UNTITLED

Myself and three other men were spending our Sunday evening at a gentlemen’s club in East London. The surrounding windows were open fully to allow the mist of tobacco and opium to escape into the night. We sat around a table in the corner with red wine and a solid silver candelabra dripping red wax from its red candles. Some way into our evening, the conversation turned to that topic that we were oh so fond of; that of love.
“De Flores, your goblet is empty, do pass it hither and let me set that right” I said. De Flores leaned his velvet sleeve past the candle flame to pass me his empty glass. I placed it firmly on the table and trickled out the last droplets of the Nebuchadnezzar.
“Thank you kindly” he said as I handed it back to his smooth almost feminine hands. De Flores and I had known each other since birth and had spent most of our boyhood adventuring on the Somerset Downs. The other two in our company were more recent acquaintances that we had invited over for no other reason that social gains. They had been in a separate conversation of their own before we all merged in an argument over a Miss Venetia Rose.
The two men had raised their voices quite some degree over the general murmur of the club and De Flores and I overheard Lucius say, “But no my Decimus, do you really mean to suggest that we are sharing Miss Venetia Rose in much the same way that we are sharing this bottle of wine!?” My friend looked over at me and joined to say “I do think I hear you men are talking about a miss Venetia Rose.”
“Why yes we are De Flores” replied Lucius. De Flores moved a little closer to Lucius and said “but surely you men don’t mean the Miss Venetia Rose that I was somewhat intimately acquainted with this summer last: the miss Venetia Rose that was later secretly involved with my dear friend who sits with us tonight?” The two men looked wholly confused and Decimus said, “I do fear it is, for how many Miss Venetia Rose of London can there be”
“Well it would seem there are four” said Lucius positively.
“Oh don’t be ridiculous!” I interrupted, there is surely but one my men and we have all been had by the harlot.”
“Not my rose bud! She is no harlot.”
“Well she’s something beginning with H or thereabouts sounding,” I said
I looked over at my friend who was suppressing a smile, he winked at me and then the other men’s attention shifted to him as he said “Please dear men, let us not argue. Stay positive. I interject that yes it is unlikely there be four Miss Venetia Rose, but more likely to be two. If there be two then this might raise each consecutive Miss Venetia Rose by fifty percent in your estimations and therefore repair you egos by half. Is that not correct?”
“No. For what if one Venetia Rose is the strumpet who has acquainted herself with three men and the other the delicate angel who has been true to one of us?”
“Fair point” said my friend “but which ones of us have pulled the three jokers from the deck of hearts?”
“Surely not I, I am almost certain it is not I” Said Decimus. He turned to Lucius and continued “My Venetia Rose who so divinely acquainted herself with me is surely not such the same Venetia Rose who would acquaint herself with you Lucius.”
“What do you mean by that sir?” said Lucius
“Well, thou Lucius of such puny mind and even punier purse. She would not tolerate you. My Venetia Rose enjoys to be spoilt with lavish gifts that I am only too pleased to provide, and you my man could not produce a ham!”
Whilst the two men continued to shout and curse in there own world of Miss Venetia Rose I moved over to sit by my friend. I squeezed his soft hand, looked forward and smiled. We knew no Miss Venetia Rose.

BOSIE AND BANJO RETURN TO CALIFORNIA

Day One

brief due to jet-lag...
1 Ate a massive salad
2 Bought a mac book pro
3 Drank red wine from a plastic cup
4 Bedtime

WHAT ARE YOUR WORDS WORTH?

I wandered lonely as a funeral shroud, shamefully sucking each hapless cloud, putting them to paper as cotton wool: what an obvious originality cull. But is it any worse that your repetitive green; the only symbol you have to display jealousy, or your infinite love prose, hued in red, do you really think that’s better instead?
For these words and their meanings are words in themselves and into the cannon our minds often delve and we’re searching for new ways to say the same thing; I’ll try hard not to use the image of ‘spring’. By the looks on your faces, you seem confused perhaps unclear are the symbols I’ve used? You see, words are like daffodils, in bulbs and dormant, fighting off parasites, a daily torment. And parasites represent clichés, forever worming their way into phrase but if you work hard to protect all your words; make sure the bulbs are safe from the birds, then what a glorious emotion you’ll feel when you order ideas to create the ideal and out of the ground just like ink out your quill will sprout the shining daffodil.

This yellow no longer has hue of decay but looks to me like a pleasing bouquet. And oft when on my couch and say: “There’s no worth to words without joy of word play.”

ILL POET

The map of a thousand inky worms; an unfathomable deep of wordy concerns but we’ll hold on to beacons; our symbolic terms; those obvious words that our hearts often yearn.

Oh vile uncertainty! How our minds do return, Oh you vague, ugly signs, yes for you we do spurn! But in sickly anxiety our brains they will churn ‘til we build up a fortress that’s deformed and infirm.

Your castle of words is crumbling down and into the moat your symbols will drown, you should dredge out the mould and recover the crown and bestow it (ill poet) to forgotten nouns.

Why laugh at the thought that poetry’s dead when all you do is repeat what you’ve read and the literary spider is spreading its web but you don’t seem to realise it’s captured your head.

Is it lexical choice, or your love for James Joyce that has stopped you from having original voice? How absurd that you drown out of arrogant choice!



And we take it in turns to repeat what we’ve learnt, how we love that precision of shared, ailing terms, but when will we see the inbred is infirm? We will die in this moat ‘less innovation returns.

You can’t just live in summer days; in quiet breeze and happy haze; we’re gliding down the night-time ways; I hope you know it’s just a phase; I feel like it’s all slipped away; the feigning smiles; the disarray; we’re working through the black; the grey; empty bottles; stale ashtrays; but when you turn to me and say; ‘please help me not to feel this way’; I’ll say, my dear, you’re just the prey; the green will feed off your dismay; I’ll say that we have hell to pay 'cause Eli Lilly made things this way.

PLEA TO S.W.M - the Yellow Wallpaper

Petals shatter off delicate trees
While the songbirds and swallows litter the eaves
For a winter of silence and a terrible breeze
And the sunshine that’s starving its heat for disease

It’s icy and shallow and as shattered as she
There for hours in coldness and waiting to leave
But all power and warmness is caught in the eaves
For a winter of silence and that terrible breeze

But she’s waiting and hoping the knowing trees bleeds
Out a sap all of fire, blazing energy freed
But it’s cold and it’s quiet and as quiet as she
In the rooftops of treetops in the eaves saved for she

So come crashing and trashing alone through an air
Cold and piercing and evil and dead and unfair
Unforgiving, aborting the stale, stagnant air
There’s no room in the house for this strong female heir

But she’s breaking and stabbing and filled with despair
Full of anger she’s winning this game: solitaire
And the men are downstairs smoking pipes unaware
That the prayer she is screaming is piercing the air


Take your chances, be different and paint over yellow
Then just wait and be pleased at the people who follow

NEW-OLD WORLD

We bribed the sun to sit near Icarus
So we could make more candles
And we used the candles to shed some light
On this vast pink-papered scandal

They needed more cheese for their bread
But then they needed more bread for their cheese

The door slammed in the kitchen and
The windows screamed sweet nothings to the wind
They’ll take you back to the storm
But it’s not so tempestuous and not so big
It’s round and quiet and it echoes myths
A wishing well where all the coins have been stolen by gypsies

So we won’t build ruins anymore
Or let the horse in through the door
Let’s not cry over muddy mounds
But help pick Icarus off the ground

CONCEPTUAL PATERISM

We must paint a portrait where the eyes never look at us,
Where the eyes look at nothing but the oil and the canvas,
We won’t see imitations of anger or lust,
But we will see the dust and the age and irrelevance.

Your marble slabs – only fading epitaphs
In this land of deformed unreality
So sit with me on the spiral jetty and get smothered in the redness
The skies will fold against paper waves to make a mist of words for harvest
Some are missed by our perceptions and get tangled in the clouds,
And others fall off the horizon and are very rarely found,

There is no picture that they can paint
No frame magnificent enough to cage it
Blank walls become trapped behind red wallpaper
And the patterns stare at a lonesome man on a wide street
Where the buildings are like
Teeth stacked on teeth

See the art in the lonely man in the secluded jaw
You’ll see what’s in-between the teeth
Then put your half drunk coffee in the quiet gallery - And
Don’t feel angry that it’s art

HOME BURIAL

Four years ago, Amy and her husband’s house was like one you’d find featured in ‘House and Home’ magazine, but years of neglect had allowed cobwebs to knit across absolutely everything apart from the kettle, the door handles and the gin. The duck-egg blue which had breathed light and air into the living room just three summers ago was almost entirely covered with a fetid paste of nicotine and tar. Amy had taken up smoking after it happened and now went through two packets a day. No one visited them anymore, as the atmosphere of the house alone was enough to suck the positivity out of anyone.

Michael spent most of his time in the garage painting excruciatingly detailed pictures of the insides of fruit. Amy hated them; she found them grotesque. It became a sort of secret pleasure of his, to go into the kitchen and smuggle out kiwis and lemons when Amy’s back was turned. He had tried painting flowers and landscapes in an attempt to please her but she always said: “No Michael, I want you to paint our son”. But that was impossible, Michael didn’t have an imagination. Both of them knew that they didn’t really belong together anymore but it was as if some subliminal social code was preventing them from getting a divorce.

It was Monday, and Amy and Michael sat in the damp kitchen like they did everyday. The tap had been dripping for hours and the repetitive banging of water against metal seemed to mock the otherwise soundless kitchen. They sat at the warped table and neither of them got up to turn it off. An Autumnal wind was pushing through the cracks of the windows without making so much as a stifled whistle as it came. Amy was thinking about her son and her husband was wondering whether his birch fence would withstand the wind. They sat in the same position until the light levels outside halved and halved again and they found themselves sitting in a navy-blue darkness. Michael searched through the inky smoke for his wife’s face but could only see the fires of hell that were raging at the end of her cigarette.
“Put that out dear, you’ve had enough today” He said as he reached out slowly to take it from her. She waved it around menacingly to prevent him from getting it. “Please, I can’t see you.”
“Turn the light on then.” Her words spiralled out through a languid curl of smoke and got tangled in the atmosphere. Michael stared at his hands, his thoughts returning to the welfare of his fence.
“I’m going outside.” He said calmly. He stood up and felt his way through the dusty room to the back door. The wind caused it to fling open as soon as he moved the latch, and the moonlight shot painful daggers into the backs of his eyes. Smoke from the kitchen drifted out of the door and produced a momentary fog around his head. Amy didn’t move to watch him leave.

Michael’s worn out slippers shuffled into the moonlit garden and crackled over the frost on the ground. The sound of a frozen puddle fissuring under his scrawny frame moved him on faster towards his birch fence. As he got closer he noticed that one of the panels had splintered and was sticking straight up like a gaunt hand jabbing at the moon.
“Oh no” he muttered. He started to walk towards the garage to get his hammer and nails but his pace slowed down to a halt as he passed the frozen bump underneath the oak tree.
“How can a bump in the garden make me so miserable,” he whispered. He moved closer and touched the stone slab that marked the grave of his son. “You shouldn’t be here like this. I wanted you to be buried next to Granddad at the churchyard in Folkstone. It was your mother that wanted you here with us.” He looked down at his hands again and inspected his cuticles. “Oh I hoped the council weren’t going to allow it. It was horrible; I can remember the neighbours peering over their fences as we lowered the coffin into the ground. They perverted our grief.” He shuffled his feet. It was more like he was talking to himself than to his son. “Yes it was our grief then. Now it’s Amy’s grief and my bad memory. It should be a memory; a memory is in the past, grief is much to present, too painful.” He paced up and down. “I should leave, sell my paintings and pack up. Amy doesn’t love me anymore and I’ve done nothing to deserve being this miserable.” Michael looked up and remembered who he was talking to. “We still love you James; that will never change but things like this happen sometimes. My leaving doesn’t mean I love you less it just means I need some time to think about my feelings towards your mother. Sometimes grownups don’t stay together forever. They like to try to but it doesn’t always work out.”

He stared straight forward in a daze; he was working through all the emotions that Amy hadn’t helped him to release. His index finger starting to twitch and he picked at his nail with his thumb. Then the piercing screech of a barn owl caused him to swing around suddenly to face the house and his eyes fixed on the glowing ember of Amy’s cigarette, a speck of orange in a plain of darkness; the centre of the universe. She was by the window at the top of the stairs looking down at the mound. The window was open. Michael felt a molten anger trickle down the creases of his brain. He rushed across the lawn to the door and stormed into the house. The door banged against the frame as he went through the kitchen to the living room and then across to the bottom of the stairs and he shouted up at Amy, “Our life is so silent! Let me into your grief.” Amy said nothing “It has been four years and you stand by that window every night! We can’t carry on living like this, we have to move on.” He paused, “Why can’t you move on?”

Amy stood motionless at the top of the stairs. She had heard every word that he said outside. She had so much she wanted to say to him but couldn’t form the sentences in her mind. She stood with her mouth open which angered Michael more. He wanted to see the glimmer of some emotion, not the glimmer of a cigarette. He stepped forward as if he was going storm up the stairs and Amy cowered in the corner. But he changed his mind, turned around and walked back towards the kitchen. The door stopped banging and Amy heard the sound of Michael’s speed off down the driveway. She wiped the tears from her eyes and walked calmly down the stairs.

Michael was gone all night. He drove down motorways and through silent villages. He didn’t read any signposts, he just drove until the low petrol light came on and coloured his face and then he made his way back home.

As he stepped out of his car he felt a sense of overwhelming sadness. It felt different to misery and he couldn’t work out which feeling he preferred. He came in through the front door expecting to find the same dusty, uninviting kitchen but it was spotless. The counter tops gleamed in the morning sunshine; everything had been put in its correct place.
Michael walked in slowly and looked around in amazement. Amy came in wearing a brightly coloured dress and smiled at him, “Hello dear,” she said. He totally forgot about the plan he had formulated during his drive. He was going to get his cash from the safe, pack a small bag and leave for at least a month before getting the rest of his things. He wasn’t even going to speak to Amy. He thought it strange how an unexpected change could have the ability to melt away so many intense emotions.
He smiled and said, “Hello darling,” and kissed Amy on the cheek. As he stepped back he noticed that his best painting of the inside of a Satsuma was hanging on the wall above the sink.

AUTUMN

As the lapidary did it, built a palace of diamonds and glass-
But how do diamonds come from dust and dark storms of rocks from the North,
Corrupt bankers and tricksters and deluded bricklayers-
When all there was, was a dream, a golden dream
Now turned to abyss,
And how your face was spangled gall,
Your eyes quixotic, but still constellations
Mapping a path to bliss.
But stars burn out and all I see now is a black hole-
Your work the supernova to our black hole.
Oh the plans and scenarios and decadent evenings, the shroud
Over our eyes and in our brains, the bullets
In the pheasant we ate for dinner.
That’s not our life now; the wine cellar’s almost dry
And we’ll sit here and toast to Jacob’s Creek, disappointment choking our throats
I look across the lake, its Autumn, your eyes are Autumn
Green clouds form green floods
And we have no arc - and now your
Leaves are turning grey, I see them in the wind and
All I see is the cutlery, the knife, the fork,
And In my spoon I see my eye
Half your I but upside down
And I don’t blame you, I blame myself, and others
The liars, the selfish get buyers. And blossom will come in the spring