These are a few poems that I sent of to The Rialto magazine a couple of months ago...I got a letter back from them a couple of days ago...it was a rejection letter...Still, onwards and upwards I say...no need to be disheartened...Just makes me want to pull my finger out and get on with sending more stuff out to The Rialto and other places. Any way, if you read these and like them please find a way to let me know.


Dummy

“A burglar tried to hide from police by standing in a shop window display and pretending to be a dummy. The 21 year old had set off a silent alarm when he broke into the clothes store in Vigevano, northern Italy. Officers searched the store in the early hours but found no one at first.” - Ananova 14/05/2002.

There is a certain dedication in this,
it’s the longest I have stuck at anything.
I’ve stood stock still, spent all day
selecting people from the crowds
and followed them to the end of eyesight,
or just around the corner.
It all started quite innocently,
I hid at the end of noses,
prepared myself for a million “Hold that poses”.

It’s a balanced job
in a time of recession,
to just stand and demonstrate
the rabbit-in-headlights impression
for all and sundry.
People watching, wall-to-wall,
Monday to Monday.

I’ve lost my fear of nakedness,
although on the occasional night
I miss my genitals,
but understand the hermaphrodites’ approach.
The smoothness of skin alone
can be the be all,
and not necessarily the end.

While I no longer bend,
my range of components has grown.
It’s nothing like surgery,
but far quicker.
I no longer itch
and my eyelids do not flicker a beat.
I can look you in the eye
and never blink.
I don’t worry about the heat.
I would like to know what you think…

I’ve seen people shrink
when they come through doors;
something to do with ceilings is my theory.
I’ve probably considered yours.
The time to think is useful,
my mind no longer fears wandering.
What I can’t tell you about this
is for the backs of stamps,
and not worth pondering.

I could do this standing on my head.


Some Things My Feet Taught Me…

That staying in one place too long
can only hurt.

That they fit exactly in the tiles
of Charing Cross tube stations’ platform.

That to be sensibly shod is the best way
to get anywhere.

The route to your home in the dark
and the way back with eyes full.

That dead skin should not be mourned,
it is only an irritant.

Itches can never be satisfied,
only postponed.

To stay on your toes
is harder without ballet shoes.

The crunch of gravel is nice,
tiny massages that only hurt your teeth.

When digits meet, one end to another,
happiness is possible.

Grass is the greatest treat,
a tiny wash of dew.

Smooth shoes and an icy pavement
is as good as gliding, like flying.

That the heart and music must
agree before dancing can take place.

Hot coals are to be avoided
if you are without faith in anything.


Kizelbel, September 2004

Last night was all too perfect.
The only noise was the local crickets’
nightly jam session in the hills.
All conversation was of insect music,
as one lone virtuoso near our balcony,
sang his own exquisite love songs.

The midges massed to our left
like a Luftwaffe wave;
ready to dive-bomb us to our shelter.
Moths were taking off and landing
like burning paper scraps
against a bonfire sun.

Figs fell from the trees
at exactly the same time as the Muezzin’s siren call began,
punctuated by the click of the microphone.
Modern life beat a path inland
as you beat me at backgammon.


Knife Throwers Assistant

I hand myself to him on a plate
twice a day, night after night.
I am not one for tempting fate,
luck gets taken for no ride, or a fool.
NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY
is a steadfast, rock-solid rule.

Don’t talk to me of faith.
I have to remember the knives are thrown around me
and never at or against.
I have grown to see this:
His aim is his word, and it is true.
I freely take part in this tryst.

Trust being the currency here,
we spend it wisely.
We don’t talk after work or come near.
I need no holds over him, or he over me.
For obvious reason we keep the other
precisely where we want them to be.

Arms at five past and five to,
feet at twenty five to and past;
then a whoosh as the blade is passing through:
Six in as many seconds as balloons burst.
Even if he were to hit me
the show must always come first.

When I started people came here
to be entertained, or cheaply thrilled
It’s getting hard to keep the audiences’ attention,
sometimes I suspect blood needs to be spilled,



With thanks to www.painproofrubbergirls.com


Guy Buried Up to His Neck in the Middle of a Forest

In here no one hears trees falling,
or do they?
I have listened and lost interest,
being too caught up in the noises of blood in my ears;
the ferrety noises of animals.

I no-longer sweat,
or can no-longer be sure it is me.
It could be moisture,
what’s left of my clothes transforming the heat.

I had always doubted the industry of ants,
of stag beetles or the point of centipedes.
I am in no doubt.
Now I believe.

I have learnt to be comfortable pissing myself,
like a deep sea diver.
It’s all I can feel now,
reminds me I am still alive.

Insects pass by to inspect
what I suspect will become theirs.
It is not the casual rabbit
or idle hare that I fear.

How did I get here?
You may well ask.