Nobody ever thought to ask her
where it was that the thread had come from,
and at what cost. What were the things
which she unravelled to make it easier
for him to travel back and forth
through complicated passages,
and what they’d meant.
What were the tales she would invent
to justify the loss, the damages,
all those black sails.

now open your eyes like a discussion
see the sky red like a trumpet solo
pick up your phone like you’ve met it in a bar
push the buttons like political agendas
press the receiver to your temple like a gun
choose words like they’re careers for life
make promises like lucky escapes in films
announce decisions like weather after the news
fix walls with your stare like they’re broken
and act like nothing happened nothing happened nothing happened

After some conversations,
there is a palpable sense
that they were little more
than a dance around
the unspeakable, a knot
in the throat, a savage
reaching for things to say
before the abrupt end,
on a cliche, leaving
loose ends untied. A laughable
attempt to salvage plot.
And then you leave like
you’re walking in slow
motion, like you’re an
action hero and they’re
an explosion.

The wind passes through
branches and leaves.
No name for this here.
I make do with
conifers crashing,
forest static,
shrub sough,
bough hum.

So.
I once
built a
tower of
Lego bricks
so high that
it had to lean
against a wall or
collapse. So high
that I had to stand
on a chair I’d put on
a wobbly desk just so
I could place the final
piece. I then stood back
to appraise my vacillating
masterpiece, very proud and
sweating abundantly from the
chair climb, eyes wide, grinning,
best tower ever, best day ever, simple.

A shifting swarm of starlings stretches and stirs over the city.
Below, a young man covers the side of a train in spray paint,
smearing colours to achieve gradients, willing the minutes
to bend so he can finish his outlines before the carriage moves.

Later, the freshly painted train emerges from a tunnel
and takes its long metallic drone through town, mixing
with hubbub from certain ill-lit fast-food places,
those which tend to stay open longer than one would expect.

The dull thud of wheels on uneven rails syncs for a moment with the clang
of cans on artificial marble tabletops, percussion solos from a pizza place
next to an all-night pharmacy. Two people stand outside, not really eating,
not really speaking, but very civilised, ambiable, even.

They lean against the glass under the yellow awning. The boy’s eyes
are on the train. It moves a little fast for him to read the writing.
The girl, slightly detached, her make-up almost fine, focuses
on traffic lights, frowning each time the orange flashes:

she feels the timing’s off, but who’s to say the car horns and barking dogs
cannot make sense, to other ears? She’d be the first one to admit that
when it comes to tempo, timing, phrasing, she still has much to learn.
Above, the writer stands on a viaduct, wiping his hands.

The black curve of the overpass makes traffic slur.

This full moon
is an empty signal for superheroes
with no symbols or totem animals.
Boring, persistent, rugged saviors,
ready to get you out of danger,
and to restore your lost belief
in their ideals.
Quickly, now,
to the blank mobile.

WHAT

WHEN
Friday, May 13th, 20:00

WHERE
Slak Bar
16 Bath Street, Cheltenham GL50 1YE (map)

MORE INFO
Cheltenham is rapidly becoming one of my favourite places to perform, so I’m really chuffed to have been invited back to town by the director of the Cheltenham Poetry Festival, Anna Saunders, to feature at one of the renowned Earshot nights alongside Michael Wilson.  I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Michael perform before – as luck would have it, also in Cheltenham – and I am looking forward to hearing more of his unique performance verse. Besides sets from each of us, the night will feature music from Dan Parker and an open mic of the “anything goes” variety (i.e. open to musicians and poets alike). The Facebook event is here.

Tickets: £5/£3

One of those things: start looking for something, get distracted,
and forget what it was that you had set out to find, and why.

Now, do you keep on looking, and expect that the object
of your search will become evident on sight?

Or do you hope that maybe as you rummage
you will find something else of dazzling relevance?

An optimistic thought, but really, what epiphanies
can possibly reside in water bills, car keys and batteries,

or on the pages of that book on migratory birds?
How is it that they always know just where to go?