The Ching

The Airfix egret startles, 

gone mystic to basic in 0-60,

The Cow Parsley’s arms 

from a folk dance or swords

Stashes rat, a conduit, rustic 

as pasta. Streaking the freeway

Where once he died, dense

as an unthrown pot, Ming tail

ironed flat by a pushchair-

also died, pestle-ground down 

Like mince. Nature corridor

they call it, the homeless in pop

Tents like pyramid tea bags 

worn thin to oblivion. Sapped

To the max yet there goes

the Ching, through stabbings,

The unsure limbs of demographics,

the toilety dogs of the elders, older

Ever indifferent, conveyor of ducklets,

all being, all shewing, all flow.

If it were up to me you’d be

made of bodywarmers 

in artisan socks from 

Iceland, Eigg or Hoth

even in June, in June

I want to keep you 

bundled, call you toast

and soft and close as 

microwaved milk

in a crumpet oubliette.

Ready Brek jet setter,

your crown a fiery hob

Top of the Pops and bonfire 

fudge, nestled in fleece,

honey, middle encased

in a crucible of cashmere,

forever sleep snug in a 3.5 tog

my tiny love, fisherman’s friend.

It starts in the toes

of a ropey morning,

the passing of summer,

the open-eyed pastures,

a lounging in stasis,

done. Your toes,

and they say useless, say

done. And they say how well

you alienated the lot of it-

pals. The scene... you did it!

Became one

with the absolute inward,

silent hour- it carries you,

alone as a craft. Bears

weight, the days like  

puffs that end in an echo,

as Sugar Puffs or

clouds with their silver 

slices, your snacks, 

your snacks, some 

frisson of sadness, O

toes-

what will you do once the

Autumn descends upon leaves 

upon the leaves? They

hang on your every word 

Cluster lilies in their blue fire thrust

up through Wednesday morning. 

Tomorrow will be the same like those

falling Dominoes that go up and over

and around, or mattresses too, 

all people going backwards on YouTube.

They are like that. I like it, the simplicity,

these flowers will brown and I will buy some

more, doodle them onto the vase 

with an immediate pencil. Days go by 

in some kind of sequence but suddenly

I am old. When I dream of Goblin Hill

and I am always 12- a tooth we 

dissolved in Coke, I think: In 100 years 

we will all be dead. It’s as hard to imagine

as space- or the softness of Mum’s

upper arms. They existed and Honey &

Betsy too. Such tenderness in every

rickety synapse, built-in, see-through.

All we ever can say is I love you brave wraith-

I will always forever love you. 

Spring is delicious in flames and ginger,

the dead dog’s tree is opening out right- 

buds with the smallest flickering of

acid house in the tip, finally and all after 

we had given it up. The fairy ring as a pink 

mouth and a just-kiss from his best friend

smashes it up into the April. This year

we are not allowed outside- it suits me fine

for only the forest is sad without the old gang,

me and Doggin. I had not been up there, 

for to clock the loss of together would be 

too much, right. Kinga was vivid, every old lady

would fizz and cry such a beautiful dog. And he was.

A streak of fire in the trees, his white trousers

at the back bobbing along under his fern-proud

tail, everyone loved that boy. This year we are 

not allowed outside, but it suits me down to 

the ground- old World with its all kinds of glitches,

some good stuff like cinema and magicians,

but mostly ice. They’ve gone and done it now-

the whole of the everything’s shut. The place is 

in bits and it’s not so bad, just an egg-coloured 

ghost with dark wailings of Easter all in scrambles,

I’m opted out, see. Spring is the king and I’m free.

New Year New 

If a Mergirl: Get some ear-pods for underwater casting, it's important to keep in touch with yourself in that way. Try not to zigzag and cancel the fear of braining yourself against the chiselled purses of younger maids

Always drink wine at lunch time, it’s French. Also have the full good time. Christmas is 

forever, think apocalypse ready. In dreams of being a handy woman, try for some fifties 

thing, a sweetheart neckline

Books are noble, poetry is telly. Make them and read them but never be them. You are only ever one reading away from wearing a beret. Keep your Kerouac in sandwich bags for cleanliness. Bohemia is literally bourgeois 

Supreme satisfaction from folding clothes into perfect rectangles. Housework is artform yet underrated. The happiness of a clean home, it’s not that bad. In the moment we are somewhere else, whipping up cosy like drugs

Clothe refugees in your old Topshop. Open your heart to the online community yet scorch ego like the plague. Socialise with anyone who can tolerate you and love with your full heart. Life is now a beautiful snow globe

Grief has the same secrecy 

as an empty tic tac box filled with

puddle water. The parachuting 

man we hid in the petrol cap 

of your Mum’s car, quick stolen, 

the handkerchief I buried in the trees.

I liked the embroidery. I like it now,

this grief and its stitches, it makes

me flower even through snot. Things

fly past the planet, roaring. I like

the axis, the counting down. Nostalgia

is a cutie, bean-filled Totoro.

The whirl of fur he lived in. His ancient

teeth that ripped me, the bad quality,

we went all over the world in love.

Paws are unshook hands- yet I'm shaken.

Don’t worry Dog, I’ll find you. In galaxies,
through death. I’ll always be your person.

In the pink room we have found

each other, you in the blue sling

and I deep in the dreams that

I have for you. It is raining post-

heatwave and I am glad your tiny

feet are cold as shells, my heart-

beat pressed up hard against

your ear. Nothing can touch us

now. Your duckling hair is real,

as you are- I never thought we’d

get this far. I had you in mind for

so long you’re still made up, an

unbuilt world. Sometimes you 

chirp and I realise you’re here,

hot little hands in a grip, how 

serious you are. When your eyes

open they are in flint, intent, 

certain in some cold burning that

you've been here before. Wrap me 

up in that, I like it. I like you a lot

small policeman. You are the icing

on the ocean- a dot! And when you're 
asleep I transcribe every breath,

golden crest, tiny bird, new entire.

Oh Hai canary, I see you

climb. If I were a mine then

you would come up singing

radical, a silver-edged

fresh yellow pipe with white

sound, pine moondial. & how

bird- magicked, our best trick,

are you glued only by light?

The years of feeding Twiglets

through neverending channels of

canvas, trying to make a home of

me, for you eggling. Now you spur

with courage, the burgeoning heat

of a bobbin. Don’t fret birdie,

we’ll spin our endless nest from

every better thing we ever did

and you can rest, quiet in your

pink terrarium. So, buffering in

your life pod, we’ll do for you,
and you will do for everything.