Kissing Out Scrumping

A few thoughtful amendments…

Video Poems And More


squabs squatting on treetops
stuck between bide and fly

how do you know if wings work?

the youth club was a place for the bigguns
littluns allowed thursdays six  thirty ’till eight

we strode along the spinney path
you in your tan suede jacket
your voice on the croaky cusp of change

I can’t remember what I wore
it would have been tom-boy

an old lady stopped us to chat
we wondered why she was so proud to be eighty three
to us it was a tragedy

our sixpence subs sat in our pockets
subs was a bigguns’ word
got your subs? yeah, got mine. got your subs?

we paid our subs and looked around not moving our heads 

to one end the four-legged green king held court
humouring two or three littluns wielding over-sized cues
to the other a hatch with snacks

Norwegian Wood whined from a record player in the corner
biggun and his bird smooched by
his hand fluttering on and off…

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The Joy of Christmas

‘Somehow, somewhere she’ll find a place
where crops grow strong with gentle rain
And children wander, whole again’

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The Crying Mare

The Crying Mare

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She Sees Him

sipping

Earl Grey
from the
Flora Danica porcelain

                                         she
tastes traces
of his mouth


singing
echos of Nirvana
at speed

                                         she
plays a fingerprinted disc
again

walking
loose-linked hands
cutting steps
in the sand

                                         she
closes her eyes


kissing
like a ravenous hyena
or a sucker fish

                                         she
runs her tongue
around her lips
licking for flashback

laughing
too loud
loving too high
alive> < evil a
beach-bleached
white paradise

                                        she
tugs a necklace memento
the cowrie shell grins
hanging solo

sleeping
sugar-spooned
calm breath
arm-wrapping
dream-napper

                                       she
stays awake

sinking
through pot-holes
shark shoals
foiled
wrapped
and crushed
weeping scars
bleeding
raw words
hushed

                                      she
could not save him

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She Lays Flowers

She lays flowers by a green painted fence.
Others lay them too, but not so often now.
They tell her,
stop, but she knows he can sense
she lays flowers.

Today she leaves tulips and a quiet vow;
he will be close. A meagre recompense –
to please, appease the nodding heads that bow.

Done deeds stay spent; erased in lost laments.
No second chance; no turnabout allowed.
The green stays green. The fence remains a fence.
She lays flowers.

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Kissing Out Scrumping


squabs squatting on treetops
stuck between bide and fly

how do you know if wings work?

the youth club was a place for the bigguns
littluns allowed thursdays six  thirty ’till eight

we strode along the spinney path
you in your tan suede jacket
your voice on the croaky cusp of change

I can’t remember what I wore
it would have been tom-boy

an old lady stopped us to chat
we wondered why she was so proud to be eighty three
to us it was a tragedy

our sixpence subs sat in our pockets
subs was a bigguns’ word
got your subs? yeah, got mine. got your subs?

we paid our subs and looked around not moving our heads 

to one end the four-legged green king held court
humouring two or three littluns wielding over-sized cues
to the other a hatch with snacks

Norwegian Wood whined from a record player in the corner
biggun and his bird smooched by
his hand fluttering on and off her bum
you turned your rosacea away

wanna play on the football table?

later we bought potato puffs and vimto
ergo, trying to look casual

at eight we decided to go

on the walk home you asked if we should try a snog

we’d ridden bikes
scrumped apples
hoola-hooped and knocked up ginger through timeless seasons

I shrugged
ok
we lay down in the snapped twig of the spinney
like a dry, unwrapped sandwich
acting out curiosity

the zip of your jacket dug into my chin
the kiss was wet and alien

after it we stood up as if we’d just arm-wrestle

the squab floundered frantically on the harsh grey of the path
you scooped it up, cupping it gently through a hole in the hedge
willing the 
littlun to fly 

we clip-clopped down the spinney steps
heading back to our nests
locked in thought

what was so great t about being a biggun?
how do you know if wings work?


at the bottom we said bye
going our separate ways
knowing life had changed


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The Circle Turns

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