POEM A DAY 2020

If You Took Cooking Away From Me

I don't make lists anymore,
every new dish a dawn,
and events the practise
of mirror movements,
synchronous with the ghost
trailed last one,
are we catching up
did we fall behind,
but this too will pass,
everything will be ready,
taste buds fried,
like retinas by the sun.

Safe As Houses

Elder Argument The Elder

We're all mates here, and yes since we're here by virtue of.

Up In The Air

Not knowing, I
just want to sleep
until I do.
So much chaos,
exists between
the lines and within
and as the lines
themselves.

Red tape unfurling
as floating tassels,
as lake waste,
saturated,
in the dark and lonely
water,
that suffers the fool,
until the fool
should suffer no more.

Structured Play

Set me free in a cube,
with gestures to promote,
I like a trim list,
perked up with promise,
give me strict instructions,
and with the others,
we will surely prove as bread.
With a list I am free,
who wants to rely on whim,
or beginner's luck,
or set those chips tumbling
amidst concerned looks,
from across the baize.
Going by gut is wild
when it works,
but free in a cube,
with a list,
I am free with
the weight of a mistake.

In Reserve

A foot deep in copper coins
and algae,
I didn't ask to visualise this,
the bank statements,
ironed and clipped in place,
belies the house
and what has drained from within.

Parents learn, children learn,
parents pit against
each other,
innuendo at the sports club,
fists raised,
parents learn, children learn,
what parents will always learn.

Money and what money can
do for you,
dig for gold between the grips
of your sole,
or leave no mess on the porch.

But be proper, for parents are
always learning,
this, and
that there is no age to learn,
and there is no age to learn.

Gear As Mania

Whittle your life away or not,
but our basement is ours,
for our spirits,
for our objects to address us
should we find them,
to state their case,
should we potter upon them,
and not find their voices,
phased out by your objects,
howling at the strip light,
straining to reconcile,
your lack of care,
lack of interest.

The Host

Accepting guests
is accepting what you can no longer
hold within yourself,
every tic laid open,
the song removed from language,
here I am at home,
distilled of my performance,
home is where the magic happens,
where I evaporate,
become the vapour,
swirled into the smell vortex
between stair and bannister.

One Step To Perfection

We blew past 11.30

Pure Terror

Five minutes to cap the day,
and five minutes you'll never get back,
the listless pause to cap the day,
quietening doubt,
and leaving your muscles
to savour the memory.

The Fizz

Tart and tang,
or a rounded corn syrup note,
the fizz has gone,
so the rest will surely
evaporate,
forgotten,
but an idea
sick to the
inner chamber
of a can.

Rode The White Swan

Look! The Queen's waterfowl,
break yer arms with a wing
it would
it's a rich thing,
why wouldn't it.

The national animal,
flower, tree of this or that,
with great power comes...
the national person of this or
that.

And with great power comes
power to ripple back
back and back until the
breaker that chains
all memory,
all stifled croak,
and sniffling
is flipped.

The Gazala Gallop

Best get back to the coast,
shorten the supply lines,
the smoking van,
inspected for code books,
food,
half finished La Croix.

How could I know what's rock bottom?
You keep on kidding,
a joke in distended belligerence,
it disarms again and again.

There are boils to be lanced,
your jokes as arms,
flapping at steam
that could bring them to term.

Take A Shine

It's hard making friends
in middle age,
it seems gauche, seems inappropriate;
I'm not throwing keys in the fruitbowl,
you must know I'm content with my lot,
that I want more.

It feels hard being the portent
of some bright new age,
the pub at Christmas,
peers pulled into lives,
mine seems just beginning,
but re-skinned,
a concertina with thigh strain,
so in the pub looking for portents,
wanting to reach back a few years,
find new friends,
for the gauche new age,
I can barely let them see.

Shitbird

It wasn't your fault
how could he not see you
it was still daylight
right
and these shitbirds
on both sides
your shitbird
versus his shitbird
make sure you can get
what you can
when you need
it the most.

Food Around The Plate

What we know of each other
in half-life,
Bloody circles and pale,
glacial sickness of other things.

Across the table from someone
more audible,
their brilliance and shame,
angelic cracks in their stories.

Mopping up droplets
of sauce, bread as the sponge,
that clears the path, for food
A to B on the plate.

Swingometer

I made Randall at Domino's uncomfortable
when I said I was half-caste,
but it rolled off the tongue easier
than half-Chinese
and then I thought
why don't I ever say
I'm half-white Anglo Saxon
and then when I clocked off,
I went home and looked at
half-caste in the dictionary,
and Randall was right,
so one Anglo is uncomfortable,
another gets his dinner
at the chinky,
and now I think,
whose word is that now anyway,
is it even fair to
think it was forced on me?
Someone else thinks the book
I found at home about Mao
was commie cool,
even though it was about how he murdered
everyone, he saw everything he wanted,
on the sleeve.
Role play the whole way
I can't couch it any other way,
and yet my Anglo is wondering
if I just went too far.
With whom should I stand,
when in a generation I'm gone.

Twelfth Day

The tree's only there
for as long as I am
in December.

Didn't fancy a trip
to Walgreens to replace
the guttered strings,
I'd only bring home some
of those strip lights,
as atoms beneath which
cashiers strain for
bonhomie.

We went tiki instead,
and I left the lights on,
all day of the twelfth day,
primary colours as one,
beamed through
cut crystal celebration,
broken out as museum security,
through which we crawl,
over cake crumbs.

The rest of the year's light,
unreliable,
the day is either
too gray, too bleached,
too dusty, light that just hangs,
sticks to your ribs,
how did we fare before we could
shine through pines
artificially?

Muscat Screen to Screen

Someone had to walk the dog,
so I went first.
Six hour flight thinking
...god would have given us wings.
Dad, downstairs doing the lunch rush,
it's so fucking hot.
Fairly rooted to the spot
that's cool marble
on my back,
slug slick from the shower,
sometimes cracking the curtains
watching the new construction
across the way,
bleached gravel beyond which
men are graceful
as sticks as ballet with bricks.
Feeling like a trophy up here,
waiting for Ben online.

Garden, bogged in sick abundance,
gravel for cars to
slip wheels and skip stones
on wide driveways.
Cleaning up vomit outside,
before the dog eats it,
oh that party perhaps,
who visits Muscat in the summer?
Where's Ben?
Has he yet fished for the screen,
should I play him something,
at least soundtrack all that
stress, the heat of nothing to do.

Sandbourne

Town and team weren't blinded by