MUTANT BUTOH DANCER



These poems were written between November 2005 and February 2006, in various venues, at various speeds, under various influences. All originally featured on the Mutant Butoh Dancer.

barely the night no more

5am Doggerel

Those who do from headache suffer
Find that there is a kind of torture
For which no accountable charge is given
Merely synaptic whim and some deep in-
Grained malfunction of the cereberum,
Laying waste the capactity to think, dream,
Sleep, desire, feel like one of the chosen
Many; Know when the time's ripe to batten
Down the hatch and wait for kinder
Hours to come cradle the matter
Which makes up your mind, and knows
Too that kinder hours will come, a propos
Of nothing; just the workings of time,
The cessation of pain, the end of the line.


bari
27.01.06

eye lidded

When five comes and the birds begin their song
You say to yourself, which from all the crimes in
My songbook, was the one that earned me this
Precious punishment. The one committed
At the drop of a hat, in a dingy bar, at some
Drunken hour, failing to even sense the presence
Of a god, let alone the fact you’d offended
Him or her or it. There must be some overlooked
Crime, awaiting rediscovery, whose sly curse holds
The brain in inclement health in spite of heart’s
Longing for that which the night should offer:
An end to all thinking; the films of your
Silent mind; the icepick of unconscious.
When five comes and the birds begin their song
You have unpicked all the visible vices, and still
The answer hasn’t come, still the riddle of this
Perverse wakefulness taunts. All you can do is
Listen to the birds, and hope that in their
Greeting you shall find the answer before
Another day has come, leaving another night’s
Waste of sleep behind, whilst the vengeful god
Smiles at the havoc he or she or it doth wreak.


holloway
16.01.06

in the middle of the night

Blessed is the tribe that lies together in the dust, naked, cold,
Shivering in fraternity. Fearful of the beasties; fearful of rain;
Yet strong in the sharing of fear. The flap of an arm all they need
To know they’re not alone. Your neighbour’s toenail or breast
In your face to guard against beasties or shelter from rain.
Monkey’s proud dawn cry is but a few hours from now. So:
Cuddle up close. Make the ground soft. Dull the night sounds.
Select your stars. Shut your eyes. We'll fly there. Together.


holloway
09.01.06

the bubble

Imagine another skin. Which shines. Which gives the world a
charmed edge. This is the bubble. The bubble drifts through life,
tasting its wonder and adding to the wonder of that taste.
However, nothing is as simple as it looks. In order to move, the
force within the bubble has to pedal like crazy. From the outside
the bubble appears to glide like a swan. It is not quite like that on
the inside. Futhermore, the bubble, like all bubbles, is fragile. It
knows it is. It's a part of its beauty, but it also means that life is
lived on a perpetual edge. For all that, the bubble is unique. It is a
blessed bubble, striding the blast.


holloway
03.01.06

the motion cries

Think of great rivers you might have seen.
The Indus or The Nile. The Mississippi.
The Ganges or Amazon, Plate or Rhine.
Think of another one. Think of the shape
Their water takes as it flows from one point
To another. Think how a mighty river can
Surge and bellyache like a sea on a flood
Tide, or lie like a cat in the doldrums. Think
On how that river can seem like the busiest
Street in the world. Or a wasteland, barren,
Tragic. No matter what shape your river takes
It will always be wet. And it will never cease its
Flow.


holloway
03.01.06

on top of st catherine’s hill

A woman walks past me and says snap, only her hat's from Peru, not Bolivia.
I am an offensive charm weapon, talking to strangers, friend and foe alike.
In the mis-maze, I speak to a friend who's hiding in his room, telling me
It's all so dysfunctional and weird. Well, of course. This is Winchester.
At Christmas. What do you expect? They used to send us here before breakfast
No matter the weather, call out our names in Latin, wait for our 'sum'
Then send us back for baked beans on toast. The place is still populated
By too many twits, but it has a family feel. Couples with Thermos flasks of
Tomato soup, kids with bow and arrow, fathers demonstrating sledging
Prowess. All harmless in the end, I try to tell my whispering friend.


winchester
28.12.05

looking ahead

The quiet times are important. The hum of a radiator;
The brightness of an unfamiliar bulb. Starkness of
Another's space. All grant a quietude. Not of thought
But of spirit. You are less yourself in another's home.
Still, that lessness is not to be sneered at. It lends the
Mind a space of non-belonging in order to reflect.
On time slipping like sand through sun-tanned toes.
On the meaning of that sand. It's hardness, the last
Thing left when even rock is rendered nil by waves.
Sand slips and slithers. Children dig holes to other
Worlds. Footmarks left behind. Crabs make homes
Within its grain. Angels count the number of these
Grains. Everything shall be accounted for, in the
Course of time, which slips through sun-tanned toes,
Like sand. All of this passing, all of these marks, can
Be guaged in quiet times; read in mute foreign walls.


brixton
20.11.05

on the cusp

Onset of flu.
Eyeballs half baked.
Base lines coming
Through the cieling.
Words of warning
In a half tone
Murkiness. Dead
Bay leaves spider-
Crawl the mirror.
TV screen blank.
Carpet strangely
Still. Green plimsols
Paired up. Footsteps
At front door. Keys
Jangle. Never
More, they mutter
As the door slams.

Midnight arrives.
Saturday comes.
No turning back
Clocks or time or
All that comes to
Pass, because there
Never is; there
Never can be.

The voices res-
Onate through floor-
Boards like never
Before. Spectral
Voices, hiding
Sounds of other
Voices, trying
To break through to
Take me back. Like
Polanski's walls.
Hands reaching out
Saying do not
Forget the day
We danced or laughed
Or screamed or drank;
All of us. And
People fall down
Drunk on the floor
Or coil in love
Or lust or smile
At the secret
Joy the space has
Brought them and we
Smile back knowing
It is a strange
Magic we've blessed
These walls withal
Through the strangeness
Of our own strange
Perishable
Magic. Trembling
Through the atoms
Of this the home
We have brought to
Life.


vauxhall
11.11.05

of a morning

A long-haired filmaker sits in a Shoreditch 'editing suite' watching his project put together.
A man in Finchley cleans his blinds.
An artist ponders the truth that every woman likes lazy Sunday mornings and Murakami.
A film-maker in the North deals with what the day has to throw at him.
An actress keeps an eye on him.
A woman in Bethnal Green smiles at her secret.
A woman in Peckham wonders what to do next.
An agent in the West smiles at the idea of Perestroika.
An artist has to face another trip to the hospital.
A director explores his late friend's legacy.
A woman in the North enters a silver slug and it makes her smile.
A historian wracks his brains.
A man in Italy is glad to have got Brixton out of his system.
King Creosote sings I was always hoping that I might just get by.
A woman from the South in the North sits in a meeting and a memory cuts across the face of her mind.
A man in Vauxhall thinks that his sister's fate and his own were not so far apart.
Saws wail in stereo.
A man and a woman in Sao Paulo are awoken by a low flying helicopter.
A teacher is tickled by the vaguaries of his wife's countrymen.
A man and a woman contemplate living in a 5th Avenue bathroom.
A market researcher cannot believe the beauty and trouble of twins.
An actress hopes she'll find a new house.
Another actress re-aquaints herself with her own.
A child less than one week old learns the meaning of the word cold.
His mother and father keep him warm.
A shopkeeper laughs again.
The Portuguese shout at one another.
An actor rehearses.
Another has a lie-in.
Another thinks ahead to football.
No-one is crying.
Everyone has thoughts in the back of their head they are not aware of.


vauxhall
27.10.2005

ignorant haunting

The ghost doesn’t recognise you. The ghost doesn’t know
How much you know. Doesn’t have a clue. You take a
While to realise. Little things give it away.
The movement of eyeballs. Hand gestures. A belt.
Then it’s clear as day. Hardly a surprise. Only one
Of many ghosts. Stumbling around, waiting to be found
Without their knowing. You look at the ghost and it scares you:
How much you know; remember; will never be allowed to forget.


vauxhall
24.10.2005