The Flickering

fragile in languid slant and sheen
morse code rain flashes arc-weld notes
wispy on curtains and curtains vehicles beam
heavenly-mind signals on-off-on-on..
as cat eyes illume the lights with passive gaze
azure-white parallel runways slow-shutter nazca lines
ribbon rhinestones reflective elide
elide the lode of night tonight..

banks of shadows as seaweed shorn
shallow emerald vales sway with whirling wash
undulate over waves of concrete miles
rivulets twinkle diaphanous jet
autumn leaves collect themselves under a bridge
whistling refuse collectors duet with brushes percussive.. .

and her smile and her smile
how her smile could lift the brooding mountain
presence so rare
disarming cool artifice..

passing strangers us
tilting blessing one another
aum i am lifted imbibed
stunned vaulted raw into the meditative penumbra
almost like all this is a living poem
drenched in the liminal present
the pristine velvet pulse
the intangibles attune
cathedral coalescence
heart-space cymatics..

i thank you so
the unlaced graceful gentlest tangle
such peripheries dazzle in contrast
gossamer-tender seconds glacial
their precious delicate flicker
thrumming heart syncopating
the rudderless puressence filter
no machinations
transmutation
levitating the vacuum in silken-wonder caress..
i strikethrough nevertheless..
nevertheless..

single espresso in my hand
on the train i watch the cars in drizzle swoosh by
rolling shark eyes doe bathes the felines fancy
while other landing lights charm my starship spinning
utterly disarmed of discerned plans
in the here beyond now and now
i am almost i am..

The End-Times Of The Milkman

 

if you are reading this
you might be old enough to remember times
times misting eyes mystified rear-view-mirrored otherly
the late-nows-of-beforehand
nestled in bold amidst partitioned sleet silken
between wistful riddles of angst-in-aspic
sunken to the surface as amethyst foaming
as crestfallen sandcastle owners bronze a peeling orange
wandering the shore with shipwreck-detectors
beach-combing for neophyte starter homes
as smirking phantoms so virtuous skateboard the ozone
oh how those flogged memories decode encoded reloaded
rocking and mocking
replaying stuttering mix-tapes of ancient answerphone messages
as if they were relayed from ascended masters..

a memory there is..
of a was-time when it was considered untoward..
to buy milk from the shops
especially from supermarkets
supermarkets that blearily shook murmurers down
for up to five-and-a-half days a week
the half-day
the parched dairy-bargain-armies
water-trod musk-scented lava-coloured floor tiles
as meek as machine elves caffeinated on largactil..

the milkman
for what about the milkman we cried
what will happen to the milkman
will not his livelihood be terminated
terminated by thoughtless shop owners
selling milk and churned glutamate sugared
things they absolutely have no business selling
next they will want to own dairy farms outright..

and what will happen to their milk floats
for lo
their gorgeous glorious antiquitech hum
winked blinks at housewives living on scoured fumes of aprons
do you remember housewives
a free one came with every pram..

if you are reading this
and you recall the time of the milkman
you are also old enough to remember
when you were taught how to tell the time
the time on an analogue watch to boot
the big hand
and the little hand
and that other one..

if you are reading this
you might remember a time
when customers paid for newspapers
from the newsagent and not the supermarket
such wildly cod-normals shade themselves in revivified..

for it was a then-when
when we read stories about a new ice-age incoming
a toasty-frozen nostalgic time
when football hooligans
especially organised football hooligans
and do you remember organised football hooligans
we relied on
like clockwork
to regularly have fist-fights on trains
do you remember marauding fist-fighters
change..

and do you remember normal
as in and do you remember subnormal
a couple of my school-mates were shamed subnormal
they were so lucky
they were exiled to art class all week long
the smart ones..

every weekend
the proper adults
do you remember the proper adults
them there sensible stupefied proper adults
kindly and dutifully rug-pulled themselves
unitised
determinedly jangle-handed
palmed-over polished-dull coins
coins for the privilege to exchange
for inked-in sections of no- think
including an unfunnier cod-cod-comic for us kidz
achtung x-babies..

then after being read
the readers were recycled again
recycled imprinted by the industrial press
recycled in formation
all made perfect sense
perfect sense for the-the
the-them-of-us-all..

the milkman tried to keep up with those times
by selling cartons of milk instead of bottles
and when that failed
he sold vhs-porn from his datsun bluebird
most probably hidden inside fake cartons..

the cartons must have been somewhat conspicuous
to be large enough to contain a datsun bluebird
milk spilling over onto the pavement..

and as datsun doors flood-flashed open
perhaps the absolutely saturated disguised ex-milkman
rued that he eschewed selling porn cassettes
as model ships in bottles
so easy to see the sense of this in retrospect
imagine
sting as a priapic ex-milkman
singing about tantric porn cassettes in bottles..
porn cassettes in recycled bottles saving rainforests..

we were also told by the grown-ups
and do you remember they called themselves grown-ups
the betamax tapes were of higher quality
and i believe they meant
the betamax porn stars were more attractive
and the betamax porn milkman always got lucky
and the keyboard music was full dolby
and the betamax video players
boasted advanced shuttle/ pause capabilities
meaning those important moments could be forensically studied
by scholars of tapeworm fantasy
so that must be why our vhs-porn milkman
never got lucky
never got lucky lucky lucky
although he owned a datsun bluebird..

a decade or so later
the milkman was muted by the pizza delivery man
and he will soon be replaced with a potent drone robot
boasting aerial dominance mastery
progress
garlic baguettes as starmer-blessed storm shadow missiles go go go..

sometimes
we used to go to the local backstreet video store
and we were allowed into the hidden room
where we watched under-the-shelf
smuggled from japan
ten-function digital watches and knock-off five-pence fags
the digital numbers were tastefully blurred
blurred with giant asterisks
i got to press those buttons for minutes
numb fingers for space invaders
bet the girls were jealous..

by the way
the highlight of my week
was regaling girls in my form
with my literary interpretations read pretensions
of the lyrics in-full-print published in smash hits
we were even encouraged to discuss album lyrics in english class..

one time i recall
i too felt like smash-hitting my own head against the chalkboard
do you remember chalkboards
i bravely volunteered to unpack the meanings
of the yes album close to the edge
no way am i doing that again
give me mallarmé any day..

now dead then proto
proto-dame thatcher
wielded school milk withheld
but to be fair
many kids shrugged
and two-finger-flipped school milk for school glue
and do you remember two-finger-flips..

the liberated school glue supplemented broken family dole money
and do you remember broken families
there used to be at least one on every estate
brazenly they used butter instead of margarine
to water and melt the elements in their toasters..

and the bags of chips  tasted of angry miner frequencies
or four channels of teevee programme listings
and the mad cow thing was still but a vision
a fevered vision predicted by anti-big-agri do-gooders
do you remember the trademarked naive-but-brave do-gooders..

if only the cows stayed away from their own milk
and instead sniffed grass-fed glue
they would never have woofed and meowed their moos
as they toppled over like felled rorschach tests
depicting ostriches as fluted zebras legless..