Poetry for Adults

The Neighbours’ Child

The neighbours had a child we used to know,

Shot into the world, Brasso bright shining,

Statistic recorded in Walthamstow.

He marked his territory in pink dayglow,

Taunting passers-by with swagger and sass,

The neighbours had a child we used to know.

His handful of stones broke our front window.

We fixed the broken glass with sticky tape,

Statistic recorded in Walthamstow.

Cast in gangster black from hoody to toe,

Knocking over bins, owning the street,

The neighbours had a child we used to know.

Ripped from the page of Edgar Allan Poe,

Spliff-smoking, swearing, staring youth/slash/man,

Statistic recorded  in Walthamstow.

The blade in his pocket was just for show,

'Til 1053 on a Friday night,

The neighbours had a child we used to know,

Statistic recorded in Walthamstow.

Cycle

A small white dog

Who was once a Hindu boy

Crawled inside a washing machine and fell asleep.

It tossed and rotated him

Filling his ears with suddy soap

And as the water whirled,

The dog became the boy again.

He stepped from the machine

And gave a little shake

No dirt on his feet, no dust in his eye

Minus the burden of his clothes.

Don Juan in Birmingham (1970)

Elbow on the bar, a Jumping Jack Flash

Commands the room with his hippy panache.

Sways from the waist of his hanger-zipped jeans

Blowing Stuyvesant circles as he leans

Across the bar to order a Barley Wine,

The last before closing time.

The barmaid detects a mixed bouquet

Of Old Spice, Brut and his mother’s hairspray.

Juke box plays "Too shy, shy,"

Girls shift position to catch his eye.

He smiles through perfect gleaming teeth,

From regular brushing with Dentifrice.

He can unlatch a bra in total darkness,

From years of practice with Helen Harkness.

He’s dark and mysterious like a Heart ice cream

Filled at the centre with a blood red dream.

One-night stands in his Cortina car

Notched up as trophies on his guitar.

His flat is littered with cans and bottles,

The bed is creaky, the covers mottled,

Traces of girls who’ve stayed before,

Phone numbers etched on the bathroom door.

They leave at dawn to the singing of birds

And wait for his call, which is absurd.

Reflecting on the story of his romantic success,

This legend at sixty – wifeless and hairless,

Drowning in debt and restorative ointment,

Wonders who’s to blame for his disappointment.

An Old Friend

I remember Celia Carrington

Large-breasted in her school blazer

Blonde hair resting on her shoulders,

Skirt turned over at the waistband 

Engineered to expose nylon thighs.

All the boys knew they would.

They say she had one breast reconstructed.

You say they don’t match

As you fall off your seat at the bar. 

Bewildered and wide-eyed

Your pink mottled face

Sits uneasily under its new wig. 

"You must come round for brunch,"

You slur through missing teeth.

We leave.

Your glasses fall in the road;

You follow them.

I help you up.

Your  house is scented with damp and joss sticks,

Yesterday’s takeaway overflows the lid-less bin;

Cigarette butts gather outside the back door;

Cancerous crew.

"You and me, " you say

"We used to dance together. Do you remember?"

Daffodils in Bletchley

Sou’wester yellow daffodils 

Run like a stream 

Through the unmown verges, 

And under the capsized trolleys

Of the flat-rooved estate.

A charity shop-clothed child 

 Looks out from a card-boarded window

 Across a muddle of prams, dogs and washing lines.

 Crisps and a coke for lunch today. 

She doesn’t plan to be 

 A free-school meals child

 Forever.