflection
the bully butcher brother
who beneath a veil of loving kindness
slaughters laughter
massacres emotion
murders the moment of joy
with his acidic orgasm

It clicked

When Dad smiled

and his cheeks

drew back

from his teeth,

there was a little clicking noise,

so even when

he was behind you

you knew

he was there

smiling.

When Mum died

he wanted us

to all carry on

as if nothing had happened

and we tried

but I got cross with him

so much

especially when

he ran the stew

under the tap.

And then one day

when I was going back to school

after lunch

I told him

that I loved him

- I made myself -

and he cried

and watched me

out of the kitchen window

go

all the way up the garden

well, up to the fir trees.

And I thought

Dad! Grow up, will you.

But actually it was me

who had to.

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Dead Pigeon

Walking home the other day I came upon a dead pigeon in the street.  The way it lay and the colour of the carcass led me to imagine that rather than being crushed into the pavement it was actually emerging out of it...

I snapped a photo of it and my talented friend Adry Ruiz (@xxxadryxxx) translated it into a pencil drawing to accompany this poem

From the ash of the asphalt I am born

fledged from flagstone streets

I will dance for you through broken air

for you will I thrill in flight

I am the chill of the wild in the town

I am a child in the still of the sky

settle my soul in the spirit world

fashion me feathers and fly

as a shaman's cape will I shelter you

although I am crushed and torn

for though my entrails grace the ground

no harm to me now can come

I'll dance once more through the greasy air

dance once more by the bridge

dance once more on the frosty street

where you creatures of the city live

come, dance with me as the day begins

dance with me as it ends

feed me scraps from the morsels bag

feed me love from your lips

I have the courage of an iron bear

the grace of a violin

I have the strut of an ancient mare

that drinks by the river's brim

for though I am crushed and split apart

though I am shattered and crazed

I live with you in the city's heart

wherever a city is raised

Prompt - The Colours Were A Little Garish

Sylvie waited still.

Even Jenna had gone now.

But Sylvie sat on the wall, a tissue crumpled in her hand, her thumb pushing at the ball of paper. Pushing it into her palm, over and over. The soft paper creaking under the pressure.

Some friend Jenna turned out to be.

Sylvie awoke to the sound of someone moving near her bed. She cracked her eyes open just enough to let a little light in. Her father was stealthily creeping around, treading very lightly. It was still dark and as she quietly pulled the covers back to get a better view, she felt the cold air on her nose.

Her father seemed to turn towards her – she snapped her eyes tight shut again.

She must have slept again within moments because she didn't remember him leaving and the next thing she knew her mother was cooing her name softly.

'Sy-lvie... Oh, Sy-lvie.' she drew back the curtains. 'It's time to get up... You know what today is!?'

'It's my bathday,' said Sylvie groggily, rubbing the sleep from her eyes then driving the annoying itch from her nose with her knuckles.

'It is! It's your birthday! Yes! And how old are you?'

'I'm six.'

'Six! Yes! That's right. Such a big girl. But Sylvie... Look!'

Sylvie followed her mother's pointing hand.

Hanging from the central light was... a thing... a beautiful... thing.... She could not think what to call it. It was a... thing... a hanging thing. And it was beautiful.

'Can you see?'

'Yes! Yeeess!!,' said Sylvie. 'It's ...it's...'

'It's a mobile,' said her mother.

'A what?'

'A mobile... that's what it's called.'

'It's a rainbow...' said Sylvie. 'It's a beautiful rainbow!'

'Yes,' said Mummy. 'Daddy made it!'

'Daddy?'

'Yes he made it and painted it, and...'

'When?'

'In the evenings after you'd gone to bed.'

'Where is Daddy?'

'He had to go to work, darling. But he'll be back later... He'll be back later.'

'Can we have cake?!'

'Yes. We'll have cake with Daddy, when he comes home. Come on now.'

'Can I just stay here and look for a while. I like to see it moving in the wind.

'All right for a few minutes, while I get the breakfast.'

Sylvie lay on her back on the floor - knees up, feet flat on the carpet - directly beneath the light.

She watched as each band of colour moved independently, all spinning around the same piece of fine thread. Each swinging freely at the slightest suggestion of a breeze.

Sylvie lay and blew as hard as she was able to wobble the pieces in the air. She blew again.  Wafted her hands. 

Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet.

Richard Of York Gained Battles In Vain. They'd learned it at school and even Mummy knew it. 'Yes,' said Mummy. 'I learned it at my school.'

Sylvie particularly liked the orange band as it curled between the red and the yellow. She imagined the ceiling was the wide blue sky and she was a bird flying high, high, high up into the sky – over the rainbow, up, up, up into the blue, blue sky.

Eleanor Brockless, Y10, pushed Sylvie, Y8, as she went past her on the way to the back seat.

'Get off,' muttered Sylvie.

'What?' snarled Eleanor Brockless. 'What did you say?'

Sylvie knew better than to repeat her comment.

'Just leave her alone,' said Jenna from the seat next to Sylvie. 'Just leave her a-fucking-lone!'

Eleanor Brockless pulled a long strand of chewing gum from between her teeth and then chewed it back into her mouth. Then she took the ball of gum right out and squashed It down onto Sylvie's head.

'Fuck sake!' shouted Jenna, immediately trying to pick the gum out of Sylvie's hair. 'Leave her alone!'

Sylvie said nothing; she just sat there waiting for this torment to end.

'Oi!' said Eleanor Brockless. 'Give me your bag, y'fat cunt.'

This was regular by now. Eleanor Brockless helping herself to whatever she took a fancy to. Sylvie knew better than to resist but she didn't offer it either. Eleanor Brockless grabbed it from her lap.. Rifled through it. Pulled out Sylvie's rainbow pencil case.

'Too good for you, y'cunt,' said Eleanor.

She unzipped the zip and emptied the contents over Sylvie's head. Pens and pencils, of course,
also flower-shaped rubbers, highlighters, felt tips, biros, a small plastic ruler, a pair of compasses, a pencil sharpener detached from its pot, the pot itself complete with many days' worth of pencil shavings. Everything was scattered on her head, in her lap, onto the floor.

Daddy didn't come home at four as usual. He didn't come home at five like Mummy said he would if he got the next bus.

At half past six, Sylvie blew out the candles on her cake and Mummy cut her a slice. She could hear Mummy talking on the telephone while she ate the cake, but she couldn't hear what Mummy was saying.

At the Freshers' Fair, Sylvie joined DramaSoc, the Debating Society and Rainbow Alliance. She knew she wasn't lesbian. Or at least she knew she was mainly straight. Dean had shown her that. And he'd come to Uni here too. She loved him. Not just the way his penis filled her, ground into her, pushed right up into her cervix, but his hands – his long fingers – she found them so alluring from the very first video he sent her. How he had caressed himself. She imagined him touching her with such gentleness. A musician. He learned how to play her. Draw sweet music from her.

No, she wasn't homosexual. Mostly. But she felt drawn to the colourful Rainbow logo and, of course, the idea of it. People coming together, gay, lesbian, bi and straight, supporting each other. Why wouldn't you? How could anyone judge anyone else for loving someone, whatever, whoever they were, male, female, trans, alt? Why? She couldn't understand it.

Jenna came and stayed the weekend of Pride. Jenna thought she might be lesbian. Jenna slept in Sylvie's bed with Sylvie. Dean stayed at Loz's.

When Dean came round next morning. Sylvie and Jenna were still in pyjamas. Sylvie's pyjamas. Jenna hadn't brought any nightwear. Jenna darted dark looks at Dean while she chatted with Sylvie.  She needed him to know, she didn't like him.

Dean was twitchy. He hadn't slept much. He sat at the table while the girls made coffee and heated croissants. Dean wasn't hungry. He wrangled his long fingers together as he watched them laughing. Joking. Touching each other.

'What the fuck's the matter with you?' said Sylvie when Jenna had gone to shower. 'You're so fucking gloomy.'

'Look...I....' Dean blushed.

'What?'

'I just need to know. Did you...'

'Did I what?'

'You two. Last night. Did you... y'know...'

'What? Did we what? Did we make love? God, Dean, for fuck sake...'

At seven, Mrs Derbyshire came.

Mummy went out then.

'Don't you worry, pet, she's just going to help Daddy.'

Sylvie didn't worry.

Mrs Derbyshire read 'The Tiger Who Came To Tea' and 'Hairy McLairy Of Donaldson's Dairy' and 'The Rainbow Rabbits' from the big book. Then she told Sylvie that Sylvie must go to sleep.

Mrs Derbyshire sat on the edge of the bed stroking Sylvie's hair.

Her fingers were fatter than Mummy's.

Sylvie pretended to be asleep so that Mrs Derbyshire would stop. Mrs Derbyshire went downstairs.

Sylvie got out of bed and lay on the floor underneath the rainbow mobile again. It was too dark to see much but she could imagine the pieces swinging, spinning. Round and round above her head. Round and round. In the dark.

They had decorated St Andrew's Church Hall in the most garish colours.

Sexy Red. Hot pinks. Burnt orange. Turquoise. Green.

Streamers hung from each corner crossing the room in undulating arcs below the ceiling. On the walls they had hung the great tie-dyed drapes that Sylvie had made for her degree show.

Vegan food from The Loving Spoonful would arrive from twelve. The ceremony was at eleven.

Sylvie looked at her watch.

Twelve thirty.

And now Jenna had gone too. Left her waiting outside Her Majesty's Office for the Registration of Births, Marriages and Deaths.

Where was he?

She had tried his phone forty times. Texted him fifteen.

Mum hadn't come anyway.

And all the Uni crowd had dispersed not knowing what to do. Loyalties to both Sylvie and Dean left them unable to act. They were aimless, stupid.

'If he... when he comes,' said Gryff, 'come and get us, yeah... we'll be in The Flag. Just come get us, yeah? But Sylv, babe, he will come. You'll see. He will. Send Jenna when he comes. We'll all be there... Just seems daft waiting around here. You know, now the next lot have gone in.'

Then Jenna's battery had died so she'd gone to find somewhere to plug it in.

'I'll go to The Flag too. I'll be able to plug it in there somewhere. Text me, y'know, if he...er shows....'

The tissue creaked again as Sylvie pushed her thumb deep into it.

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The Elephant That Has Fallen Over

The elephant that has fallen over

is the last of the family of elephants

that Great Uncle Cyril

brought back

from Jaipur

in 1937.

We can see

how the ivory tusk has snapped

clean away from the ebony body

and

no

there is no glue

that can invisibly repair it.

We can note

how the ear has cracked

upon impacting the stones of the hearth

and the piece that has fallen away

has disappeared

somewhere

beneath the gas fire

in the fireplace.

We are aware

that this

the last elephant

in the family of six elephants

that Great Uncle Cedric

brought back

from Jodhpur

in 1939

is of course,

merely a thing

an object

an object of little intrinsic value

a mere and momentary

collaboration of molecules

formally arranged

in time

and space.

We will not cry

nor yet will we weep

for the object

we will simply

ponder upon it

think upon the time

it has been amongst us

We will cheerfully

cherish the memory

of our lost friend

and consign

his broken and battered

remains

to the all-consuming fire.

But...

may I just say that...

this

the largest of the eight elephants

in the family of elephants

that Great Uncle Collins

brought back from Pondicherry

in 1947

has successfully survived

seventy years

upon this shelf

even while its family have perished

until you

you

my dear boy

until you turned up

with you

infernal

Wii.

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