A Is For Ignition

Another day, another lot,,
Wondering where my heart is.

I drove here without starting,
I fell without falling,
And though I found a key to turn
I am forever stalling.

This ceaseless rain,
The trunk is also the boot.
If there is a way home,
Long ago, or yesterday,
Someone changed my route.

Hepatic

Same thoughts,
Get over it
The counsel said,
Belly-brewed
Within a witch,
When she stirs
I start to twitch,
When I twitch
I start to think,
Gears will shift
And skin will itch.

Same thoughts,
Same day,
I was born
To be betrayed,
I was born
To know the stray.
Why this cursed,
I cannot say.

Death herself is
More or less
Conceptual,
Somewhat experiential,
A bruising myth
Handed from fathers
To their children
Like unwanted gifts;
Ushered in,
Silencing,
Rather than die
For certainties
I fly on a whim
That skims
Weatherfronts
In the far Hesperides.

Flatlining,
Drowned by
Duck-stooling
And cajouling Fate,
Stateless sister
Wearing midwinter,
A bleakly
Wielded and
Formidable
Conglomerate,
Unreformed and
Strange
Opponents.

One of my
Hispanic
Diseased
Hepatic
Blackened
Dragons
Is emerging in my
Synaptic troughs,
This one headed with
You are not good enough‘.
His thoughts are in crimson,
There are eels in his blood;
When he moves, I tend
To expend
Entire mornings lost
Watching windscreen wipers
Swiping in the same
Parking lot
I mentioned before.

Death is whittled
On whetstones of Time,
Sharp bladed Time,
And I am frightened
Of a place that is final,
A place definitively
Made without rhyme.

The Reason For This Evening’s Tailback

Deathly onyx cold,
When the layering curse returns,
As it always will and still unfolds,
Ravenous, his satiation made
Impossible, implausible,
Bringing new brocaded covers
With images of his solace
Although its story is well told,
I then become cold to my bones
And proximity is no requisite
For shivering from his grimacing
Chtonic, unobvious presence,
Timeless and with flashing teeth
On gums of gangrene and mould.

In this grim palace
A choice is not a choice,
Any meaning is void
And made obtuse,
Made meaningless;
Debased, your imagination
Weighed the same as gold,
Which he bought, and
Which he melted to
Gild the dumbstruck throats
Of statues in his home.

Unwilling guest, dreaded party,
I had torn up his red invitation
But a taxi arrived regardless.
Now I am bound with his
Interminable shadows
While he plays a consummate host,
Debonair, with silverware,
He spins on a cane of liquified hope
And this bleak trope is complete,
Gone with all cares,
They were strafed from wastelands
And in his darkness I grope for
The one way home,
That one truth path
He scattered within
A million mascarading bluffs.

It would be akin
To climbing back in
To the belly of a dragon
Having seen the knight
From within eviscerate,
Daylight sharply juxtaposed
Between swordtip and entrails
As he slices me out.
No, life, sunshine, heroes,
No you don’t.
Put me back on the shelf,
On the bleak rib and distral ropes
Where gastric flames
Did many a stronger man well-roast
And more so, yes, than me.

So, then, these true happenings
(With heavy heart I am re-telling)
Are made manifest
In men driving their many cars,
(Cars they keep on selling),
Parked by central reservations –
Early evening drifting snow –
Tailbacks ensuing,
Vows for renewing,
And with nowhere left,
Nowhere left to go.

Ode To A Parking Lot

All our loved people,
Indelible, said clearly,
In my thirteenth sonnet,
(Did you read it?
I haven’t, I imagined you
Subtly and too kindly said…)
Each incredible, unique,
Who for whatsoever reasons
Are in parking lots
Of businesses which
In this moment are as
Unrealisable and mythical
As Pegasuses appearing
In supermarket aisles
On the left, hooves heard
Between the edamame beans
And the deeply bereft,
Or Orion’s coordinates,
Illuminated blue in new
Speedometer needle sets,
With your one head
In your two beautiful hands,
I am with you all
Each and every one
In our millions, our army
Of sadness, sorrowful troughs,
Because I too am that moment,
And I learned to overcome,
And when I overcame
I owed it for you,
As a penance, at cost;
I bleed and I bled,
My fervent words for your love.

I became through with a world
Designed by others
Into which I was buffeted
By their Shannon and
Fastnet blustering rough.

Do you remember
When things mattered,
Before they feigned
And they flattered.
I cannot remember a thing,
My life’s no more certain
Than a butterfly wing,
But in a butterfly’s wing
Is the sting in the sin
Of all that matters
And entertains.

Some drive away, hands on the wheel,
Some go on to thrive
And some to steal;
But one or two don’t, in the car
Or the woods, and I stay
With those love, the misunderstood,
And that’s why when it comes
To paychecks, a glance,
I’m not with your goodness,
For I left all that time
With the dead in a trance.

Traffic Light Soul

At a traffic light, roadworks,
The jamming pressed their
Collective thumb-horns
For those cars tailed back
From a year before I was born
In scales of a summer storm.

I did not know I’d end up here,
A tear in my eye where
Many lost worlds formed,
Places I’d seen with cathedrals
And parks and riverside scenes,
Caught like a fly in my eyelid.

Someone exited their vehicle
And tapped exasperatedly
At my window. I wound down
The production-line glass
And noticed for the first time
A kitemark for British Standards

Engraved in the corner;
These days, it’s an oxymoron.
I found myself wondering
Whether my soul had already
Dissolved, or whether a steady
Dripping away occurs through

Various stoppers and plugs,
Like prayers, like rosaries,
Dogmas, dharma, traditions.
These days in my country
The scientists have deserted,
Prophets can be purchased.

He was still shouting,
The man in the street
Using expletives.
I wound up the window
And drove away but not before
Drying my eyes, foot on the clutch

Finding first gear,
Revving the engine,
Rain matted hair, lightning beats,
I smiled for the first time
In so many years,
Running over his feet.