Well, it is Halloween (part 2)

Disrespectful Horrorshow

Pinhead,
you’re just a skinhead,
who’s been used as a dress-maker’s
tabletop accessory.

Freddie,
you’ve got finger-knives,
but frankly you’re already dead,
and though I like your jumper,
menaced Dennis all in red and black,
I don’t live on Elm Street,

and ghost-face guy,
there’s worse than you,
unmasked each week on Scooby Doo,
I’m more likely to laugh-in-your-mask than scream,
not to mention blue Grudge-boy,
and his croaking lank-haired sister –
J-horror’s fashionable ploy,
soon a Tokyo Z-lister,
Leatherface and Voorhees too,
I’ve seen things scarier than you too –
Anne Robinson’s botox-stung lips,
leftover bits from tucks and nips,
Stringfellow’s leopard-print man-thong
(in every way so very wrong)
the ‘Hoff all biker-trousered, putting out
another German pop-chart song,
but if ever something meant I might
need cushions to hide underneath
the unexpected late-night fright
of an ad for Meryl-as-Maggie –
that was real horror…

Well, it is Halloween

Things that are 'meant' to be scary aren't...

Unexpected creeps

Not fox-screams,
horror films,
graveyards or fog,
not even when accompanied by theremins,

but:

lime-tree branches stridulate
against bus-shelter perspex,
pigeons echo-howl through chimney cowls,
taxi brakes cry out in the night,
anguished X-Factor faces captured as stills,
Atlas of Parasitology,
CGI babies-in-adverts gyrate,
landlady half hidden by an architrave,
light-bulb reflection (bathroom mirror),
space behind,
next door’s stone garden menagerie –
they stare so benignly,
some fish at certain angles
(Lovecraft knew about angles),
collections of old dolls
tiny porcelain teeth,
pretty much all dolls,
including Resusci Anne;
empty corridors,
abandoned doors,
trash-to-treasure TV presenters,
hydrangea petals so like peeled skin,
monochrome wind-sway of tall grasses,
dark cumulus in summer –
press ‘pause’ to shudder.

Benefits of autumn

It's that time of year again - yes, it might get cold and wet, but there are...

Benefits of autumn

Light the stove
with last year’s gathered logs –

watching it flicker,
lovers huddle under duvets
as trees turn to flame,
wych hazel red-margined
and camouflaged against
our rusted iron fire-bowl –

kicking through drifts of
lime-tree seeds, we collect
baskets of apples and quince
for pressing-day.

Looking back over the summer

It's been over a week since my last post - the paid stuff has got in the way a bit, 'tis true, though I've been editing and consolidating what I've written over a busy summer of showcases, open mics and other events. New work is sat next to me waiting to be typed up and maybe lightly polished, but until then, here's a rare bit of video of me performing - this one's at the Archimedes Screw showcase featuring Susan Richardson.

Words, words everywhere

Yesterday was National Poetry Day and the theme was 'Water' - events here, events there, poetical events were everywhere. Here's my offering - a bit of autobiography about an incident that definitely involved water in the form of tears...

Iridodialysis

I

Mis-timed arrow,
sharp pain worse than grating bone-ends,
eyeball white splits and bleeds
between clutching fingers, fills with red,
a blue-spotted pool ball –
get back in, vile jelly –
the archer cries, throws away her bow,

I fall to my knees and keen,
Others pace and mutter,
(“Hospital please”)
they mutter on – where's the Eye Unit? Um, dunno,
(“HOSPITAL NOW PLEASE”);
I’m sure it shouldn’t be me that has to give directions...

II

Nurse looks through a lens,
her eyes open wider than mine can,
calls the sister,
calls the doctor,
calls the head consultant from his bed –
rungs of gravitas, a ladder of distress;
he provides painkilling drops –
I love him –

I’ve begun to vaguely buzz and giggle,
it’s shocking –
he explains the impracticality of micro-surgery;
my other eye glazes over,
tests are performed,
stereograms – “what can you see?”
pyramid or boat,
follow the flashing dot,
follow my finger,
follow the white coat,
put your chin
on the optico-neuro-cerebro-whatsit;

steriods are prescribed,
machine goes ‘bleep’
and images tiny torn strings of muscle and grue,
milk ripped from lapis,
the word ‘blow-out’ is used –
I enquire –
an explanation is given
in terms of a thumb-squashed ping-pong ball,
inner front hit inner back,
now popped back out –
I feel vaguely sick
and sit –
I’d like to go to sleep,
machine goes ‘beep’.

III

I now have two pupils on that side,
but all the care and wondrous NHS
means I also have two eyes.