Monthly Archives: January 2013

Homes III


The rooms in which we age, by age

breathe in and out as plastered lungs

stay watching, fly-like, all I do –

my scratchings, my days all spent


pacifying foreign girls who somehow came to stay

bringing with them unknown tastes,

new ways of cooking English food.


Through she, I try to unwrap minds

coiled tightly in my crackling hands –

this land’s grey shores, the silts, the streets,

a slag of bricks. Electric lights


illuminate a slip of thoughts – I

take a payment week on week

to put on hold a sense of home

being nicked and scored, or chiseled down


on old marble, or under trees

in a pleasant market town.

‘He loved it here’, they’d say

or they’d knock up a bench


and kids could sit and maybe sense

the rooms in which I live,

the homes.


Out there, there is a sea

and childishly


I hope it never ends

homes II

The homes are what we leave behind

our breath remains, as does our use –

arguments hang heavy, old oils crack


across this painted roof. We wake

in ordinary bedsheets, only to fall back


again and more. We keep home still

yet somewhere, old keys rattle


aching to unlock old doors.


A row of brightly coloured houses

top this town, that spreads out slow


to depress suburbs, chuffed too long

with lives drawn in glorious shades. Yet


stripped down as sodium lamplight

throws itself, more reasons to stay

inside, the homes we leave behind.


We pan out to all the gods’

forgotten and wasted towns. Streets

are scatted with broad-hipped women,

crawled in from other lands. They come


and come again to steal our kids

and hack off limbs, to cram in boxes

dull, industrious lives. Beaches

stretch out to skies


filled with terracotta and the days

when we nestled in the space

between native breasts, drinking

and taking love as if it was ours.