Aprilla 125

The Aprilla, garaged, sullen,
a disintegration of parts,
a wheel out of line.
His leg, a memory.
Black oil bled from its belly 
below the bonnet of a blue Fiesta.
A cigarette distils the moment
lost in broken plastic
and shards of splintered bone.
Wait, forget, remember
gaps in the ligaments of time
marked only by black residue,
a motorbike’s transitory shadow.

Kicking The Habit

I know when I smoke too much:

nicotine stains my fingers 
and deepens to ochre shades,
from my mouth I spit sand 
and leather, the window takes 
an interesting air and I notice
your dogstare when at three 
in the morning, still awake, 
I shape words for pointless poems.

Dear Laurie Lee

In the liquid valley the wet stem 

bends in aqua-essence to the teardrop 
dew hung heavy on the blade’s edge.
An imagined heartbeat quivers
as with one fingertip touch it pools 
in my palm before the summertime 
when dewdrops powder my eye.

In The Beginning

Adam named the animals for God:
"This is a Diplodocus" 
he explained, "do come back 
if I can be of further assistance."
He fashioned flints into razor blades
for the first ever haircut 
then talked about the weather.
He left the echo of his voice 
between forgotten rocks 
and the residue of years.
I found them hidden among old bones
of speculation dug from the grave
then neatly stored in ebony drawers.
I’ve saved them as evidence 
for the final world.

Pipistrelle

You are the edge 

over which I fall. 
A dark attraction 
flutters blood as claws  
find flesh to hook.
The inside outside face 
nuzzles for a mother’s breast, 
the urgent tug and suck 
stretches sinews in my gut.
Rivet-eyes mindmap starless skies
in the cavern of my hands.

Versed in Country Ways

Our father taught us how
to kill the unnecessary hen,
folded fingers about her throat
and pressure with the thumb,
but in my schoolboy days
I preferred a Gatling gun.