A furbo fox slips through a net,
a chicken gets surprised.
A wily boss keeps staff on board
with an ever-decreasing prize.
A playboy fools again his wife,
who withholds the sex he craves,
in denial that his wayward ways
will help to cheat the grave.
The soul gets bought with cash or time,
depends on what’s for sale.
Life’s random cull will cut and run,
and blur success with fail.
A famous face suddenly lost, now
is odds to top the charts.
A eulogistic comedy face
is drawing the last laugh.
Control was my calling card,
what everyone knew me for.
Control was my comfort,
a way to keep the score.
Control took my humour,
replaced it with sour lips.
Control was my defence
against the highs and dips.
Control and I had a battle
until I learned who was boss.
Control gave me power
that was way too easily lost.
Control I gave up
when robbed of those I loved.
Control I still explore
through story, rhyme and word.
My jewel box of belief
has rubies for passion
sapphires for grace
diamonds for strength
and emeralds for love.
The jewel box in my heart
sparkles and saves me.
You live in a box of 70s plastic blue,
a doting reminder of
what I quickly outgrew.
Opened, it exudes a scent of resin
that transports me back
to being eleven.
One touch of your fragrant satin
and I’m back on stage in
a pirouetting pattern.
Your robust pointes are carefully sewn,
your ribbons a symbol of our tie.
To you my love I’ve always shown.
From that first day you were moulded to me.
You are singularly mine, today,
as I was back then: size three.
The day we met, I became whole.
I wept when ballet lessons stopped.
Only the smell of you, now, helps console.
I’m still in shock that,
of all my lovers, you –
honest to the core – were
hard to please. Made me feel less
than those you said you’d deceived.
I gave my all, I never put you out
Yet you feigned you were on
when really you were out, on that
desire to claim, on that will to bed,
your obvious needs much more than
I could bring. And yet friends ask of you: is he
the man he always was?
Or is he fumbling and stumbling?
Pretending through his down that he’s up?
As you tread from day to night-time gap, the
lack of sex and intimacy trap, the breathless
lull that leaves you stuck: you climb the stair
to meet him there, urging with some force to
leave his control behind, let some dormant force come forth and burst.
Oh that he leaves his ‘stuff’ behind, changes into
a being that seeks some life fulfilment’s
dream. No more the live-alone desolate
feeling. Can he release the guff that’s trapped in his attic?
Original poem: last four lines of Philip Larkin’s Deceptions
There’s a magnetic lean to the front
of the elderly, knowing they’re dying.
Will I be next, they say
as their curiosity bends in
to smell the freshly tossed earth,
circling the inevitable grave.
There’s a reticence from the heart
of the broken soul knowing it’s over.
Will I finally leave, they ask,
as they submit to one more abuse
from a partner who says they deserve it.
When will alone beat feeling lonely?
I’m trying to talk,
you look at your watch.
I want your time
but you’re far too cross.
Those lines on your forehead
show you’re far too busy
to raise your glance or
heed the neediest me.
I pluck up some puff
to express how I feel
but your eyes become glazed.
My spine loses its steel.
So what I really want to say
feels unworthy, goes unsaid.
All I want’s a shred of praise
But I flush with shame instead.
I never was, and won’t ever be
enough to be front of mind.
The words I speak to you are mute.
By dismissal I’m undermined.
So I stop showing myself out loud
The treasure is hidden deep.
It’s only my words that know the secrets
my sorry heart’s been forced to keep.
I feel so raw
when my girl gets called
a loser.
I think so fast
when my love for her
is tossed
in the net of all their taunts.
They’re bigger than her.
So what?
They swagger, they sway
in her face
to stop her winning game.
They’d like to blow right out her light
a candle snuffed before its prime.
Yet in her heart she feels
some bright
that shines way beyond:
oh yes. She’ll have her time.
I win a race. I achieve something great.
Yet the girls in the playground
mock me til I cry and I deflate.
What’s wrong with putting my all
into a sprint I really meant? Yet I bow and say
I’m sorry to the losers who cajole.
Can’t we all be equal partners in the race
of life and love? Or is losing just so shameful
that to want to win is a self-centred disgrace?
People pool, don’t they –
into clique-y groups, fiery moments
and watery, stroppy, wish-we-coulds?
The outsider is a needle in the hay:
the heart is there. The soul
is, surely, connected with the rest.
But the sense of one girl’s skin
waits, crawls, skitters and drools
and skates a lonely figure
on the playground of the cool.
What she needs to do
is treat expectation like a foe.
Why lie down and take it,
when victory’s won versus the lazy?
inktuition 