Fairground Children

That afternoon in Kristiania
nearly one year ago
overhead helicopters
shredded newspaper horizons
fanning out like fairground children
on the island
their whirling blades
searching for a sweet spot
in the sand
to report back
the deadliest of shots

We watched them
from a living room
live
in Liverpool
in disbelief that
this time last week
one of us
or all
could have been
left
unable to breathe
from the vacuum
showering the streets
and the pine needles
caught on the breeze

Stop-back

Before the smoking ban
and the extended opening hours
I used to work in a bar
in the centre of the old town

After the chairs had been hoist
tables left moist
and public had swilled their
last shot
The barstaff and stools
where pulled out like old tools
from an auctioneers last lot

At the back of the room
tabled together
some sat,
some stood in a stop-back
Raised our glasses to a moment
we wouldn't share again
but only memory could keep a track

Then asked to remember
the barmans faces
barmaids breasts
seller dwellers
keg re-fillers
line cleaners and glass washers
all drinking after hours
sticking to that ash covered floor
but rubber on resin
couldn't hold us any more

My Great Fall

Hide from me all that I hid from you
disguised in the sharp grass
spun phrases like fallen poets
who say little of how they are
or where they've been
Words beg a gun shot reply
to a bird song call
I lay here wounded
in this field
hidden from view
by those sharp blades
behind all the words I've used
those feathered phrases spun
like my great fall from your sights

If Only Somehow

Tightly bound into the ground
two by two by two inch posts
In concrete shoes
dressed for all occasions
any weather
Fencing feelings for offcut emotions
Erect divisions between mine and yours
Then and now
What was and what is
What could have been
If only somehow

Accident Book

I'm the paper-cut in your accident book
I ache when you type
feel bruised when you point
and bleed when you swipe

I was filled with fear
not handed tools to cope
learnt to hide myself
behind ever turncoat
'compartmentalise' you call it
Don't we all do that?
A diamond has many facets
but they all can cut glass
Whatever I've given out
edited or omitted
is still a part of me
contained and committed

I'm the paper-cut in your accident book
I ache when you type
and with every key stroke
there's a blood stain to wipe

Cut off Point

Cut off
I'm the corner of the pools coupon
a basin haircut
a tag on the inside of a new jumper
and the frost bitten extremity of an age old explorer

Cut off
I'm the taped recording of a number one song
an unknown pocket phone call
the test fire-alarm ringing
and a branch overhanging
in a neighbours yard

Cut off
I'm a thought distracted
at the end of this poe..












**Let's not cut each other off any more.

Raised Bed

A citrus sky shames us
and bleeds down on us
Sitting on the backdoor step
I'm the expectant child
in this relationship
insecurely balanced
between inside and out
watching you plot
making a raised bed for yourself
A wall of dry stones
around your feelings
soft soil packed densely inside
Effort is given passionately
to arranging seeds
yet, unlike this one
nothing grows in our raised bed