on a train heading east

If you were to ask how I felt, I would reply:
Permanently drunk. Drunk on dislocation.
Drunk as a split person who knows his
Sober self resides within but cannot be
Accessed because the opiates have shut
Him out of his own sober mind. Who stands
In two hemispheres, doesn’t even try to
Walk the line, befuddled by twin climates,
Languages, states of self. Lost in a blizzard
Of scripts, stories, fears and hopes. His head
Covered to protect him from the sun’s glare,
An Arctic sun which rains all the time and
Also burns. I am drunk on 24 hour English;
Unlimited Skype; tragic tales; the mundanity
Of city life. When do I sober up? And where?
In a ditch? At ‘home’? Speaking in tongues?


28.01.11

+++

Priors Barton Adieu

A picture in the paper of birds in flock, which takes me back
To those days I’d walk across the fields, primed to vault the
Gate and scale the wall and break into my home, and as
I crossed the green lawn, dusk beckoning, the trees turning,
A swarm of swallows or swifts or some other species would
Pirouette in unison through three degrees, gathered
For one last hurrah before the voyage out, or home,
Depending on their point of view. I’d stand and stare and
Envy their departure to lands enchanted, dusky summer
Nights, tirelessly rolling out like the great green sward
I strolled across, on the way to my home, which now stands
This morning, on the very tip of dispossession, as we
Fly the roost for the final time, leaving the curved bay
Behind, setting forth on our voyage out, or home,
Depending on the perspective we choose to take.



7th November 2007 09.30am

+++

Copacabana, Sunday Afternoon

Fluid lines of black and white mosaic unfold
Beneath your feet. The Impressionist carpet.
Youngsters in their toy cars, Peruvian
Trinket-sellers, handball players, volley-
Ballers, families, tourists, zero-eyed
Beach bums, surfers, millionaires and paupers
Jockey for space, of which there is no sense of
Shortage. In the midst of this throng, a bunch of
Scruffy orphans fight over popcorn, squabbling
Like miscreant kittens, a whiff of favela,
As though by design. At a bar table drinking
Jugos of some yet-to-be-named fruit, three players
Assess a gun magazine, calibrating
Kill efficiency against aesthetics
Like true collectors, killer nerds. A youth
Shins up a coconut tree, throwing unripe fruit
At his friends, who pose for the camera. This is
The anarchic, democratic colony of
Copacabana, where every face fits, all souls
Are deemed equal.

+++

Hills

It seems against nature for a city to evolve
In a landscape such as this. Cities seek order,
Evenness, coherence. Instead, Rio surges
Out of the land like a drunken sailor,
All knees and elbows. Tunnels and bridges
Breach the geographical divide; join
The dots. Look up by night and a million
Spots of light speckle hillsides like a childhood
Dream of what the city might be: beach and cliff and
Bay, a home for elves, superstars and errant fairies.


+++

Bomba

For breakfast a concoction made from
Acai, guarana, peanut, protein, more.
As dense as a Cairngorn fog. Fuel for
Morning, afternoon, night and the month to come.

+++

Mosquito Wars 5.30 am, Montevideo

Seven, eight, nine perfect welts. White
Havens of blood-sucking frenzy. I scratch
The contemplation of a skin stripped bare
Of: nut-brown ale (natch); must (natch).
The whisper of cowslip in an unsung
Heat-haze. The threat of dandelion.
Round tables with forked iron breath.
Last orders. Breath like fire-flies in
The night made of ice-cream. Coal
Black ice-cream. Swans gliding down
A black river like a living movie from
The days before film existed. Swans
Like a mobile in a child’s bedroom.
Nut brown ale (natch): must (natch).
The snap that brings a day of bright
Terrier cold when you walk past spider
Webs frozen in an image of optimism.

+++

RUSSIA 08

Kasimir: What Happened?

The New Tretyakov gallery, near Gorky Park
Shows 20th Century Russian art. At the turn
Of the last century, Cezanne’s influence is
Evident. Later, The Jack of Diamonds movement,
Founded in Moscow, emerges, blessed with its
Vivid, rough-hewn brushwork and a Fauvist palette.
Malevich belonged to it, but only briefly.
By 1915 he’d created his Black Square,
Which does exactly what it says on the tin: a
Work of savage purity which blew up art and
Made it start again. Two years later politics
Caught up. The ambition of Constructivism
Dovetailed with the ambition of Revolution.
For five years, Malevich, Tatlin and co explored
The edges of form, pushing it past inconceived
Boundaries. Then, the energy waned. Russian art
Began the long drift towards Social Realism.
Malevich’s work ceases to feature. Save for one
Piece from around 1930, called Sisters. A
Figurative picture showing two sisters, daubed in
Dull pastels . The avatar of modernity
Turned into a chocolate box craftsman. At which point
The Revolution could be called that no more.
Kasimir Malevich died in nineteen thirty
Five. He was accorded a state funeral and
Revered as a hero of the USSR.

The All Russia Exhibition, Moscow

Set in a large park, the exhibition was created by
Stalin and called, initially, The Exhibition of
Economic Achievements. It features extravagant
Pavilions dedicated to every corner of the USSR:
The Georgia Pavilion, the Karelian, and so on.
At the centre, in front of a vast Lenin statue, is
The House of the Peoples of Russia, behind which
Is The Fountain of the Friendship of Peoples.
The site is capped by two Aeroflot jets and a
Duplicate of the rocket that took Gagarin into space.
(Disconcertingly cramped, man in space in a
Baked bean can.) Where once denizens of the
Soviet Republic marvelled at its glories, now the
Site is overrun by teenagers on roller blades;
Pumping Eurotrash which booms from strategic
Speakers; fast food joints; whilst the pavilions
Are devoted to tacky trade fairs selling computer
Parts or furry toys. Lenin looks on as a bright blue
Tellytubby prances below.

It’s as if the place
Has been remodelled to mock the regime which
Aimed so high only to fall so low. But this notion of
Design is misleading. All that’s happened is the old
Has been displaced by the new. The old may frown
At the brashness of its successor, but its forefathers
Felt the same way. No doubt the sparrows look at
Each stage of human development in bafflement,
Remembering the glory of a world before creatures
Walked on two legs and began chirruping
Their incessant, meaningless twitter.

The Mayakovsky Museum, Moscow

A deconstructed shell of a building
Ripped to pieces and re-assembled
With all the clutter of his life and
Myth scattered like grapeshot, at the heart
Of which lies a small, untouched study,
Containing a desk, a divan, a
Fireplace and a picture of Lenin.
With a blunt gesture, the guide explains this
Is where the poet shot himself in the head.

Notes on the Ceremony

In one of several cathedrals contained within
The Kremlin of Segiev Posad, one of various
Never-ending services is taking place. The
Cathedral is a baroque, high-ceilinged hall,
Brightly frescoed, with hundreds of people
Gathered, negotiating their personal
Prayer space. The choir sings a constant refrain.
Light gate-crashes the prayers’ line of sight.
Head-scarved women cross themselves as they
Enter, and when the service dictates. Some
Have brought foot-stools for later in the day,
Others bag the benches on the sides, the
Only seating space. Devotees kiss relics.
A mobile phone goes off and is absorbed by
The energy of worship. I think of church
Services I attended as a child, dull in
Comparison to this palpable passion,
Bottled up for seventy years by the
Communists. Awaiting its release,
In spite of Soviet attempts to refract
It unto the fading glory of their cause.

The End of the Road

We drove cross-country, North East from Suzdal,
Towards a pretty town whose name I can’t
Recall, crossing meadows saturated
In wildflower, dusted by morning rain.
Reaching a small town with seven exits,
We took one leading to a road marked
Brown, not yellow, on the map. A Russian
Driving ahead turned round. The brown road was
Indeed brown, a gloopy quagmire. After
A hundred squelchy yards we reversed,
Discretion being the better part of valour.
Returning to the seven tongued town we
Opted for a safer, yellow route. This
Too proved to be a blighted track, the top
Layer of tarmac a memory of
Long-spent tyres. But it took us in the right
Direction, leading to a hamlet six
Kilometres from our destination.
Before deteriorating. After
The rain, it was no more than a sequence
Of gravel lakes. We cajoled the unwilling
Hire car through the treacherous pits, inching
Forward, awaiting the rending of an
Axle or the demise of the suspension.
Finally, we reached a raised, concrete track,
Of sorts. The car bumbled through a
Terrifying landscape of reed and giant
Yellow weeds. Midges bombed the windscreen.
After a meagre kilometre the
Concrete came to a sudden stop. Ahead
Lay more gravel pits, muddied, rain-soaked,
Stretching into the visible distance.
A four by four or a dirt bike might have
Done the job. But in a tin-can hire-car
In the fly-blown heart of Russia, we had
Reached our point of no return. Like so
Many other invaders before us, we
Conceded defeat, turned on our tails, and fled.

In the Monastery (Suzdal)

The monastery is the size of a village. Its
Fortified walls enclose a hotchpotch of towers,
Churches and tourists. It hums with the sound of a
Thousand twangling instruments. The campanologist
Peeling his eleven o’clock solo, competes
With a team of rubber booted lawn strimmers, who
Compete with the drills of building workers, enjoined
In more restoration of the Russian soul. In
The monastery’s museum of decorative
Art, all notes are written in Cyrillic, far from
My comprehension. I stare in ignorance at
A thousand years worth of rings, pendants, winding sheets,
Bishop’s robes, goblets, crucifi, icons and the
Rest, fragments from another, parallel, culture.

Dawn over Suzdal

Clustered crows reel overhead, cawing for the night being lost
To day, when their dominion’s supplanted by god and man,
Those tolerated foes. One day they’ll attack, tearing the
Lead from brute spires which invaded the sky so long ago;
Pecking flesh like the bloodthirsty mosquitoes, (already
Taking breakfast). The sky inverts. Flamingo pinks pale to
Pallid blue. The streets of Suzdal are empty, its churches,
Monasteries and convents dedicate to the glory of
Christ. The stand-off between meadow, reed, flower and white-washed walls
As fierce, yet tranquil, as it has ever been, or shall be.

Vladimir

Russia’s previous capital, the town’s three hours drive from Moscow,
Down a straight road which leads to Siberia, renamed ‘The Road of
Enthusiasm’ by the Soviets. It’s cathedral contains
The grave of Alexander Nevsky. At Lake Pepius he lead
The Russians to victory against the heavily armoured Teu-
Tonic Knights, who crashed through the ice. The cathedral’s being restored.
Yellow plastic sacks adorn golden chandeliers. Masons lay floors
Between baroque angels and frescoes so old they can barely whisper.

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

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

SPAIN

Toledo

In Poe’s Pit and Pendulum, a prisoner is subjected to
Inquisition tortures in a Toledan cell, overseen by
Unseen eyes. When you buy the convent marzipan
A chirpy, but invisible female voice conducts
Negotiations via a revolving wooden trapdoor.

They are running short of Spanish nuns. Novices are
Imported from Sri Lanka, the Philippines or Bolivia.
The holy immigrants stand in convent courtyards,
Chatting and smiling shyly as secular first world
Tourists drift past, soaking up historical ambience.

The city used to be a mescla of Visigoth, Jew, Moor
And Christian. Until the Reconquista banished every
Heretic trace. Save in the architecture. Only now do
Craft shops boast of their fine Damesquado, an art
Secreted through time by beauty, in spite of doctrine.

Religion saturates. A bent-double nun is guided out of a
Cab by a novice who smiles and corrects us assertively.
Mosques, synagogues and churches blend into one. A sign
On a restored house in the Jewish quarter welcomes Jews,
Palestinians and other Arab visitors to pass through its doors.

on the AVE, Toledo to Madrid

Fields blanched by frost. Sun a slow-falling
Twopenny piece. Clumps of fat-bellied trees,
Apeing overfed peasants. Half-built suburbs in
Skeletal ascendant. Fields pitted with white rock.
Stunted warehouses. Freshly-tarmaced roads
Brought to a Caesarian halt by rail tracks.
Monuments to old gods. Strutting pylons, proud
As punch. Sky catching hell-fire. City walls.


29.11.05

atrapado

Atocha station looks fantastic.
On its concourse a small jungle can
Be found, hydrated by techno-
Sprays, hung from slender poles.

The ticket office is made of marble.
Computerised with digital screens and
The prettiest station clocks that ever
Ticked. Just don’t try buying a ticket.

First you must collect your number.
Then discover your number is seven
Weeks from the ticket booth. Seven
Weeks later the computers are down.

Should the system ever work, the odds are
There’s no room on the train, which left three
Days ago. Why go to a station to catch a
Train, when you can go there to explore the jungle?


27.11.05

in the bank

An old woman asks me where I’m from
Wrongly guessing Bolivia. All her questions
Have answers attached. She asks if Madrid
Is not muy bonito? She asks if its people
Are not friendly? Two minutes later she’s
Chatting to someone else. In so doing she
Misses her turn in the queue. An old
Curmudgeon reproaches her. You were
Chatting, he shouts. You lost your place!
He jumps ahead, saying: It serves you right.


29.11.05

casa velasquez

A Spaniard talks on the phone. In the
Casa Velazquez. Something’s
Unstable. Smacks of simmering
Cauldron. Watch the fire. Don’t feed it
Too fast. He pitches and rolls in
Blunt Castellano. Behind are the fir-
Covered hills. A hazy sun seeps through
A pekinese sky. The wall the window
Frames was once a frontline. The hills
Belonged to Fascists. These walls
To their opponents. The bullet rico-
Chet danced across the lawn. The
Spaniard keeps talking. The phone’s
A control valve. He talks about his
Project: no way back home. He’s
Strung out like a sniper. Each call
A shot in the dark. Blind hope of
Hitting targets. It’s a phoney war.
Him on his side of the room, me on
Mine. The hills behind us. The
Silent struggle ever constant.


25.11.05

borracho

Digo: Mi vida es lleno de complicaciones.
Un tipo con quien estoy hablando dije:
Espero que no seas como el Fabrizio.

Y asi es. En la vida de trans-idioma.
Lo que alguien tiene, crudo, al frente
De su cabeza, es imposible a traducir.

Entonces. Entonces nada. La perdida
Es perdida. Lo que sabe su funcion
Esta bien. Lo de mas: navigar con suerte.


25.11.05

JUST A FEW RANDOM PIECES

Apologies for uncredited appropriation of photos, hope forgiven.

The Second Session with The Kemp

Took place in his bedsit, not visited in eight years.
A camp Trinidadian prowled the stairs. The room had room
For two chairs. I learnt that time could be dependent
On entropy. The universe is thirteen point
Seven billion years old. Sir Henry Sinclair
Reached Massachusetts in thirteen ninety eight.
The Phoenicians devised the world’s first phonetic
Alphabet. To see back in time you’d need to travel
Faster than light. A striped barber’s pole is derived
From the work of the algebristas, who set bones and
Drew blood between shaves. Algebra was invented
In ninth century Baghdad, twelve centuries after
Berossus told the Greeks of the fishman, Oannes,
Who brought geometry and all things humane into
Sumeria, where the first words were written on
Tablets of Clay. A supernova flares with the light
Of a million suns. In our skies they can be seen
Living and dying for no more than a few weeks.
Most of the universe is dark matter, beyond
Our discerning. I left at eleven after
Noodles, chicken and a glass of white wine.
Borges was with me, travelling through time.

12.02.04

Death by Water

A mother breaks a hole in a bathroom window
Pushes her child through to the other side

Not knowing what’s there or what waits for her.
Surely it’s just an act of hysteria, something from

The movies, these things don’t really happen
To us, but - go through anyway, just in case

I’ll be round in a minute, water can’t keep on
Rising like an unlimited cake, can it, but hurry

Just in case it can, and this is real and I am about
To drown. Hurry now and go as high as you can

Climb to the top of the mountain, to a place that
You’ve never even seen, and maybe, just maybe

We’ll meet there. But the child’s gone now, running
Away from the sound of water, and there’s not even

Time to catch that last breath, before it’s gone. The
Mother seized by a world beyond any world she ever

Even guessed at, far from the hotel, the towels, the pool,
Out into the deep, the blue, the beyond accounting,

To a land immune from the dreams we float in
A place so quiet and still it feels like nowhere on earth.


040105

The Plumbing

For months there has been a leak under the sink.
A steady drip from the pipe with a blue tap. The
Water drips loudly at night, silently by day. It turns
The Cupboard floor into a swamp. Who knows what
The floorboards look like beneath. Glue seeps out of
The cupboard joints. The door hangs at a blistered
Angle. The water table rises, in the end the whole
Kitchen will flood, we’ll be out of our depth, up
To our eyes in the stuff.

Periodically I go to work
On the leak. I use my grandad’s old rusty spanner,
Something out of the stone age, which looks more
Like a tool for dead-heading Kray brothers than
Mending leaks. The spanner is unwieldy. It helps
Stem the tide for a while, nothing more. The water
Fights back and I’m slithering on the floor again
Spanner slipping, cosmetic improvement, nothing more.

Then, yesterday, I had a brainwave. I could place a pan
Under the leak. The pipe still drips, but the cupboard floor
Stays dry. So long as I remember to empty the pan once
A day, a pleasant enough habit, my plumbing problems
Are held at bay.

One day, I know, I shall have to take a drastic
Step. Buy a new spanner, or call in the experts. The plumbing
Is not fixed, it’s stop-gapped. But for now I can continue working
In my kitchen, the threat of drowning dealt with, the tide turned
Back.


060405

New Year Cull

Round the back of my way
The Christmas trees are put out
To grass. They sit on the
Pavement, Unnaturally
Tilted, pointing the way
To a distant star,
Tiny radars each and
Every one, reading the new
Year runes. A year that doesn’t
Belong to them, in which
Their participation is
Almost already done.

060105

BERLIN

All the Berlin poems were written on 24th November 2005.

Treptower Park

History appeared to belong to the victors.
A landscaped park. At one end, twin slabs of
Anvilar stone framing a plaque on which
The dates 1941 - 1944 are written.
Facing this plaque, a giant holds child and
Sword, crushing a swastika underfoot.
A dozen matching stone plinths guard the
Perimeter. On each is inscribed a quote from
Josef Stalin. Carved German tanks fall eternal
To heroes of the Soviet Republic. Beyond these
Po-faced guards lurk trees, weeping faded
Leaves through Autumn’s maelstrom.

nach Weberwiese

An avenue as broad as the Mississippi.
Fronted by mock classical, sub-palatial
Apartments. Splendour of the democratic
Republic. Humans off the scale. Not a
Foot soldier in sight. In a Teuton bower,
Beneath fake plastic trees, two souls grapple
Within the utopian shadow. Fending off
Mushrooms. Trying to find sense in atoms,
Veins, bricks and brains whose composition
Seems unalterable, and yet… the world
Shimmies round such constants. The avenue’s
Semiotics are skewed. Its very name, Karl-
Marx Allee, takes on a meaning never
Conceived as foundation stones were laid.
Alteration lies not in mass, but in velocity; the
Night air. The changes charged as history.

east/west

I can recall lying awake in a foreign bed,
Inhabited by a vague dread of the other
Side of the wall. The end of that world.
Night sounds boxed into new shapes by a
Subtle claustrophobia. The other day, we
Strode across the boundary, leapt the
Hemispheric divide. Only the traffic lights
Signal a trace of the lost divide. Still.
Beyond the Mexican joints, the empty
Checkpoint, the liberated bars; beyond
Marketing and architecture;
The East remains the East. The West’s
Antipode. The weight of time might elapse
Unto collapse, but this will still hold true.

a naum gabo sculpture

At first sight it looks like bits of cardboard
Glued together. Stretching out into the world.
On second sight its a new vision of form. It
Might be a woman or a dog. Or anything. Who
Cares? It’s the past’s statement of what
Future’s possible might have been.

monday morning

Seven am. A foreign city. Dark outside. More
Muddled sleep flecked with slippery dream.
The hotel shower clothes a body in mist.
Dewdrops gleam. Water masks water. Lean
Against tiles. Capture time. Emerge no
Newer than before. Shrouded before dawn.

A SOUTH AMERICAN JOURNAL

SEPTEMBER – NOVEMBER 2004


Take it as it comes.

THROUGH THE SQUARE WINDOW

Two vertical slices of white marmolean
Concrete, interrupted by a stray sprig of green,
A weed re-asserting the rights of nature.

To the right, a dozen flat identical balconies
Press against pristine white like a perpetual 2-D
Porn still. Cut by the tenderness of a curve,

Revealing sky; a subtler, brighter shade of white,
Which clings to the top right hand section of the square,
Fighting its corner in the jungle of the cities.


Sao Paulo 15.09.04

THE WEDDING OF MATTHEW AND MACARENA,

A clutch of monkeys, tails held high, amble
Across the lawn. Capybara loll. They
Move a muscle no more than once an hour.
Barbed-winged birds swoop in aggressive defence.

On our way to the chapel, trees danced a crazy
Samba. Lightning flashed and bamboo poles split. The
Priest turned up with minutes to spare. Violins sawed
Out of tune, flashbulbs popped, both bride and groom smiled tears.

In a thatched cabin a dozen nationalities and
More gathered to festejar. I found myself, pre-speech nerves,
Chatting to an ex-marine, more scared of argentine
Drivers than the near-miss of a Baghdad roadside bomb.

The samba sprawled long into the night. Caped
Crusaders, feet flying in flip flops, fuelled by Cai
Pirinha, music, love. The storm passed, the stars
Dined out, toasts all done and tears turned to laughter.

sao paulo 20.09.04

SAYONARA SAO PAULO

(8th Wedding Anniversary)

(Lunch had been sushi on Liberdade, a tip
From Ciara. She and Steve still dancing with Serb chess
Champs, African Republics, sharp-eyed Berettas.)

Our bus left at nine pm. It’s stopped twice,
At one, then four, nighthawks boarding in name-
Less towns; Campo Grande scheduled for dawn.

Gotham left behind, city that sparkles
By night like diamonds on the heel of your
Fist, deadpans by day with its dull veneer.

A Gotham where helicopters buzz like
Giant bugs; the real bugs breed like rabbits;
Butterflies colonize concrete corners;

People smile through pollution’s teeth, fruitsellers tout
Pineapple, guava, music. The Brazilian boom-
Boom, rhythm of the ant-hill, poised to explode.


on the bus 21/22.09.04

THE BR262 THROUGH THE PANTANAL

Two lane blacktop cuts through a wilderness the size
Of France. Nature preens. Jacaré, ibis, storks, marsh
Deer, birds of prey, potent trees in yellow, purple, pink
Spring bloom. It hems us in. To cap it all day is
Turned a lurid orange night, the rain assaults, her
Top dog status screams across the streaming windows.

Corumba awaits at the road’s end. Next stop
Bolivia. There’s a festival. We are whisked
Into a local dance; watch short films in the open
Air; enlist assistance from the motorcycle cops
To track down the lost bar. Then eat beneath the stars,
Tucked into our corner of good natured concrete.


corumba 23.09.04

THE SHOE MISSION

My wife tried on her twelfth pair of boots. The salesman,
White-haired, chubby, spoke a spotted English. His wares
Were cheap and plentiful. On the back wall, posters
Promoting the Palestinian intifada.
His mother lives in Ramallah, calls him twice a
Month. He left thirty years ago. Helena passed
On the purchase. He shrugged, too Brazilian to care.


corumba 23.09.04

CAMPING IN THE PANTANAL

Whilst Seong Whan, a Buddhist monk on leave from his Korean
Temple, tended the fire, Bosco, our guide, switched on his torch,
Pointing it at the far bank. A dozen pairs of red
Eyes, maybe more, glinted back. Caiman, poised in the
Shade of the moon for their nightly fish feast.

Earlier, piranhas had outwitted humans, scooping
Red meat off our fishing lines at will. When the bones of the
Few that had been hooked (Flesh flaky, thin, pallid)
Were thrown back in the river, the water seethed
In a cannibalistic supper snack.

Piranha versus caiman, who wins? Bosco told us that
When the piranha get snappy, the caiman flip over,
Swimming upside down. Get your teeth into that
Scaly back. All through the night there’s the sound of
Reptiles splashing around. Good wholesome fun.

I confess to not sleeping well in the fragile tent. Dreams
Of Mick Jagger being solicitous; an attack dog,
Tethered, caught in its leash, circling in a bid to
Escape. I got up before dawn, watched light return,
Savoured the chorus of a haunting monkey wail.


the pantanal (somewhere within) 24.09.04

PESTS

Assiduous mosquitoes have targeted Helena’s legs.
They’re speckled like a child with chicken pox. Her sleep ruptured,
She cries out in frustration, fighting the urge to itch.

the pantanal (somewhere within) 26.09.04

ESA POEMA E DEDICADO A BOSCO

Bosco flapped a T-shirt in its face. The anteater stood
Up on its hind legs, hissing like a surly little white-
Bellied man, before scuffling away into the bush.

The second night of camping was easier than the first.
The caiman kept their distance. Our sleep was fuelled by
Caipirinha, heady fumes warding off evil spirits.

With Fred and Emilie, Marseillais, we used four tongues to
Dissect a continent. Bosco said that what matters in
Tales of his country is not what’s told, but what’s omitted.

Bosco, the Pantaneiro, who took us across the threshold of his
Home, a home the size of France. Who made urban fears seem foolish,
Teaching us how to swim beside piranhas; they will not bite.


the pantanal (somewhere within) 26.09.04

WORDS OF A PANTANEIRO

Some of them come here and they say, the Pantanal
Is disappointing, because they come here thinking
You can switch on nature like you can a TV set.
They don’t know you cannot make demands on nature,
It will give what it can, you must take what it offers.
So you don’t see pumas or anacondas or toucans.
But perhaps you will be lucky and see the red or blue
Macaw or monkeys or coati or the anteater.
You cannot fail to see caiman. And even if you saw
None of that, you should know that to lie in a hammock on
An afternoon too hot for dogs is part of the Pantanal,
A part of the life we lead, the world that you have visited.



the pantanal (somewhere within) 26.09.04

BOLIVIA: FIRST TAKE

Mud caked roads. A woman shouting at the border
Guard, saying she wouldn’t pay a 2 Real bribe.
Money changers under your nose. A taxi driver
With an English car, steering wheel ripped out and stuck
On the left hand side, speedometer staring at
The passenger, reading zero. He talks non-stop.
About the gringo he worked for years ago who taught
Him how to work and seduced the local women.

The station manned by twin teenage paramilitaries,
White helmets, white truncheons, guns. The waiting room a
Minimal, spartan model: plastic chairs, bare walls,
Strip lighting, flickering TV, fire extinguisher.


puerto suarez 29.09.04

EL TREN DE LA MUERTE

Despite threatening to go off the rails, the worst the
Death Train had to offer was a dubbed Julia Roberts
Flick. The red-haired woman sitting next to me had her first
Child at fifteen and a Liverpudlian grandfather.
The train was held for four hours at San José de
Chiquitos. She saw nothing British in the length
Of this delay. Menacingly, the only key to the
Baggage Hold was lost; they stabbed it open with a steak knife.

Santa Cruz is low slung, colonial. Indian
Faces with pacific features barely give me
A second glance. The sore thumb Mennonites are the
True exotics, in wide brimmed hats, Edward Hopper
Dungarees, thick-set spectacles. I am still in
The hot heart of the continent, so far from the
Rest of the world it seems little wonder every
Other shop should want to be an internet café.


santa cruz 30.09.04

GRINGO LANDIA

A Bolivian plays Bolivian music. Too loud?
No-one listens. A hassled English couple - too close? -
Bicker. Then flee. Three American girls cry an
Endless litany of their next stop details. One
Says she took an overnight train in China, and
Next day slept in til three. Two Aussies and a Brit
Pick Potosi to pieces. The Bolivian
Switches to Simon and Garfunkel. A Spanish
Couple eat discretely, saying little. I am
Drinking chicha for the first time in my life.


a restaurant, la paz 1.10.04

LA PAZ

The air is thin. It runs up the sides of the hills.
Life hovers above, perched… By night the city
Turns constellation, twinkling down on its centre.

The women appear to do all the work. They cart
Kilos strapped into bright blankets. With layers of skirt
Sweeping ankles, bowlers lodged at dandy angles.

Could be anything in one of those blankets, as
Everything is up for sale. Later, the women
Make niches on their stall where, curled-up cats, they snooze.

The spirit of the marketplace spills out all over.
Minibuses hire souls to scream out the window
As they hurtle past, advertising empty seats.

You can buy a phone call or a ratchet or an
Amulet or a stuffed leopard or coca leaves
Or a pachamama or dried herbs or flowers.

On the slopes of Sagarnaga, breathless gringos
Pick out aggressive bargains: blankets, hats, ponchos.
Authentic Boliviana to show the folks.

I join the hunt. The women are firmly grounded
On the supply side. They bid you to check out their
Wares. Feigning dependence on us, their consumers.


la paz 2.10.04

THE PROCESSION OF LA IGLESIA DE LA ROSARIO

No way of doing justice to what the eyes could see.
Men in silver, pipe-smoking masks, dressed as wedding
Cakes. Formation dancing women wearing lime green
Skirts and brown bowlers; men in suits and tie, tubas
Balanced in the palms of their hands. Long-coated
Dudes in shades with snare drums. Crazy Inca kids, bells
On their legs and puma furs, flying like condors,
Landing belly up on the dirt, immune to pain.
Inscrutable features coated in feathers and smiles,
Dancing in their streets, tripping the light fantastic.

When the procession ends, the stalls of Illampu
Remove their wares. Benches and lightbulbs are rigged up
So a hundred makeshift bars can be born. Music
Competes with music til dawn, when the drunken
Devotees still stagger through the streets, mopping up
The dregs of chicha, cerveza, whisky and wine.


on lake titicaca 3.10.04

COPACABANA

High on the rocks above Lake Titicaca at
The Huerco de los Indios are two standing
Stones, bridged by a plinth. They may have been a
Sacrificial altar or a sundial, no one’s
Too sure. Below, the girl who collects Diez
Bolivianos, when you’ve gasped your way
Half way to the summit, plays the pipes.
The music floats like a hummingbird.


copacabana 3.10.04

THE BIRTH PLACE OF THE WORLD

The Incas believed it all started here, on the Isla de Sol,
Called ‘Inti’ in Aymarac. In the ruins of their temple
High above the world, you can still trace a circuit of
Existence. Peruvian hills to the West fade
In the late afternoon. Chasing their tail to become
Bolivian hills, which turn into far Eastern snow-
Capped peaks, a studded chain that points the way for the
Sun to rise again. The temple is no more than
A few stones now, artfully arranged like a totem
Of what these stones must once have meant. As though
The world they emerged from, were shaped within, had all
But disappeared. Yet in a nook, in a half-cut
Coca Quina bottle, someone has left a spray of white
Flowers. A tribute to gods still at large, their gifts still craved.
The sun falls away. Above the white-blue-purple clouds,
The mountains are made gold. At the death, Inti is hidden
Yet the mountains still gleam. An alchemy to which I too
Belong, revealed to me at my journey’s furthest edge.

isla de sol 04.10.04

CONTRAST

A week ago I was fending off mosquitoes,
Scrapping in sandals, drinking a beer. Today I’m
Sweatered up, blistered by boots, gazing past chilly
Waters at mountains dressed in white. Drinking a beer.


isla de sol 05.10.04

SOME OF THE THINGS EUSEBIO TOLD US

We drank throaty red wine in Eusebios’s bar. Yvette, one
Of three Catalans, asked him to tell the legend of the
Lake. She wanted it to be romantic. Stood beside the
Fire, he told how, before the sun was born, people lived in
Obscurity. They guessed that by mating the masculine
Promontory of Isla del Sol with the feminine
Promontory of Copacabana, things might change. So
The sun appeared. I missed a lot of details. We all
Spoke in second language Spanish. Eusebio’s father
Only spoke Aymarac. He came from eight generations
Of islanders who lived to a hundred. CNN had been
To his bar. Bringing scientists to root out the tunnels,
One of the island’s million secrets. Across to Puno.
Or the Isla de la Luna. Where the virgins were kept.
And one sacrificed, every hundred years. Now they kill a
Sheep. There are three computers on the island, but no-one
Knows how to use them. He told us that the Incas were still
Incas. Nothing had changed. What matters is the way you think.

isla de sol 5.10.04

LA PAZ: IN THE JEWISH RESTAURANT

I lost a notebook with details of the Inca
Champion pulled to pieces by a horse at each limb,
Nicely captured by a museum waxwork model.

A city given this name must be asking for trouble.
Earlier a dog was caught in a microbus’ wheels, turned
360 degrees twice, then thrown, limp, onto the verge.

Back on the Isla del Sol, Eusebio observed that life
Had always been kinder beyond the city, always would be,
Even if you had to cart your water uphill, twice a week.

His young son, in full Batman gear, flew around the bar,
Captured a Brummie banker’s heart. He’d lose his bearings
Here, mapping the hill-climbing stars, world turned upside down.

The beer is full of fizz. Altitude stimulates bubbles.
It’s nosebleed country. A woman sits at the next table
Chatting away, clutching a cloth, trying to stem the flow.

People gossip in Yiddish. Order in Aymarac, English,
Quecha, Catalan. Every tongue bar Spanish seems to thrive.
Resistance to conquest persists. It has become linguistic.

la paz 6.10.04

POTOSI

Was once the biggest town in the Americas.
Also the richest. It made the pieces of eight
Pirates dreamt of plundering. Imported its food
From the coast. Produced more silver than anywhere
Else, ever.

The silver was taken from the mountain which hangs over
The city, Cerro Rico. Held sacred by the Incas,
A Pachamama, untouchable. But when the Spanish
Learnt what lay beneath, they sent the slaves to work, milked them
To death.

Some say the silver bankrolled Europe’s growth, financed the
Conquest of the globe. It’s not done much for Bolivian
Development. Helped build some fancy churches; Unesco
Patronage. But in the streets the locals, raw-toed in sandals,
March.

They march round the square, demanding justice, demanding it
Now. Dogs copulate on street corners. Children beg for sweets.
Cold and dust and the piss-stench of poverty: Potosi
Has none of the grandeur of some faded European
Beauty.

It is poor and life is hard. All the fine-looking churches
And all the silver which passed through its mint, all the
Wealth it’s produced, spent now, by strangers, have left the
Marchers nothing. They must be tempted to rip it up, and
Start again.



8.10.04

IN THE CERRO RICO

Clang. Twist. Clang. Twist - Clang. Twist. Hour after hour.
After hour after hour. Clang. Twist. Twist. Clang.
Clang Twist

The miner strikes the iron rod with a hammer upper-
Cut, then twists it, then strikes again. There’s a coca chunk in
His cheek, big as a golfball. There’s arsenic on the mountain
Wall and sulphuric acid underfoot, but he can’t afford
So much as a mask, forget about gloves. He’s been working
Twenty four hours straight, alone, guided by a pale light.

The invaders sent his forefathers to work on
Three month shifts. Daylight forgot them. They emerged half-
Blind. The strongest survived two shifts. None survived three.

Clang. Twist. Twist Clang. Clang. Twist. Hour after hour.
Hour after hour after Clang. Clang Twist Clang.
Clang Twist

The miner’s making a hole for his dynamite.
The dynamite shop sells only to miners and
Tourists. We bought four sticks and some loose TNT,
Like little polystyrene balls. He’ll blow a hole
In the seam and sieve for zinc or lead. The silver’s
Almost gone, but the mountain still bestows a kind
Of living on eight thousand. Who make their offerings
Of coca, fags and hooch to the fickle sprit of
Cerro Rico, El Tio, hoping he’ll show them
The richest seam they’ve ever seen, make them lucky,
Make them rich. But most die young and poor, victims of
Silicosis and the ninety six per cent raw
Booze they down on a Friday night, as they try to
Forget. Forget about their troubles and their strife.
Forget the sound of the hammer uppercut, Clang
Twist Clang, echoing in their heads, hour after hour.


potosi 10.10.04

UYUNI & EL CEMENTERIO DE TRENES

Not so far from where Butch and Sundance met their fate,
Is a wild west kinda town, perched on a dusty plain,
Ringed by distant hills. In a chinese restaurant,
Rafa and I are quizzed by the slowest talking man
In the world. We chew the fat. The psychology
Of Shakespeare, amongst other topics which the length
Of his sentences leave no space to explore. The
Next day lawless students hold up the high street. Their
Demands are blunt: a roof for their uncovered sports
Hall. Cross the barricade and they’ll shoot in cold blood.

Just out of town is the train cemetery. Rusting
Locomotives by the dozen, Thomas the Tank
Engines endowed with a strange pathos, waiting for
The desert to consume them. Last traces of a
Breed on the verge of extinction. The railway still
Carries freight from Potosi to Uyuni to
Antofagasta on the Chilean coast, a
Coast which was once Bolivia’s and which they still
Claim. Painted on the side of one train are the words:
G W Busch, Como Este Train Terminaras.

11.10.04 san juan

ON THE ISLA DE PESCADO, SALAR DE UYUNI

One of the oddest, whitest vistas you could ever see.
A copse of cacti on a mound of stones, swimming in a
Sea of salt. White upon white, framed by black mountains,
A lake which rippled once, now but blinding stillness.

11.10.04

LAGO COLORADA

In a six-bed room four thousand metres high, stony cold,
There are three Norwegians, one Austrian, a Catalan
And myself. From my bed I can see a lake whose water
Is red. Not blood red or brick red or mud red. Just purest
Red. And on it’s surface, somewhere out of sight, dally pink
Flamingos, impervious to Antarctic winds strafing
Their surreal home. This has been my final Bolivian
Day. That I should have spent it driving through the most barren
Of deserts, accompanied by a UN division,
To arrive at a red-watered lake, comes as no surprise.

12.10.04

FIRST SIGHT OF THE PACIFIC

From the border through the Atacama desert
For mile upon underwhelming mile. Finally,
After passing through what looks like a valley of slag heaps,
Antafogasta appears, behind it, the Pacific.

From the bus, the city seems like a genial place
Sandwiched between hills and ocean. The architecture’s
Gentle, dinky two-storey houses made of wood, brick or
Corrugated iron. Tankers sleep in the stolen sea.

All this after a five AM start, seething geysers
In the searing cold, dipping toes in thermal waters;
Teeth chattering at trembling limbs about an azure,
Foam-specked lake. (Rounding off the vulcan colour-set.)

Crossing into Chile like jumping ship: the roads
Tarmaced, climate temperate, streets a haven of
Reserved tranquillity. In the supermarket,
We buy ham, cheese, bread; marvel at its ordered rows.

antofagasta 13.10.04

SANTIAGO

From the top of Santa Lucia, a hill trapped within a
City, you can see yourself reflected in skyscraper glass.

In every park are couples canoodling, lying entwined on
Spring grass, oblivious, public space turned private by a kiss.

The lawns are manicured, pristine green. There’s an urbane
Sense of purpose. Mountains keeping things in perspective.

The museum of Pre-Columbian art has a statue of
A man wearing the flayed skin of another man, double-limbed.

Another clue from before is the sculpted head of a boy,
So simple, lines so true, it looks like he’s walked in off the street.

Despite my fear of the cable car, despite being fleeced
For my raw fish supper, I feel like I could live here.

And yet the city’s left me with the tourist blues,
Wondering why I’m wandering, what I hope to find.


15.04.04