Thursday, 1 January 2015

The rush to get in here



Back at the house
again
salad potatoes, tea, a box of matches
the rush to get in here
dumped gortex
door ajar and warm dusk
and birds outside
running on
muscle memory
over eighty miles on the Ford
without leaving the postcode
new homeware store
the house a mess
hopes we can settle
in like the riots
when we were close
packet noodles and jaffa cakes
eventually having sex
to News 24
masturbating to it
volunteering for the clean up
repainting a dental clinic
on the high road
every evening knackered
but warm
eating chicken pie
you did moules.


Saturday, 27 December 2014

I'm trying to look after you


I’m trying to look after you
like a friend 

when you fell asleep, I bookmarked some bad omens
saved them to this pen drive
deaths, lapsed patents, mass-anythings

we balanced it out
a tablespoon of drool left on my stomach
effluvia, like molasses drying into the wool.


Monday, 1 December 2014

Old El Padre

My father you should know is a Del Boy type
Charging guests to look through the kitchen cupboards.
Hard-shell tacos from Kingston, Milton Keynes
Baked by men still considering their greatest weakness.
It’s soft-soaped out of each of them, cheaper than Bilbao freight.


Friday, 24 January 2014

National Geographics

I had no strong male figure, right? It’s betrayed a little being on the page and he had to have it right – it was going to be his epitaph in private only, and in tobacco and lager tones, performed like Jeff Bridges or a latter career McConaughey. You don’t just surrender your epitaph, Pa he would say. And then they’d go for milkshakes.


The man we’re discussing here, this is the man browsing the National Geographics on the coffeeshop’s industrial dresser. He hasn’t glanced at the other knick knacks in the other recesses, the porcelain horses, the Bakelite FM radio, but he hands them an endorsement by association. The porcelain horse endorsement. And the hugeness of the wooden dresser, up against the ex-warehouse wall, and the smell of burnt coffee pervasive, it’s possible to make these snap judgments and still feel emotional warmth, a sense of historical grounding, a sense of scale. Someone brings you ginger cake and eventually you leave and go home.

Tuesday, 21 January 2014

Woolen blankets

People here enjoy admitting to failure. They have maniacal appreciations of design - heavy and personal as woolen blankets.

This community, a group of no more than fifteen men and women, continue ticking off the markers of success:

One. A going concern in a district of the city where rents are sky-rocketing;

Two. Professional lives that outclass personal lives, extincting both in a fume of banana rhum;

Three. Stationery that never depletes.

This is rightly the highpoint before details become lost to an unholy infographic on who’s fucking who. It’s Christmas and there’s the hushed sadness of parted young couples, pet names giving way to train schedules and scheduled phone calls. These people still go home to their parents. It’s okay. Gifts are saved to open together, in the hinterlands of before new year. A box set of symbiotic creatures filmed in HD, envying the bondage of cud chewers, together.

One man told me this story at the bar: Me and her, he said, we were talking about the board games we each played with our families and then we fucked, must have been two months ago, and she didn’t recognise me just now until I said it was me who remembered that the game with the dice in a plastic dome in the middle of the board was called Frustration. I told a few friends about it and some of them remembered travel Frustration, which was a bit more soviet-bloc, red die-cast cover, cheap and indestructible at the same time.

I told him about Wikipedia’s glossary of manias which still includes Beatlemania but nothing on interior design.

Monday, 30 December 2013

Murmuration

7am, St. Anne's Square: Pied Wagtails in the trees. Up to 100 having their own end of year shin-dig, refusing to let recycling trucks and odd, spectral commuters interrupt the murmuration. Even their quotidian song, when it's cheep-ed en masse, in the monochrome first light, beats anything the city's offered in December. A window cleaner stared at me filming the whole do. The iPhone couldn't or wouldn't capture it.

Listen to them here: https://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/p/piedwagtail/index.aspx


Friday, 27 December 2013

Cud Chewers

Christmas has that almost hushed sadness of parted young couples. Pet names give way to train schedules and scheduled phone calls. Gifts are saved to open together, in the hinterlands before new year. This is why we buy box sets of symbiotic creatures, filmed in HD on four continents. And it's okay to envy the bondage of cud chewers, now and again.