Empty Jester

Empty Jester

I’m smiling on the lip of the abyss,
What can I possibly think about all this?
I don’t look down when I can look up,
But there’s nothing at the bottom or the top,

The grin on the bridge of a moth’s back,
The smiling eyes are empty and black,
The hollows twinkle, a well in space,
Skull white like the light on your face,

Here’s another empty jester,
A line of ash runs the length of my tongue,
Words ring as hollow as a single gold band,
There’s nothing to say now that you’ve gone,

I’m laughing while the joke is on me,
Tears flow freely in company,
Later the bedroom seems to be so empty,
Your pillow lying lengthwise next to me,

Like Hamlet’s famous dummy,
Empty headed with a trap-door jaw,
Alas, in Wonderland, I knew her well,
Can’t say I know her any more,


Here’s another empty jester,
A line of ash runs the length of my tongue,
Words ring as hollow as single gold band,
There’s nothing to say now that you’ve gone

So Haunt Me

So Haunt Me

I’ve always lived with ghosts,
In every book I’ve ever read,
Leafing clammily through M.R. James’,
Curdling stories of creeping dread,

In every film I’ve ever sat through,
Strange apparitions are bound to appear,
“A Christmas Carol” is my favourite Dickens,
“Hamlet” is always the best Shakespeare,

So haunt me, please haunt me,
Melt into the room in a bed-sheet please,
Haunt me, just haunt me,
I want my hairs to prickle and my blood to freeze,
Haunt me, please haunt me,
I haven’t had enough of you yet, you see,

You haunt me every day, anyway,
I hear your voice, see your smiling face,
Your dressing gown on the back of the bath-room door,
It’s you, not your stuff, I want about the place,

Your clothes are still in the cupboards,
I can still just feel your touch,
Come back and put the wind up me,
I just miss you so very much,

So haunt me, please haunt me,
Melt into the room in a bed-sheet please,
Haunt me, just haunt me,
I want my hairs to prickle and my blood to freeze,
Haunt me, please haunt me,
I haven’t had enough of you yet, you see,

The Heart of Melancholy

The Heart of Melancholy

Here in,
The heart of melancholy,
I can’t see out,
To the mother you’ll never be,
The mountains of Mourn,
Rendered so sketchily,
Scrublands are scumbled,
And scratched out finally,

I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your black hair,
And your dark eyes,
I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your pale skin,
And your dark eyes,

Hearing;
The art of melancholy,
Words fall out,
Of mouths that so readily,
Talk of smiling and angels,
Land so heavy, messily,
Worm-casts on sand,
Emptied out faecally,

I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your black hair,
And your dark eyes,
I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your pale skin,
And your dark eyes,

Witless,
The arsehole of brevity,
Takes my hand,
But never once looks at me,
“Comes to us all”,
I goggle incredibly,
The fuckers a hundred,
Why can’t it be he?

I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your black hair,
And your dark eyes,
I’ll see you in the long grass,
With your pale skin,
And your dark eyes,

Black Sails

Found her and I married her,
Just in time to,
Watch her fall away,
And I’m cradling the pain,

He waits,
Waits for her return,
Candles gutter as they burn,
He waits,
The old man of the sea,
Black sails ahead of me,

Kicking through the sea-spume,
Doomed and waiting,
For that one black sail,
A hard point against the grey,
Squatting underneath the sun,
A pin-prick sticks,
The needle in the vein,
To carry her away,

He waits,
Waits for her return,
Candles gutter as they burn,
He waits,
The old man of the sea,
Black sails ahead of me,

Skies are bruising,
Dark sails ripple,
Moving now,
Moving nearer,

Darkness spreading,
Over waters,
Bleeding black,
Bleeding darkness,

Belfast and Loose

Just left Kelly at Heathrow, endlessly zig-zagging through customs, looking, in her triangular blue coat and pink hat, like a child's drawing. And about the most perfect thing in the world. I held her all the way down on the train, which went the wrong way, rather difficult for an underground train you'd think and you might be right, but our genius train-driver managed it, detouring via terminal four. But we had plenty of time and the drivers mistake was a chance to claw back some romance from the jaws of misery.

It all went very well; we were unharried and methodical, both areas where I traditionally excel (though Kelly will tell you that I'm more inclined to exhale, heavily and often, like a put upon teenager).It was almost fun except that she's gone and gone for a week. She has requested that I sort out my teeth.

Four years ago when we met it was not my snake hipped dance moves that entranced her (now sadly replacement hip moves) nor the lustrous silver crown adorning my head ( which now resembles the ghost of a hayrick ) but my dazzling smile. My teeth. The teeth that are now fenced off ny the authorities to stop druids attempting to celebrate the solstice at them. My teeth. The teeth that resemble a graveyard where actual teeth are buried. My teeth: the unlucky horse-shoe, the slashed seats in the stalls; the brown cornflakes in the packet. Not so good my teeth but, four years ago...dazzling. What happened? Two things: red wine and bruxism. Which sounds like a Club of Queer Trades song. I suffer from a medical condition called bruxism (street name: teeth-grinding). It sounds harmless enough but the constant erosion of my teeth from nocturnal gurning has left my molars looking a coastal granite shelf. At night I pop in a gum-shield like a dozy boxer. I should have a spitoon by the bed. The red wine is fairly self explanatory. Added to the fifty cups of tea I drink a day and you have a fairly sound basis for my butterscoth smile. I may as well have a plaster stretched over my mouth. I mean they're not Martin Amis bad but put me in a smock and you've got yourself a relief simpleton!

Kelly is very keen on me to get them sorted. My body has taken a bit of a pounding over the last four years and it's becoming increasingly difficult to lick me back into shape - there are no takers on that one. I'm aging in dog years, time-lapse dog years and something needs to be done. She'd like me pretty again. I'll give it a go.

* * * * * * * * * * *

On the way back from Heathrow on the train. An elderly woman gets on at South Kensington. She is dressed from head to foot in fur (she even appears to be wearing fur trousers). She looks like a cross between Joel Grey in Cabaret and Edith Head. An attractive Asian girl opposite me leaps up to offer her a seat (note that I don't). The old woman isn't having it. She insists but the old woman is adamant: she's going to stand. Neither one of them seems willing to back down. They stand either side of the empty seat in a standoff until the Asian girl gets off at Green Park and the old woman immediately sits down in the seat opposite. She smiles at me.