At her birth

she staggered on unfamiliar legs

while her mother licked her clean

and tried not to stand on her in forgetfulness

or fatigue.

Soon she stood alone,

with a coat that waxed in spring

and waned in winter moon.

At the yearling sale she pranced,

nostrils flared,

unminded of her fetlocks

in the racing years.

In time, she ran her maiden,

romance in full stride when,

shifting in the running,

her stablemate grabbed the inside rail.

She took off in pursuit.

(Nothing cuts like an odds-fed whip

a furlong out from home.)

And then, snap!

“History”, her verdict went

and the vets screened the final shot.

Her blood soaked into the track

and into the knackers van

and she was gone.

1.  If all the world’s a stage,

     be the one hand clapping.

2.  Like baubles across a bassinet

     the past invites endless play.

3.  Your future is in the distance

     between this breath and the next.

4.  Every day is your birth-day;

     give yourself a present.

5.  Never let your right lover

     be your left lover

6.  Avoid keeping secrets;

     they breed like lies.

7.  If you’re a paranoid bee

     don’t make honey.

8.  Collect labels and wear them all;

     they’re your medals from the war of independence

9.  The dark is afraid of you;

     a torch-bearer needs no sword.

10. Death is a hard act to follow;

      save it until last.

Other people always seem on course,

Full Ahead to somewhere on the Sea of Life.

I am forever losing the compass

and forgetting how to drop anchor,

permanently adrift in an Other Place.

Occasionally I see harbour lights beckon

but their beams wax and wane in the fog of novelty.

Besides,

I’ve decided,

they’re probably home to the Pirates,

the Pirates of Love.

I am better off out here alone,

amidst the rocks and icebergs and whirlpools.

But I still need essential supplies

and I have nothing to trade,

except for some shells which,

when placed against the ear,

whisper cryptic messages

from an Other Place,

just in case

other people

are in an Other Place

too.

When, in languid times, you reach into your mind

for companions intemperate

to share the fruits of summer succulence,

will my face float into view

and hover (ever the tantalising gadfly)

or will it stay Titanically submerged

under the wet weight of wavers-not-drowners?

In the mythical winters of the sheepish plains,

when even marrow moves slowly in your bones

(a snail’s pace ahead of frozen eternity),

will an episodic warmth sometimes begin,

in some vague cavity holding the memory of my voice?

Or will it’s muffled cadence be insulated, baffled,

by the distancing thickness of space?

While mixing in the ever concentric circles of the Academy,

where deviance is confined to sexual proclivity

and the eccentricities of wine,

will you recall my four-letter irreverence

and unformed sceptic passion

or will these be condemned to that graveyard of logicians,

the Follies of Youth?

Will I still be with you

when I am not before your eyes,

much as I used to slouch into view at celebrations

and moments of importunity?

And will my words remain in your worldly possession,

pin-holed and posted

on the notice board of your life?

I can but say

I damn well better be!

Last week the death panic came again,

just as I was drifting off to sleep

or to die?

No! (turning over quickly and opening my eyes)

No! Not yet, it’s not fair!

I haven’t had time to …

(what?)

… unfail my true purpose in life

(which is..?)

Give me more time

(who the hell am I talking to?)

Give me time and I will be yours forever

and this will be my mantra:

Tomorrow I will love selflessly

Tomorrow I will labour willingly

Tomorrow I will seek joy and not despair

The mantra complete,

I felt calmer.

Last night, when the panic came again,

and again Death chewed up Hope

and spat it in my face,

I was ready.

Chanting my mantra,

like holding a crucifix in front of me,

until Death retreated.

But …

who the hell am I talking to?

In my laboratory,

I apply laser technology,

to take thinner and thinner slices of my past life

and subject them to historical re-engineering.

Having perfected my technique,

I’m sending in my clone to clear up the mess.

My future is now made from scraps of DNA

salvaged from the last of my unsullied remnants.

Unfortunately,

its behaviour will be so unrecognisable

you might shoot me as an alien impostor.

But at least I’d die perfected.

Except for your memories.

The cheque arrived

like mail to the wrong address.

(No-one of those dollars lives here.)

Paying the mortgage

you expect whistles and bells

(or at least the screen to play “We’re In The Money”)

but it doesn’t blink.

A teller’s smile seems less than adequate.

Walking into a home you now own,

nothing has changed.

Where is solidity exuded at these times?

Who does the ceremonial laying on of hands

to the newly entitled?

Is playing the game reward unto itself?

You leave what’s left be rolled over

and it all rolls over you

and you leave the faintest of imprints on the roadway.

You gathered with all your workmates for farewells

(was that all, it seemed more!)

and yes, they hated to see you go

and not them.

And in two weeks

your gossip is hopelessly out of date,

your opinions are ill-informed,

your phone-calls are left on hold

and then not returned.

You have de-constructed.

You have exchanged piscatorial irrelevance

in a leaking pond

for lone voyaging

on a diluted sea of possibilities.

So you write.

You write more,

you write less,

you write, more or less,

until you are writely alone.

And isn’t this how you always wanted it to be?

Undisputed master of your destiny?

But

who do you blame now?

We met, straggling in like Brown’s cows,

approximating the appointed time.

We talked in arcane codes of acronym,

approximating the agenda.

Skillfully sliding over specifics,

we adjourned matters, pending further information.

Making sly digs at absent colleagues,

we wallowed in gossip

and angst for the future we were avoiding.

There was no cuppa at the end; cost-cutting!

So we took an early minute;

too late to go back to the office now,

hardly worth it really.

Went to the pub

and talked about the fubbin’ useless gumn’t

and the fubbin’ useless d’par’mnt

and all these fubbin’ useless meetings

until some smartarse said,

‘whyn’t we do somethin’ about it?’

And we said

‘alright, we will!’

and next month

we finished even earlier.

 

Licensed to solicit,

I ply my trade among the managerial class

that like to delegate their bastardry.

 

One gets my number from a satisfied customer

or I may be seen,

a silken jargon-tattooed thigh,

or a well-researched décolletage,’

exposed at all the right conferences.

 

Naturally, there are dangers;

a political basher here,

an accountability pervert there,

but nothing that can’t be handled

with a first draft ‘off the back of a truck’.

 

So while they meet my hourly rate

and introduce me to their friends

and pretend I’m one of the crowd,

I’ll practice safe conclusions,

and the contracts will go on.

 

The world may go unsaved

but at least it keeps me

and them

off the streets.

It’s the same train.

Changing carriages hasn’t altered that.

But now the impenetrable darkness of tunnels

is neutralised by a hand reached for secretly

and the knowledge of the imminent re-emergence

of familiar faces in the light.

It is possible to disembark at the station of your choice

or, in an emergency, pull the cord

and trudge off into unmarked territory,

ignoring the shaking fists of railway staff.

But no; for the time being

familiarity is more potent than adventure.

It is still permitted to re-trace your steps

and peer into carriages where you once sat.

In some your space may even still be vacant,

amongst those who are, and will remain, unmoved.

In others your seat is now occupied and

despite the comforting smiles of those you know,

it will remain that way.

Eventually,

you must return to your new-chosen cubicle,

to weather report conversations,

to standard gauge concepts

and to waiting patiently

for the dawn

of the courage to get off.