My GodI couldn’t find God
so I made one up and she’s kinder than the old ones doesn’t hate the people I love doesn’t tell me I’m wrong to love them I see her smiling face in the eyes of my friends in the leaves of an autumn tree and in a favourite song she couldn’t be anywhere else she has no time for hate or war because the universe is infinite and we are only here for a moment so she fills my time with good things lessons I want to learn old people with stories and young people who fix my computer she’s a hi-tech God Steve Jobs is teaching her some stuff my God drinks whisky (in moderation) she’s up early painting the clouds sometimes she takes her eye off the ball things fuck up but I try to help if I can sometimes we both fuck up but good people step in I don’t need her to be infallible I just need her to be real I like her better than those angry old Gods she makes me laugh and brings flowers when I’m sad she grew them herself for me |
Poem for my BrotherGrandad laughed
at Dave’s tinkering in a room full of wires and solder not a cruel laugh quite the opposite glee in fact recognition and love no one knew what a computer was when Dave built one crap compared to a macbook admittedly but in a world of velvet flares and 8-track cartridges he was showing us the future his own future was cut short by schizophrenia and a descent into a worse hell than his ancient God could ever devise three decades on him damaged and withdrawn me on the edge of disaster we walked on a North East beach in the rain and drew in the sand he had ideas which he shared with me ideas for the future |
Poem for Adrian Henri
Avon Lady
your Tupperware parties
replaced his booze money Then Avon paid the gas bills Anne Summers was a bridge too far you were shy and gentle they’d eat me alive you said but secretly it represented the romance and fun missing from your life |
Poem For Mumat the espresso bar you saw a poet
your hair dyed raven black and smoking a French cigarette your job was a bigger drag than your fags but the nights were great you saw The Beatles at The Cavern and said they were “OK, but hardly Jack Kerouac ” Auntie Dot was your confidante braver than you but with a colder heart that inevitable trade-off hippie Dotty used men and you were used I’ve cried for you so many times but tonight I’m happy the whisky perhaps or maybe the photo of you with your beehive piled high at 2/6 a time you drank Guinness and Cherry B and Babycham they took away the pain of our lonely home and numbed your dreams of America Throwaway
you made a throwaway remark in 1979
that I finally understood yesterday |
Everton Brow
going to see Grandad was fun but difficult
so many things we had to ignore in the tower block Mum in her Sunday best painfully ignoring the human faeces in the corner of the lift Dave crying because a boy on the landing called him a fucking little poof and threw a stone me trying to enjoy a bag of chips with the smells of vinegar and stale piss intermingling the flickering amber-coloured lights seemed to make everything darker Auntie Rita made us jam butties and fretted that Grandad had forgotten we were coming. Rita smelled of hairspray and ciggies and cheap bubble bath and I loved her very much she was kind and funny but sad behind her eyes like Mum and like me sometimes Dad would take me out again to find Grandad in the British Legion or the Buffs Club getting plastered on cheap sherry or whisky mac the journey back along the road was lopsided I wasn’t tall enough to support my side of Grandad |
Fucked Up
at the support group
the kind lady asked us to describe our feelings fucked up was my reply I’m sorry Michael but drop-in centre policy does not allow for the use of profanity would you like to try again? yes I’m feeling frightened lonely helpless angry over-medicated vulnerable unwell but mostly just fucked up I’ll have to ask you to leave the group now Michael and I will be reporting your poor attitude to my line manager |