THE SQUATTER

The squatter you never knew you had
in your spare room
is watching with indifferent eyes

from the shadows at three in the morning.
He hasn't the capacity
to feel for your suffering:

that glittering
of falling teardrops

that he will never experience,
being so ruthless a predator
without a shred of humanity.

The killer instinct is all-absorbing -
you are instantly forgotten
as Kamikaze fly

dives into sticky triangle
of house spider web...

RECANTATION

My wild child days I've given up:
those days of desperately seeking
mad alcoholic parties
is no longer my mindset's domain.
Black lace basques and micro minis
lie discarded in the stale darkness
of a locked and bolted chest.
They must not tell tales of who I was -
the metamorphosis
is all that matters now.

Aah... those seductively hedonistic yesterdays,
with their constant reckless cravings
that stunted the Soul's evolution.
No artificial elation nor lust fulfilment could ever hope
to satisfy ego's increasing demands
that filled an otherwise aimless life...
until you came
and taught me how to love.
Now I am someone else.
Pure, like a baby.

ENTITY

I have no heart, yet still I heartless go
in search of love. Non-physical,
should I then languish in limbo
for eternity, devoid of hope or aspiration?

In your dreams, feel invisible fingers
caressing the inner recesses of your mind.
Register my face. Love me, then forget me -
and us - when you awaken.

But a presence lingers at the edge of consciousness,
loving you in secret.
See me in the trees, the grass
and in a stranger's face:

an invisible overshadowing
that inexplicably disturbs your senses
and toys with your keypad, playing it like a piano.
The entity in the machine

composing messages with double meanings
that only you can decipher.
Then as your heartbeat quickens,
my image fills the screen...

ADAM & EVE

What does it mean to be a woman?
One might as well ask
what it's like to be
a chair, a flower or a horse.

Are not our breasts the same as man's
only bigger? The sole difference being
a random configuration of chromosomes
that also endows us with an extra rib.

And what is a uterus
but a biological instrument of the Gods:
a vessel for the manifestation
of  Divine concept into living matter?

So what part does man play
in this near-exclusive arena of womanhood?
In fact, does he have a role at all
in an age of commonplace lesbianism and cloning,

where feminism has become a God ( or should I say, Goddess? )
that grows daily into an accurate semblance
of the original Apple Tree - and bears fruit.
Except my fruit is rotting on the boughs.

It is only in his eyes that I have seen
the perfect apple, the answer to my dreadful famine.
So I reach out and savour each mouthful...
for I am a daughter of Eve.

YORK ROAD, NOVEMBER 1975

11pm. Guildford, England.

The in-crowd gather in York Road
like exotic moths beneath a street lamp,
in flared denims slashed at the knees
and ridiculously high platform shoes...then they
wander off in a fog of cigarette smoke
until they come to Clive's place.
Each carries a passport of dope
or toxic booze.
Discordant guitar music
and crazy drum beats
throb through every brick
of three storeys, attic and basement.
Red light bulbs cast
an eerie glow onto the stairs,
where two entwined bodies
grunt and squeal,
one hand gripping the banister,
white-knuckled.
Someone yells from the depths,
"Anyone got a syringe?"
as they continue searching
for Clive.
They finally unearth him in his bedroom.
Highly animated, he is entertaining
a group of art students
from the purple stage
of his king sized circular bed.
He is expounding the rudiments
of medieval architecture
in his Stockholm accent,
his extremely long blonde dreadlocks
half-obscuring finely chiseled features.
His yellow, black and white
harlequin print jacket
dazzles in the light of
a myriad of altar candles.
He abruptly stops mid-sentence, yawns,
strips naked and climbs into bed
between red satin sheets,
pulling his chosen concubine
for the night in with him.
"Would you be an angel," he whispers
to an obviously disappointed girl
in harem style trousers
and heavily beaded corset top,
"and go fix all these up with a drink?
And please close the door on your way out -
that lousy band
is fucking with my head!"

SUBSTITUTE

It is beautiful here today at Tintagel:
the sun is shining, there is a gentle breeze;
the tide is out, the beach is sandy
and children's excited laughter fills the air.
I have come here with someone who makes me smile.
He is interesting, funny, and is never condescending
when he pays me compliments. He holds my hand
and gazes so tenderly into my eyes,
while gently guiding me through the rocky dampness of Merlin's Cave,
as far as the deserted beach beyond.
He is a gentle man and a sensitive one - exactly the kind
I've always believed I needed, one who readily understands
my every unspoken need and fulfils my every whim.
It is late afternoon and we've shared a perfect day - except
I've hated every moment...
because he isn't you.

MEAN STREETS

This part of Glasgow is characterised by it's abandoned and shuttered shopfronts
into whose doorways we duck to avoid the gangs of youths. In the square
a lone busker, mentally on another planet, strums on his guitar out of tune;
and on a vandalised bench sits Tommy, who a decade ago
was in our class at school: the boy with learning difficulties, upon whom
the teachers soon gave up. Now, he sells poppies each November on a street corner.

Later, at the local pub's closing time,
there is the usual fracas - a loud explosion of violence
that spews out onto a back street where a young couple are snogging against a wall,
their faces hidden beneath hoodies. We quickly move on, in case they recognise us.
Midnight finds us sitting at a table in the seedy nightclub,
where doll-like women are dancing in cages

and the men are moving from table to table on the make.
One leans forward to stroke my face, his breath reeking of whisky.
I feel my space being invaded. Nevertheless, I can't suppress a mocking giggle -
he is so drunk it's funny. Clearly angered, he grabs me by the hair
and hisses through clenched teeth, "You'll pay for that, BITCH!" - a threat I know you'll avenge.
But for now we swiftly leave. Experience has taught us how to survive

these mean streets where we were born and most likely will never leave.
We re-cross the square, dodging the broken bottles, takeaway wrappers and fresh vomit.
It is deserted now - apart from a junkie out cold on the bench, syringe still in his arm.
A lone pedestrian Police Officer gives us a wide berth,
his eyes betraying sheer inner terror. We part ways.
You go to buy a gun from an acquaintance. I go home to bed.


Don't worry, guys...a purely fictional piece! ;)