She loves to make animations

She loves to make animations
Of little things that move about
She is their dotting mother
And they will never be without

The dark Thames floods her heart
With its inky black night
And drowns her little children
Their happiness, her spell of light

For somewhere beneath her tower
A gateway openly calls
To the ravens of the dark side
To invade her walls

She’ll describe her little creations
As moving creatures of light
Then the darkness intervenes
And they become the prey of night

From a proud and smiling mother
Into a furious mournful maid
The mortality of life is found
In the animations she made

Here is a picture of a long lost friend.

Here is a picture of a long lost friend. He is aiming a spear at a woolly mammoth. He comes walking out of my brain like a stick man and sits on the floor. He starts a campfire and spreads his belongings in front of him. The smoke is rising up towards a cluster of stars.

Here is a picture of a woolly mammoth. It has a placard around its neck. It is trapped in the Thumb of Michigan by fires. Hunters are running towards it as it makes its protest. Save The Wooly Mammoth. One of the men is a long lost friend, how did he get there?

I thought he had died long ago, but he rode the dragonfly back into this past world. Next summer I will look for the magic dragonfly that can fly me back into his ancient world.

The magic dragonfly is as big as a lion. It flies into the bus stop at West India Dock Road between when the sun disappears and the stars open their windows. It is a brief enclosure of nothingness from where you can travel backwards into the ghost world.

You can tell that my friend is a ghost man from the picture on the stone wall. It is strangely lacking in light and shadow and the days are heaped up into mounds rather than weeks. Here is a mound of ten thousand years ago. The lake waters were alive then and told stories and all the woolly mammoths, after their appetites were sated, would sit down and listen to its haunting noise.

The experience was different from what it is today, days were longer, the air was fresher, and all the year round was summeresque.

In the thumb of Michigan, the mammoths have gone to sleep. The hunters are men and women now and are smiling at one another. A great flock of birds and a herd of deer take up residence by the singing water. A shower of meteorites goes across the sky.

I can only get two legs

I can only get two legs in my trousers
Sometimes I try to get all four.
I can only get two arms into my shirt sleeves
And wings just don’t fit anymore.

I try to get two heads inside my hat
But they argue and always fall out.
And I try to get two hearts together
But one is always left out.

 

 

Three short stories

1/

At work he was reduced to slavery, the kind of slavery that no amount of pay could free you from; he was sandwiched between gravestones, sandwiched between birth and death like a grape in a vice. His mind, was liquefied in his head, it began to swirl around in clouds of oblivion. Out of the oblivion cries were heard, desperate curses made their way out into reality.

People stood and stared, he was a shadow given a wooden body and set free; he was a body twisting and turning in the midst of a sacrificial fire. Dug deep into the flesh of time like a blackhead, the national company he worked for was surrounded by wrought iron railings, the kind that protect a grave. The director came into view floating like one of Goya’s witches.

In a dreamlike state I climb a fire engine ladder towards him to ask about my future. It’s too bad he says, you should never have asked for more.

2/

The child was brought up by the god of war, but loved too much. When he entered puberty the threat to the war god’s authority was plain to see. Tired of the child’s love and hating his first born son with a vehemence that not even his enemies had felt the god of war turned his son into water, bitter cold water that flowed away from the fires of the war gods rage into the winter night over the bed rock over the land, steaming and destroyed, stained by blood, polluted by death.

Over the land he flowed into a new continent. There was a young girl who came to him sometimes, looking into the mirrored surface of him and he fell in love with her. Each day she passed by and took a sip from the cool water of him without knowing who he really was. He looked at her with great sorrow, alienated, but loving to see her constant happiness And rested there for so long that he nearly forgot who he was or where he came from, so at peace was he. And other people came by too, singing and dancing.

After a long time had passed this land became threatened by his father the god of war and he came to the land to destroy and enslave this peaceful land, and to take enslave the girl he loved but his son was there and became agitated into fury like a gushing raging river, he went foreword to meet his father head on. The fire arrows were extinguished; the swords shattered by the torrent that rose unexpectedly above the god of war and the angry deluge crashed down onto him and extinguished the hatred of the war god and his army. All that was left was the god of war who asked who he was and where he came from. The fury of the waters abated and became still and the war god looked into the waters and saw his son reflected there, then he lay down with a broken heart by the waters edge and died.

3/

Life was good then, there was kindness and freedom in those early days like no one had ever known before; the freedom to move about without fear of death or failure. Then they built a temple, it rose high up into the sky and from the top sacrificial blood began to stream. Widening through the centuries into a river until the Great War when the river of sacrificial blood became a great ocean,

and the shadows of the dead flew above it like a cloud of black crows.