Musings of the Dolbster

I tore through you and didn’t stop
creating two doors
one for life to enter
and other to exit
death is born in your torso
leeching blood and gurgles
spiked with murmours
of onlookers, unsure
what to do, apart from panic
freezing like eggs in aspic
in the shallow terrine
of the underpass

each syllable a note
some flat, some unbearably high-pitched
but voiced all the same
by the same unwieldy madam
who will never let you forget her name

sometimes written in blood
as the nights begin to fade
disecting her feelings
slashing the doubt
of an quarter century tirade

launched into without feeling
heaven forbid she lets you in
because when she does
there’s no escape
and the walls are oh so thin.

I’m sure you think my head is empty
and my daydreams are sordid and plenty
you’d be right, my head’s full of shite
and it’s only Tuesday, 12.20.

I don’t understand what leaks from your wounds
it could be blood but I’m guessing it could be something
more serious than that

like when you cut yourself and don’t realise it
until you wash your hands and it doesn’t matter
if the water is hot or cold
it stings, just the same

the water turning yellowish
as it blends with your life
swilled away by an anxious stream
desperate to make clean
and hurry away
to the sea
where the traces of you
cannot be seen.

cold, chastising the goose-flesh arms
saying “put a cardigan on”
whilst taunting the ailing radiators,
the type found in Victorian schools
with black iron railings
often left to crumble
often charred husks
burned by callow arson

committed by youths who once sat on parquet
singing hymns before playtime
now, they sit
complaining they are cold
in a cell, the same size
as the shed, where stolen bikes
and garden tools converse
over compost
about the weather
in an imagination at least, oh memories do
funny things
when the hairs on your arms
bristle in a breeze.

I keep telling myself that I’m too young to look out of the window
every morning and notice the mood of the sky

scowling if I’m paranoid, banter if its a good day
framed in rotting wood and traffic fumes

and a pneumatic drill, somewhere up the road
by the petrol station

clipping the pavement like a thousand jackboots
of a bored army, marching to nowhere.

ok, so I’m arrogant as Pickering my violin teacher once said
as I made the strings squeal on the morning of my grandfather’s death
she didn’t know and I couldn’t tell her
decided to carry on
rosined bow dragging as I think of him
cold and alone.
A man no more
as jarred, staccato notes
mark his ascent to another throne
where the music is sweeter
and the tutors
are kinder

my grandfather is home.

The BT tower, reduced to a silhouette by snowflakes
that look like feathers, stirring the urge to fly,
the dust on the windowsill aches and vibrates
in time with the hum of traffic,
specifically a thirty-three bus
double-decker, white, red and blue livery
gliding, then choking
in the slush
as silver and black cars of sales reps
ambulances rushing to accidents,
a police motorcyclist
wiping his visor
at the traffic lights
with a leather gloved hand
whilst eyeing a woman in a purple knitted hat
rushing to the warmth of her office,
the pub.

For Anjee Busby

Woven on giant looms
servants of purposeful feet
wonders of mechanics
created by an intelligent maker
bones, wool, silk
all natural
striding purposefully
across boardroom
cities, rocks,
parade grounds
personal histories stamped in sweat
on pairs that are sometimes parted
forever, from their stripy or silky
twin.