Monthly Archives: January 2015

Canción for a Hamster, Two Goldfish.

With Thanks to Alex for Translations

For my diary,
I talked a big talk
about the topness of my secrets,
the air good
and thin as my large-eyed intrigue.

Each letter of my name
like “Hollywoodland”,
punched-out with a label-maker.

I wouldn’t write more than a few pages,
before my siblings happily
devoured what was there,
silver-plated.

I grasp
an indie-rock pebble,
a guitar-pick from the air,
turning swept hair
away from muddied sea.

Eating fish food with the fish, at the cleared Saint’s table,
this January,
the difference between “I wouldn’t worry”
and “it’s okay”,
to me.

Someone out there knows
why Alexander Graham Bell’s first thought on waking
was the telephone,

while I arrive to worry my good grief
at a wall
like Charlie Brown,
like Charles Schultz was a preacher.

My pet fish swim
like Saints above.
My pet hamster April
exercises on a yellow wheel.

I visited a windmill,
and wrote this in Spanish –
“los molinos de viento.”
“Mi hámster, Abril”.

My fish have always danced an
lethargic flamenco,
always or since
I have been looking in.

My fish Miyamoto –
Nintendo pioneer –
turned around the fortunes of a
playing card,
taxi cab,
and love hotel company.

My smart goldfish who knows where his tub for food is,
has favourite corners,
watches us watch television,
sees remote control lasers,
looks at us and wonders
when flaked food will
hit the deck.

Professor Fishkins –
sorry you swam late into my eyeline.
If we were much quieter,
you’d be the underwater
one of our family.

Mi dulce peces de colores.
Profesor da una vuelta a la pecera.

I wouldn’t know one,
being terrible with names, faces,
drawing, maths, conversation, patterns, spiders, time, getting on transport, keeping in touch.
Wouldn’t know a Saint if
he presented the weather,
always forecasting rain
for himself.

You’re submarino, Super Mario!

Sometimes we stay still
and pretend the storm will pass.
They expect you to jump for stars
every day.

You’re getting on,
my senior
peces de colores,

where the hills have eyes,
and the clouds don’t remind you
of anything in your psyche.
You’re only notionally a plumber –
How nice.

Your silver belly, a generous segment
of orange.
De canción, Goldfish,
toca una trompeta de plástico,
simplemente si y cuando quiere.

In the swim of my inaccurate weekend,
we don’t count our fish
before they leap
to carpet.

Nothing screams
“You will do maths
whether you like it or not”
like the ruler shattering pitch of
my primary school teacher.

You will like maths,
as you will
eventually grow into ever-higher
numbers,
given time,

’til then, April, Miyamoto Shigeru, Professor Fishkins,
we all get what we decide –
I’ll see myself submerged in your wind turbine,
until that time, friends, compañeros,
until that time.

Choose Your Own Adventure

A book from 1978,
unchosen on eBay,
“Your Own Adventure”.

Time for any
unemployed spring-cleaning,
in the midwinter
experiment of my place.

Charge into battle,
make change.

Invest yet more hope
where hands quake,
to flicker dust off pages,
alight on irrelevant words.

With big tears to escape,
the drawbridge sunk,
the timely scream
hollowing a tower.

More than ever,
something needs
to hire my senses.

Opt for your own indecision;
after the last book,
you’re dead uncertain,
well done.

Choose other titles
in the series.

I thought I had something
to bring to market.
A slim mouse spat on
for the roast.
We buy £1 raffle tickets for
the broken inner
of internship
crystal ball.

With BAs, MAs can we use a computer?
Can young artists work for nothing
when the path to the webbed Arena
is littered with past names?

Brown leaves were pressed into concrete soles
of toe-crushing smart shoes.

The CV
requires imagination
to resume.

Not everyone enjoys long penpal exchanges to Canada
about inexplicable gulfs of time.

Unsure has served me well here.
years of good,
crippling unsure.
I’m glad it’s not inspiration
for a poster.

I must be better at it
than those moved to swift action,
quick decision,
jumped guns.

I took the ends of every strand
of adventure,
balled them up in my throat-song,
chose and faked my own.

I don’t know why I ever bought
this book.

New Year Notes

Remember,
something you haven’t done, that we’ll do,
get around to,
given the time and strength to
in the new
year to me.

In the new year,
it appears impossible,
already like your vintage blues,
but that’s why we should,
and why it might
become possible,
just because.

This new year might arrive after all.

Offer, if you could,
your sand-timer looks
at the rolling-around
putty egg of some love.

Other luck and things
we can accidentally muster,

so sleep in expansive fur of snoozing animals
after time’s levelled land.

But don’t out-wait the coming day,
it’s like paint thinking of colour.

Find a clue.