The Goose the Ghost and the Man (From Rented )
The Clink was my manor where I still reside with the whores
(The Winchester Geese), the paupers, the dispossessed.
In the still of a twenty first century Sunday to the rattling of trains,
in the shadow of The Shard, through the countless
skulls and syphilitic bones, it is as goose I rise.
Not a bird fattened in the cloisters destined
for a Christmas plate, I am heroin chic,
super model thin as I slip through The Red Gates.
I caress its ribbons, poems, its tiny bears, a shrine
to the ‘working girls’ homespun and trafficked.
From my sisters of the past to those
who trade on the pavements of London,
Birmingham, Nottingham. Snuffed out
like the candles nestling in the weeds they
will burn again as the stones are turned to beating organs.
I honk and glide over the rooftops the narrow
streets no longer running with stinking waste,
over the Bishop’s ruins whose coffers
held the rent from the lodgings
where I spread my legs.
Where people make a game of history
at the Golden Hinde gift shop and gloat
at the gory prison where my mother fell to jail fever.
Over The Cathedral where I whispered
my unanswered prayers to St Mary Overie.
Over the market where I sold myself
at Southwark Fair. The wharfs that knew
mob rule, that rocked to music
and pleasures of the flesh, now
sterile boxes to seal the wealthy off.
Hissing over the singing Thames
to the seats of government, law, and finance -
the old haunts of the father I never knew.
I seek a certain type of gentleman.
I enter the safe sleep of lawyer, judge, stockbroker, priest.
In dreams they wrestle me in my room
at The Anchor their portly bodies
enfolded in my wings. With a scratching in their groins
they awake perspiring on feather pillows
beside their cold and tidy wives,
dress to face an innocent morning, soap
me from their shiny skins. In hangman tight
ties, mildly harassed by the half-digested grass
upon their stairs they pause in doorways,
prepare to stride their importance into the light.
Before I launch, take flight to Crossbones,
their feet embed themselves in my excrement,
with a final twist of my elegant white neck
I rip through expensive shoe leather
and peck at their adulterous heels.
Crossbones Cemetery is the sight of a medieval burial ground in Southwark, London. Originally created for prostitutes known as The Winchester Geese, after The Bishop of Winchester whose title permitted prostitution on the South bank, for 400 years, in return for rent from the brothels.
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Branch Line (from Track Record)
Awroight Fabian pack it in, this isn’t Wolverhampton
says the mother, who looks far too young
to have four, soon to be five, children,
as her family piles onto the train at St Erth.
Someone, almost to themselves, says
He might have a problem with that name
where he comes from. Fabian, mid rampage, tells me
Cornwall’s posh. Someone, not as quietly as they think,
says Tell that to the Cornish.
Tiny noses press against the glass on
‘Probably the most scenic rail journey in the country’.
Which barely disturbs the herons in the estuary
as we sweep past the dunes and golden sands
of Hayle and Carbis Bay. Fabian cries to his sister
Look there’s a basking shark, there’s a dolphin look
but it’s only white horses. The younger child says
Fabian stop, it eess’nt yow making things up.
But following his finger they both want to believe it.
We head down to the town, that draws in the artists,
with its unique light. Don’t worry about a thing
Fabian’s baby sister sings ‘Three Little Birds’ word perfect.
Mouths are open but nobody speaks.
As the little train unloads its tourist hoards
(All born here are banished to the outskirts)
I realise these children have never seen the sea.
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Religion (published in The Ver Prize Anthology 2022)
the only faith you need
is the faith your dog would
go for
if you had a dog
that if it leapt into the mud
you would not deliver tough love
meaning
you would not fear the sound of
your dog’s breath
fear it panting hot on your neck
having recognised
your dog is not merely a dog
but mud is just mud
let’s add an aside
the sun is shining
the sky is I don’t know
fucking amethyst
for the love of Christ
if there was a Christ
get in the mud with your dog
look it in the eye
enjoy the surprise
and then lie
on the grass
with your dog to dry
there is no God
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Cupboard Love (published in The Alchemy Spoon)
She is clever, though
we don’t know what to do with her,
arms folded stubbornly under the chest,
just so demanding! There must be a remedy for nylon
housecoats, immobilised by the weight of perms.
To the sound of vegetables, boiling, boiling,
a group of women discuss me
as if I wasn’t there. As if I had no opinion,
I am engraving a pan of solidified lard.
As I cancel my final date with optimism
I will carve the word NO,
there is a drawer full of knives. I am sharper than
their answer, it is always Yes, because I said so.
Their answer? It is always Yes because I said. So?
There is a drawer full of knives I am sharper than.
I will carve the word NO,
as I cancel my final date with optimism.
I am engraving a pan of solidified lard,
as if I wasn’t there. As if I had no opinion,
a group of women discuss me,
to the sound of vegetables boiling. Boiling
housecoats, immobilised by the weight of perms,
just so! Demanding There must be a remedy for nylon,
arms folded stubbornly under the chest,
We don’t know what to do with her,
she is clever though.