GOOD FOR THE SOUL

 

This life’s not been all wine, fags and whiskey

you know. There were women

somewhere in the maelstrom.

After the lying in, a bacon roll

and cup of tea to go.

 

I don’t look at the pictures now,

especially in black and white.

Wide-eyed youth, clutching someone else’s joint

as if it were a microphone.

Blethering, open-mouthed.

 

A long time since, but even so

there’s stuff I ought to leave with you.  

Let’s unlock this box together.

Root through secret keepsakes,

examine what we find inside.

 

Exhibit A: the Zhivago shirt

in green and purple pattern, fit

for any psychedelic comeback.

In a world of his own

this peacock preens and struts,

 

and moulds a scratched vinyl –

Surfer Girl – melting, into an ash tray.

Sleeve restyled as with-it pin-up.

Borrowed New Left Reviews litter the floor –

revisions unreturned.

 

In my drawer, there’s a dental cast

which restores toothless bite.

Heart-shaped letters too: a ribboned bundle

I swore I’d burn but never did. 

Call it my insurance.

 

xii. 2021

Not the house I would bequeath

Beneath these missing slates, dampness spreads 

like shame in dark corners, rotting rafters.

 

A butterfly beats against the skylight;

through cracked, ill-fitting pane may yet escape.

 

Downstairs our boiler ignites, grumbling

sucks in gas, exhales its deadly warmth.

 

Soon the forming ice will sing to us no more:

let’s see this winter out, then make choices.

 

Settle for an attic life. When rivers flood

numberless sandbags will not save the cellar.

 

You ask how long we should expect to live,

for there is only so much one can do.

 

With vinegar I wipe the mirror clean,

see myself revealed. Startled, wash my hands.

 

 xi. 2021

 

Dreich, Season 7 

WISH YOU WERE HERE (postcards from beyond)

The moment

our pilot announced that –

due to volcanic ash

from the nearby eruption –

he was putting down

prematurely

on some island

in the Bermuda triangle,

I knew

we were on a hiding

to nowhere.

 

* * *

 

Through blood-red sunset,

dusty with snake charmers,

novelty dentists

and multi-lingual beggars,

we went

in search of a meal.

Half a goat’s head

and some boiled snails.

Not the menu

we’d hoped for.

I’m allergic to eyeballs.

 

* * *

 

In the dense forest

halfway up

we were stopped

by Volkspolizei, bristling

with sub-machine guns.

They interrogated

our newly-grown beards,

but found no evidence

in the boot

or under the seats.

Didn’t test the door panels – good job.

 

* * *

 

By the time

we reached the city limit

of Zolfo Springs,

we couldn’t tell

whether sunstroke or dysentery

would do for us first.

Giant catfish lurked

in a mosquito pool.

Falling lemons dented the bonnet.

A chainsaw in the distance –

but not in Texas.

 

xi. 2021