Thursday, 22 January 2015

Maybe a Miracle.

God stood at his usual spot.

Near the grey lamppost at the far end of Borthwaite Parade.

 Endlessly watching, unrecognised.

 Lives buzzed past, huffing and puffing, shopping bags pulling them towards the pavement as the rain arrowed down on their drenched and sodden heads. Preoccupied with existing. Hoping for something.

Maybe a miracle.

Out of the gloom came Ryan. Swagger punctured into a loping uncertain stride. In his left hand the neck of a bottle protruded from a plastic bag. Every few steps he pecked at the bottle like a frustrated blackbird scrabbling for worms on frozen ground.

At the lamppost he stopped to light a cigarette. Met God's eye and looked away. The match had gone out in the rain.
"Got a light mate?"
"Aye. Got plenty a light," God said. "Light a the world an all that...."
"Funny guy. Taking the piss..."

Ryan lurched on, slurring the same question to anyone who didn't magnetically move out of his way.

Reaching the road, Ryan went tripping off the pavement. He was falling into the headlamps. He was blinded. The van was in his face.

It was passing him.

On it skimmed.

Ryan was sitting on the pavement scratching his head. Wondering what just happened. His smashed Buckfast bottle forming green jewels all across the road.

A little boy hunched in grown up clothes.


As God watched from his usual spot.


Saturday, 10 January 2015

Always Dancers

gymnast days
against the flow,
with the satisfaction of wave completion,
a jet-skier tight-ropes far from shore,
obedient dog, hot under the heels,
sand kingdoms rise and fall,
in the tiptoe of the orange ball,
Africa wakes in the mist,
as birds like daylight bats skim by,
across the silver surface of the deep,
Nations try,
and always dancers we must be...


White trash-lovers, Freaks for all they’re worth, Anarchy in beady, brazen faces, Seizing stares, Standing ground...