Anti-Shanty

We all sing the songs of souls lost at sea

and preserve in musical amber memories.

But what of the land-bound in fishermen’s towns,

Now the fish are all dead and the industry’s down?

These boatmen more solid on liquid than land

on coal-littered beach front at sunset they stand.

Watch while their mistress is tossing her waves.

Greying and gloomy. She resents what she gave.

Now she casts off the covenant and keeps all the catch

and the sails in the harbour are folded or slack.

Lobster pots line up, empty in the sun,

while their salted-faced owner silently burn.

For it’s pints they are downing

to tribute the drowning

of another in whiskey not sea.

For they know where they’re going,

it’s their own path he’s showing

a way out of their own misery.

The swallows that flit through the cherry blossom trees

know the sea demands her tithe ev’ry fifteen years.

She lowers the pressure and hitches her skirt.

Swishing them wildly unbuttons her shirt,

booming with laughter she rolls on the shore

and demands that more businesses pay her, and more.

Her revenge for her rape is undeniable and savage

for hell hath no fury like an ecosystem ravaged

The touch of the hull on her skin is well met

but behind these caresses is an anchor of debt.

She gives life and takes life; some later, some soon

changeable as wind direction, reliable as moon.

People flocked to pay homage in sunny days gone by

but they’ve mostly stopped coming since the monkeys learned to fly

and now the town relies on hand outs and the landing stage is closed

and they’ve paved over history with a red brick road.

The people left land locked pay their dues in installments

of barometric infirmity and camphor-based liniment.

Crippled by ozone and scattered by squall.

They yearn when they hear the Wind Maidens call.

It’s a lifetime of hardship and internal fights

when the wind’s from the West and the bells ring at night.

But the Goddess takes all, every bit in the end.

Either swallows with love, or starves and contends.

And if

you ask if in this contract they willingly took part

They’d say

They’d give it all again. Body, soul and heart.

Too

it’s tomorrow already and all days are gone.

what once was hope’s now

broken, floating

           motes.

it’s too much already and all peace has gone.

what once was all’s now

cruel, crawling

        brawls.

it’s too hard already and all diplomacy has gone.

what once was tact’s now

fractured, panicking

              attacks.

it’s 2 AM already and all seeds of dreams have gone.

what once was future’s now

uprooted, fruitless

              disputes.

   

it’s too late already and all plans are gone.

what once was trust’s now

crusted, suppurating

            cuts.

The Ballad of Bob and Mary

***TO BE READ IN A BROAD NORTHERN ENGLISH ACCENT***

Bob and Mary live in a semi.

They spend most every evening watching repeats on the telly.

Burying their heads in digital sand.

Bob sups his beer, thinks ‘Aint life grand’.

He belches, reveling in its echo, tone and strength

then half-heartedly apologises, to save the argument.

Mary is repulsed but merely gives a tut.

It’s not she doesn’t care, quite the opposite but

after all these years of chastising and nagging

her enthusiasm for home improvement is flagging.

Once Mary would have been described a dolly bird.

Now she is just bird-like with a faintly tinted perm.

She’s been smoking menthol superkings sine she turned 21.

They still make her feel sophisticated, though she won’t admit that to anyone.

It hasn’t been a bad life and she’s not one to complain,

but she thinks she’d do it differently if she had her time again.

She liked to have been an air hostess and travelled all over the world

or worked on one of them cruise ships, or been one of Pan’s People’s girls.

Just something a little more glamorous and less like egg and chips.

She gives poor Bob a sideways look and purses coral stained lips.

They’re a staple in their local. Bob drinks stout.

Mary likes a babycham and brandy when she’s out.

Bob’s not fond of Mary’s friends. He hates their gossiping ways.

Mary whispers too softly. He misses half the things she says.

At half past ten, habitually they totter up the road.

Arm in arm, step in step, it’s not a long trip home.

“Bob” says Mary, “do you ever wonder if there’s more than this?”

“Mary” Bob says, “I dearly love you, but you’re pissed.

When you’ve had more than three you know you get all philosophical-like

I’ve told you before about your limits, it’s too much at my time of life.”

He straightened his cap and Mary just sighed

then she looked up and saw how soft were his eyes.

“I know love” she said “and you’ve given me plenty

but sometimes I feel all used up and empty”.

“Oh, duck! We’ve had such good times, remember when we were young?

All those trips to the seaside, those summers full of sun?

Annual foreign holidays to the Costa this and that,

strolling, licking ice cream in a kiss me quick hat.

It’s only right you’re tired when you’ve lived as much as us.

That’s why they give us pensioners free rides on the bus”.

She squeezed his hand and sadly smiled.

They walked in silence a little while.

Then, as they reached their little front gate

Bob’s caught Mary’s arm and said “Wait.”

“What?” said Mary startled, spun into Bob’s waiting palms

“While there’s moonlight, we’ve no music but we’ve love and romance,

haven’t we darling?”

Mary’s heart flew like a flock of starlings.

As she lifted her arms Mary was glad

that night she’d remembered to wear her Tena pad.

She murmured “Let’s dance” and Bob stepped a tango

then screwed up his face and yelled “Ee! Me lumbago!”

Mary cried “Bob! You poor old thing!

Let me give you a hand. Do you want me to ring

for the doctor?” “No, no,” he said

“the best medicine for me will be us in bed”.

“Oh, give over” she playfully teased

“between your back and my dodgy knees

we’ll be lucky to make it up the stairs.

Thank god the hot water bottles are already prepared.”

She helped Bob to bed and fetched him his pills.

Unplugged the cords to save on the bills.

Locked all the doors and turned off the lights.

Got into bed and they kissed goodnight.

In well practiced harmony they both removed their teeth

put them into one glass and pushed it out of reach.

They snuggled into decades long impressions of their love

on a mattress worn equally below as above.

As Mary’s dreams encroached she saw flashes of her life

From after and before she became a mam and wife.

A joyful tear slid down her nose

and she reached her cold feet towards Bob’s warm toes.

“Bob, why don’t we take the grandkids out?

Down to the pier and tell them all the stories about

when you and me was courting

and the lido? and your car?

And that bar that you fought in?

Let’s see how they are.”

Bob just grunted but Mary didn’t mind.

She knew her face was laughter-lined.

For it hadn’t been a bad life, and she’s not one to complain

and she wouldn’t really do it differently

if she had her time again. 

Perdita

As I woke the other day

the sky broke. Big, grey

splotches on concrete.

Each one a cocktail thrown by an ex-lover in defeat.

Dressing, dreading

resigned to a day of

unabashed antagonists,

washing, waking

this disturbing state

insistently persists.

I attempted to give the half squint that hair leaving the house demands

but could barely see the mirror for Kirby grips and hair-bands.

They had spilt off the shelf and onto the floor;

some in the bin, some in the drawer

this atoll of accessories, point of origin undisclosed

 was girt by the lagoon of lost socks and outgrown favourite clothes.

Confused, I clamour for caffeine.

Stumbling through the hallway,

bare soles bruising on abandoned ephemera

as pen lids, lip balm and bouncy balls roll away

care-slow moving like a long lost Lepidoptera.

Steaming kettle further blurring sleep clouded

eyes I turn and reach wrist deep into a tower

of teaspoons.

Withdraw.

To hullabaloo calamitous, I stir.

I slurp.

I stare,

trying to work out where I am.

Such stifling clutter!

It looks like a nutter

lives here, hoarding

all things

carelessly tossed aside.

This realization drove an elbow into my gut.

I checked the doors and windows.

Sealed shut.

Jellied legs delivered me to my cobalt velvet chair,

I sipped my tea most somberly, reflecting on my despair.

I finished, then straight-backed rinsed the cup,

head up high, jaw a-jut

then set about with mop and duster

until all of the items regained their lustre.

Gave each a home, it’s proper place,

put away pairs of briefs by the case

and learned to live through windows.

On tiptoes from upstairs

I can see a sliver of ocean.

I’ve chosen to make the best of it.

It’s orderly now. And quiet.

Some people would kill for this solitude.

I stoically abide it.

As for all the teaspoons, I’ve made myself a crown.

I accept I’m lost, for this is where I’m found