Wednesday, 28 January 2015

reptile-house heat
the Clipperton crab clops out
from its crevice

Monday, 26 January 2015

blue twilight
the plane-trees chocker
with magpies

Sunday, 25 January 2015

into the launderette a man and his red-jumpered sausage dog

Friday, 23 January 2015

the bloke with
a biblical beard
mutters abuse...
above the shop-front,
laughing gargoyles

Thursday, 22 January 2015

snow on the way
the busking baritone
sings unaccompanied

Wednesday, 21 January 2015

winter trim:
she folds back my ears
for a final check

Tuesday, 20 January 2015

Blue Monday
the Director's PAs dissect
his food tastes

Monday, 19 January 2015

squelching up the hill
I sledged down as a boy:
my sodden boots

Sunday, 18 January 2015

January night
the ambers of marmalade
held up to the light

Saturday, 17 January 2015

up the side street
midday sunshine fills
an empty dolls' house

Friday, 16 January 2015

camera crews
banter over coffee
outside the court
one crow jumps
on another's head

Wednesday, 14 January 2015

The Flying Boat

In Dior frock and pearls, Lisa Blatch stoops
to board the BOAC Short Solent
that's moored in Southampton Water, followed,

by and by, by her dinner-jacketed
husband, Stuart. The long haul to Jo'burg
will take four days, including overnights.

They've not flown together by flying boat
before, although Stuart piloted one
in the Far East theatre during the War,

as he's frequently reminded Lisa
by the time they've had several G'n'Ts
each and dinner, somewhere over Provence.

That the stewardess insists on calling
him Squadron Leader, despite him having
left the Air Force serves to augment her pique.

This is not quite what she married him for;
she will, though, make a good go of it,
for Daddy's sake, if nothing else besides.

Big-game hunting in the Orange Free State
was not exactly how she'd envisaged
honeymooning back in debutante days.

Stuart is all for asking the Captain
if he can take control in the cockpit.
Lisa sighs and wishes him Bon Voyage.

Monday, 12 January 2015

Cocktail

With each bent-elbow shake,
the over-familiar barman emits
a spume of testosterone like
a clean-and-jerking weight-lifter,
gurns his gargoyle sex-face
and generally puts the cock
into 'cocktail'; the etymology
of which is disputed: perhaps
a corruption of the French
for 'eggcup'; or a derivation
of 'cock tailing', the not-so-old
practice of draining the dregs
from the barrel for discount
at much more than a pittance;
or even just a pass-through
from racing wherein a docked
horse was often referred to as
a 'cock tail'. Whatever the truth,
or a cooked-up combo thereof,
the barman's self-possession
as he knocks out the Cosmo
fills the air like the reek of sex.

Saturday, 10 January 2015

all the vacant tables
in the neon-lit restaurant...
starless night