THE MISMAZE

poems and doggerel taken from the eponymous weblog

your situation

What's a situation except for this. It is a diamond.
A refracted space of light which appears manifold
But is in fact rigid, as tough as old boots, sprung
Like a trap. You can look at it from different angles
And it always seems different but there is no alteration
To be made to it. This thing, this situation, which is the
Shape of the soul you inherited, you grew into, which
Span its wirewool around a core you would not know you
Possessed. A brain, or a nerve or a spinal column, a limb
Or a muscle or a nail, that thing which is the you which
Is inalienable and around which the atoms swirl, composing
The thing they will say is your character, is you, is un-
Undoable. You are that diamond and that situation and all
The readings and misreadings cannot alter what you are.
So when people urge you to change, when they say, will you
Not learn your lessons, you fool, you must try to filter
That which you should learn can be altered, and that which
You should learn can never be altered for it is what makes you
You. Fool that you are.


26.03.06

little boy

If you chose a pretty kimono when you dressed that morning
At seven say, with much to do in the day, just to get by, you
Would have found the flowers on the print of your kimono
Etched into your skin, by eight, if you belonged to the lucky.

If custom stood you on the wrong side of town, which was
Most of town, hurrying to get to school or work or - you
Would have found yourself carbonated, mid-thought,
Pretty dress, too pretty for me, why is life –

If your eyes survived to see a sight they could but
Comprehend as the predicted end of all things
(Which it also was), then the maggots that will roost
Within you testify. To the endurance of life.


28.03.06

amongst wrestlers

Gorgeous George’s manager’s there, so’s Adrian. Adrian’s
Preening his fingernails at the camera, saying he’s going to
Cause you harm. In the ring. Big Daddy’s playing the straight man.
‘There’ is a hanger in West Croydon. An air extractor churns
Against the fifties roof, affecting sound quality. It’s the sort
Of place where giggling children might have trained to duck
And cover. Duck and cover. Teachers screaming. Stop playing
The fool. Imagine your bones are Halloween X-rays. Kenzo
Nagasaki sits on a crash mat, a knowing look ghosting his
Transexual lips. They’re all going to get it. In the ring.

A Peruvian serves pizza. An artist talks of the art deco
Bravura that was New York. Before it was neutralised by
Gamma rays. Chavez jokes about Dick Tracey, says
If the US invades, there’s no more oil for anyone. He
Muscles up like a wrestler in his tight T-shirts. Shares
Show pony instincts. War’s a vaudeville act. Waged with
An eye to the gallery. Pity the submarine commanders,
Skulking wraiths, with four options come the hour the atoms split:

1: Put yourself in the command of the US, (if it’s still there). 2:
Head for Australia. 3 Retaliate. 4 Use your own judgement.


04.04.06

at moussaoui's trial

They play the last recorded call of a banker, about to meet his death.
A man tells how his son called him from a jet that would soon strike the
Towers. The judge advises prosecutors not to overplay emotional
Evidence, for fear that on appeal, the death sentence might be revoked.
Should the case be 'overly prejudicial'. The defendant had been arrested
For traffic violations, a month before the attacks. The failed conspirator
Watched the planes strike from a prison cell. Had he been guilty of murder,
He would already be dead. Execution might seem a suitable compensation
For a man photographed in winterproof gear at Brixton station. His fate
Will resonate with those whose agonies go unheard in the court of law.


11.04.06

the fire of 1613

They were in the bear pit. Not wanting to fight. Talons
Withdrawn. All of them. Generations and generations of
Merricks. Innocent though tarred with the guilt of blood
Shed in a time and country they had never known. Some-
One swung a hammer, and the bear pit caught fire. A
Thatched roof singing spiss in a late Summer shimmy.
The rain reneged on its contract. The flames fanned by a
Misplaced mistral. The fire burnt for thirty days and thirty
Nights and then it burnt some more, slow burning now,
Flickered menace, a reminder of warmth, the evidence of
Change. When it was burnt through you could not say there
Was nothing left. Like burn marks on skin, there was the
Implication of a form whose meaning was forgotten, or
Beyond any obvious reading. Survivors picked their feet
Through the ash. Foreign breezes sallied forth. Newcomers
Would never have guessed the games (of cruelty, laughter
Tension) that this site had encompassed. If they had
Lived to tell the tale, the bears might have bungled their
Way through the tealeaves of this labyrinth. Chased each
Others tails a laughing. Cavorted in the mismaze.


18.04.06

the advisors

In some things they were wise and knew much
In others they were not and knew little
When they spoke on the things they knew well
Their wisdom radiated. When they spoke on
The things they knew little, their wisdom
Rung hollow, like a damaged cowbell.
The value of their words maligned by an
Over-enthusiasm for their blazing talents.


18.04.06

all lost in the supermarket

can no longer shop happily
came here for the special offer... ...

Mackerel fillets
Sealed to the bone.
Grey-gold flesh straight-
Jacketed, taut
Energy sapped;
Just a bundle
Of moribund
Flavour waiting
To be consumed
Digested, ex-
Creted into
Ocean waste.
This is the fate
Of the shrink wrapped.


29.04.06

back lot

Through the lens of a camera's painted toe
You discover the colour your garden grows.
Green as a river, blue as a peg, dull white
As a ghost. The grain of stone refracts right
Past you; a web page ululates. Shut it.
Or be trapped in an endless gaze of salt.


0506

quarter past

A friend stands outside
On the phone. Saying things
He could not say inside.
People go to bed in the
Upstairs warren. A cai
Pirinha for every decade
Resides within. The day
Is as long as the night is
As long as you keep your
Nerve. A few calls. A game
Or two. Eggs Benedict.
Optimism. Half an hour in
The park which is half an
Hour more than you really
Need. From the park. It all
Adds up. To another day.
No cause for any concern.
Manana is here already.


11.06.06

espejo de pared

[stag afterglow]

Dawn scrapes the lid off the sky.
Having confessed not once not twice
But thrice. Another shot of vodka for my pains.
Purple lines married to yellow tears
Slice through the firmament. So
We danced. We fell over in our stupor.
We night tailed through taxi midnight.
We imbibed. We ascended the stage, were
Displaced, loved, neglected, revered.
We did all those things and more. You and
I. And it''s morning and once again I
Appear to have survived and the Finchley
Futon is kind to my back. Creosote spangles
Teardrops. Light is made of whites and blues.
The fancy dawn is put to bed.

Un espejo de pared looms boxed.
Los albicelestes came through.
I cheered unlike a montevidean.
In a british accent. Shout at the
Devil in the screen, throw foreign
Words like a turn. Saying things
Drunken makes them sound like
Fluency to an untrained ear. Half
A line, how do you cut it and confess
Confess confess. But the priest fails
Me, so I chastise him, regale him with
Insults, wait for the bus, the bus
Will take us home, no matter our sins.
No matter our home. No matter.
The bus that will bring us together
When atoms melt. Welcome to
The stag. Use the Horn to counter
The Fear. Try and make par.
Wind up the bride. Do your thing.


25.06.06

in the gagossian

Flies buzz silently in the severed head
Of a curious cow. Three North American
Women, one with an ankle strapped like
A footballer, wear florid dresses and stare
At flies which buzz silently round the
Severed head of the curious cow.
A watch in a bathroom graced by a
Hypothermic carcase, sinews strapped
With nylon tags, tells no time. Mandarin
Dress pronounces Damien iconic.
On an orange gloss, pinned butterflies
Riff off Garibaldi flies. The women want
More. Muscled staff cart pink and sky
Blue gloss from the wings, still wrapped
In their bounds. A triptych of collectors
Feed on the tricoloured triptych. Flies
Feed on the cow’s eyes. The dresses head to
Inspect Bacon. Butterflies and co retreat
Backstage. We have all evolved; ten minutes
Nearer to sampling the state of the cow.


29.06.06

surveyor

A moorhen dipped beneath the canal’s surface,
Pat-a-cake feet spiralled through verdigris lace.

He wished his mind worked that way, like a clear
Glass to the depths, machinations on display.

It didn’t. His mind was more like the mountains he
Surveyed. The peaks were glistening adverts for the self;

But the valleys were occult, beyond the camera’s
Eye, nefarious or kindly, you could never tell.

Mapping them didn’t help. Marks denoted peaks, zones
Of demarcation, seemingly efficient, but,

In between those marks, white masked the evasive
Valley floor. Transparency a childish dream.

He knew these things. He wasn’t a surveyor for nowt.
The moorhen burst back through the line. It did so cleanly

As though the line
Does not exist.


07.07.06

encircled

In Rotherhithe station you hear water as you wait.
Dripping. Seeping. Projecting a self. You cannot
See it. You peer into the tunnel, suspended
Beneath the inscrutable flow. Southwards lurks
Daylight. A train rumbles. Stuns the water’s whisper.

If you want me to stay, he sung, danced and feinted,
Cocking a snook at th’ invisible cradle which
Crowded the room, chattering its teeth, like water.


21.10.06

OTHER POEMS
04-06

on love

You do the things you do, day in, day out. You do them as well as you possibly can.
They’re no great shakes but they are what you do. People notice but they don’t seem to
Quite notice the way you want them to. They see a picture without the details. Then,
One day, to your complete surprise, or maybe not, someone comes along who does.

See the details.
And you love them.

Because how
Could you not.

They have seen you.
Their seeing makes

You
You.



15.09.04

victoria bus station

Perhaps they were on the thirty six to New Cross,
The passenger that looked down to see an early
Evening couple kissing. On their way home to a
Partner or a pet, to catch the ten o’clock news,
Drink a glass of Californian red, make some calls.
And they thought, for no more than an instant, Fuck, I
Remember once kissing someone like that, I don’t
Remember where or when, but it brings it back, the
Way that dance used to feel, how real it was, like I
Was kissing with all my love wrapped up into that,
I don’t know, that moment, I don’t know, but I do
Remember.

Then the bus rolled away and they
Turned their head to catch a last glimpse of the thing they’d
Forgotten they used to know, but the couple had
Gone or the bus had moved too fast so the
Passenger returned to thinking of how their day
Had gone, the victories and defeats, and the things
They’d like to do if they ever got home.


25.11.04

what lies beneath

A woman with a woolly hat pulled over her eyes on a warm night
Sobbed, over the fence. Quietly, consistently. Like this was a
Way of getting through every evening. I was on the phone, in
Shirtsleeves, in the dark yard at the back of the argentine
Restaurant. Later I’d flip a steak at the grill, throw a chorizo
On the floor. The voice on the other end of the phone laughed.
It made me happy. Hearing its music was part of my way
To get through the evening, and the days that will follow
The evenings.

There’s a hippo on the telly, mud caked.
Pelicans shiver in the snow. A carrot-nosed snowman looks
Like he’s about to weep. It’s another life on the other side
Of the screen. There’s other lives lurking just out of reach.
If you get lucky, one might just slip through a looking glass
Crack. A Siberian tiger rushing the camera, leaps through
The blessed bubble, lands in my lap. Three dimensions
Of tiger stare into my eyes, flesh-lean, weighing me up.
It’s good to have her here, in my sitting room. I’d like to feed her
Wine, see what she has to teach me, hold her tight, kiss her toes.


310305

attributes

Your perfume is cleaner than soap, your fingers sharper than
Sunshine. Your touch more deadly than television, your toes
More agile than a teenage Soviet gymnast. Your smile’s
Prettier than Van Gogh’s dream of flowers; your neck as
Fragile as a galaxy which was spied once, one single night,
On the edge of a night sky, collapsing like a punctured
Accordion; it’s music too sweet for the universe to
Bear. Your mind’s an anaconda and a string quartet.
Your mind’s an undiscovered chamber in the pyramid of
Cheops. Your mind floats like a butterfly and stings like a
Nightingale. Your mind’s as pure as driven wine and as
Wicked as an angel’s. Your mind is rivalled only by your
Flesh in its un-transparent beauty and its transparent
Beauty to boot. Your beauty’s like a bubble, blown by a child.
It shimmers, defies the odds, sustains itself on the point of
Vanishing: should I try to catch it I’ll fear to lose it. Every
Colour wrapped in none, it reflects my world and floats
Within it: a philosophical challenge. Put down the ramp,
Drop the door, let’s travel the bubble together. Visit
Planets beyond the sensory range. Cross untameable
Seas, radical beaches, sulky jungles, runaway cities.
When the bubble’s energy’s spent, ready to pause,
Let her settle on my tongue, a safe haven. Rest there.
Sustain the perfect. Don’t ever burst. Don’t ever burst.



17.04.05

the week

To observe faithfully and seek to be true to those observations.
Was my aim when I began to write in seriousness. A poem
Which paints pictures, which is the journey’s camera, capturing
Those things the machine’s eye cannot see, lost beneath the surface.

Not so hard when the journey was to some farflung place where
The colours, smells and sounds are words and truths in themselves
Desiring expression. But when that journey’s outwards shape
Seems so intangible, shorn of the gloss of the foreign;
How much harder it might be to render that voyage, the one
You and I embarked upon a week ago, last Sunday night.

Some images. A fire blazing in the yard, the Buddha gazing on
Approvingly. A round stone with a round hole on a beach dwarfed
By one of the Seven Sisters (who died in a blaze brought on
By their sin; or are forging a millennial path to their lover,
France). Then another stone with another hole. And then a third.
Old men in white waterproofs playing bowls through the drizzle
Whilst schoolkids sing as they walk. Monks in their robes kneeling in
The park, whilst Buddha gazed on, approvingly. A poor picture
On a pub wall, gaudy colours and childrens’ knees. Birds
On the table, jet plumage, hungry as birds, yet to proud to beg.

Just snippets, you see, from the journey. Jagged moments
Which are captured on paper at the expense of others
Through the selective whim of a poet’s mind. Images
Which drop no more than hints of the actual picture,
Peopled as it is by two protagonists sharing these images,
Making them theirs. Besides these are but the public images.
The private ones are another story, part of a history
Which might be beyond all recording.

The shape of an arched back. The imprint of teeth.
The lover’s gaze as the lover comes, the tender smile
That moment summons; a satisfied smile, satiation
Working both ways when pleasure felt is pleasure
Shared. The pursuit of the mutual. Pleasure
Taken in the way the other eats a piece of chicken,
Or pasta, or croissant. Drinks a sip of wine, mixes
Vodka, gets out of bed; gets into bed. Smiles of a
Morning or smiles at night. Tenses and relaxes.
Suffers at departure, suffers on arrival, bites their lip,
Choosing to smile on departure; relaxes on arrival;
Welcomes the other back into our lives. The moment,
Hands tied, the lover sensed the other’s change.
The conflict in the mind which brings on the conflict
Of a night, pursuit of some aggressive truth
Precipitating disaster; disaster averted in
Another midnight’s act of conciliation, return.
The shape of a touch; the touch of knowledge;
The knowledge of love; love love crazy love.


So these are all words which record movement. Which has
Been shared. When we let the bubble loose, to find out
How far it might travel in a week. Progress sometimes smooth
Sometimes not. Yet in the art of knowing, understanding, which
Could be the art of love, all movement, all time spent,
Seconds ticking, is a progression, a movement that takes the one
Deeper into the heart and soul of the other. There is no down
Time or bad time in the week. All time can do is cast more
Light where there was shadow, open eyes wider to the wonder
Of our luck. No matter how uneven that luck may sometimes
Feel. (3 stones with round holes is no casual piece of luck.)

Would all weeks be akin to this one, were the weeks endless?
They would be akin, but not the same. When lovers are thieves of
Time, their love counts multiple in the time they steal. Yet,
If the art is to pursue the secret heart of the other,
To hold it close and safe, then all weeks should be akin to the one
Whose journey we have just travelled, part of another journey
We shall always be travelling.



19.06.05

materialism

This is not a document which describes the process
Of a journey. It is the process of a memory of that
Journey. Written not in tranquillity, for there is no
Tranquillity to be had outside those moments which
Even together we can struggle to find. So torn in
Pieces by the yin of the yan; the negatives which
Are married to the positive. Nothing blasé or easy-
Going in either of our souls, all the easiness has to be
Wrenched from the soil, dug out with bare hands, finger-
Nails laced with labour-sweat. Until we do unearth our
Nugget of tranquillity. When one or the other will gaze in
Wonder at their luck, that in spite of all something so
Perfect should be there, within touching distance. Neither
Mirage nor fantasy nor even a memory but a living
Thing, unpredictable, framed by the world, skin and clothes,
Toes and fingers, mind and body.

And there you are, seated
Beside me at a pub table in Hammersmith, talking about
Primeval cycles; and there I am, stepping through sheep-shit
On a Sussex path; and there you are, awake and asleep
Beside me as I drive; and there I am, turning lamb-
Burgers, and there we both are, in bed, reaching out to
Find one another there, beside each other, full of love.


20.06.05

solstice

The journey even in the mind has drawn to a close
For we have met again, and it is all new again
There is no reflection, just a dizzying sense of –
Self and selflessness.

A newer understanding of the four
Letter word which kept us up all night last Thursday,
Which I am so wary of, which infiltrates the way we
See and think and touch and smell. I resist the word.
I am in no position to embrace it. Then you hit me over
The head with its overwhelming truth: that appropriation
Of the soul.

Of my soul. It is far beyond desire. Desire is
Cute but it is not hard-edged. Desire is for children. Love
Is hard-edged, dangerous, the fiercest beast in the jungle.
Desire is a pussy cat, lovely to play with. Love is a wild
Cat. It can tear your heart out like an Aztec priest.
It has no sense of decorum or restraint. It is cannibal
And vegan. A saint on a plinth in the Sinai desert or the
Last living warrior, scarred, fighting for her very existence.

We have known all these things, known them all
Along. We look into each other’s eyes, knowing what
Lurks there, out of sight

A moth flies into the halogen bulb.
It bounces away, disappears. A night so full of beauty
Is a night full of peril.

Hold my hand. Wherever it may be
That we find ourselves headed. Hold it tight. Not like a
Friend. Hold it like a lover. Your strength is deceptive.
There is safety in that strength.


21.06.05

untitled

One could be called careless. Having frittered a fortune away.
The other might be called callous. Having stabbed a sick child
In the neck. Careless watched as the blood spurted. Callous
Walked away. Careless held the child as it spasmed, Jesus,
This was never meant to happen. Callous’ laughter echoed
In the void. Says who, bare-faced clouds heard Callous say.


05.06

scarborough

The sound of my written voice leaves me cold,
Echoed by shrill seagulls. Tethered by train
Timetables. Homelessness. Isolated
As a skiff in a Northern sea. The sound
Of my written voice feels like a song
Lacking bass, tinny, surfing, in fear of
Other worlds, (deep down blue). As lost as the
Shirt sleeved blokes who drink lager in the
Noon day sun; The woman on paved stone,
Black hair spilling from her anxiety brain.
My written voice reaches for torn roots,
For skies it’s never flown through. It listens
To a former self and chuckles like a drunk
Laughing at the picture of a soul it knew
Before the drink took hold. The sun sets
On Scarborough and my written voice
Totters in the shadow of memory.


07.06

public disclosure

This space defines the boundaries of the sayable.
It’s not impossible to write: I hate you you cunts I
Hope you all die in a pottery kiln. Or: I love you your
Sweat smells of heaven. Or: my god what a mess I’ve
Made of my life. Or: sex is a laugh isn’t it? Or: sex is a
Nightmare isn’t it? Or: did you really shoot me in the
Foot or was that just my imagination? Or: the flowers
Are sooooo pretty in my mind. In fact you can say what
The fuck you want. That’s the beauty and the challenge.
To choose what you say. As well as what you don’t say.


09.06