TERMINAL

for Annabelle...


It feels good, doesn't it?
Go on...just one more double Vodka,
followed by a Benedictine chaser.
See how the faces blur
and voices seem far away.

Oh, and you can't possibly refuse
a couple of Rum and Cokes -
such a rich, vibrant colour.
How their magic lifts you:
you're incredibly high and invincible.

Now, how about a Gin and Tonic?
Or perhaps two? No, more than that.
Three? Four? More?
Before you know it
you're dancing on the ceiling.

The floor begins to lurch and roll,
but that only adds to the fun.
Being eighteen and euphoric is...WOW!
You can drink all you want in public now
an adult you've legally become.

You're really on a roll now:
flirting, teasing, flashing boobs and bum.
You feel like a celebrity -
never dreamt you could be this bold.
All attention's exclusively yours.

And those men who dare to dare you?
Bah! You'll show them!
True to form, this feminist
will drink them under the table -
every last one of them.

And you do, too...quickly losing count
of precisely how many pints, just
'Keep 'em coming!' you slur,
until club lights disappear
into darkness...then flashing blue light.



You find yourself in a hospital bed.
Your head is splitting, you're violently sick
and your eyeballs and skin have turned yellow.
Your kidneys are failing, your liver can't cope
and the doctors fear for your life.

That confident you from the nightclub last week
has totally disappeared.
You're quaking, sobbing
and pleading for help
like a lost and terrified child.

You beg, grovel and bargain with God,
'Spare my life and I promise I'll stop!'
But you know deep inside
it's just another lie.
You've been a drunk since the age of twelve.



At twenty-one you're laid to rest,
your parents and sisters are bereft.
Your mother blames herself, you know.
She believes her career she placed above you,
and this is how you coped.

The sad truth is...it was no-ones fault -
just a weakness within you.
No freak accident took your life,
nor cancer cells out of control.
But, tragically, you had a choice,
and you took the terminal route.

MENOPAUSAL

What on earth is happening here?
I've always lived a life beyond fear,
Yet now I've become a gibbering wreck
Whose confidence just hit the deck.

I loved outrageously flirting with men
Until a month ago and then
I suddenly felt self-conscious and shy
So lost the courage to even try.

I'm up, I'm down, my head's in a spin.
Every night I just want to stay in
And watch a movie - unthinkable for me,
This party girl who loved to feel free.

My cycle that was so automatic
Has now become annoyingly erratic,
And these hot flushes without a doubt
Are dragging me down and wearing me out.

The makeup I've always loved to wear
Now drives me to the depths of despair.
It settles into those wrinkles I see
On the woman in the mirror who's older than me.

My skinny jeans no longer fit,
As middle age spread is appearing a bit;
And muscle tone has gone to the wall.
My pride has certainly taken a fall.

I lose my keys. I lock myself out.
I'm going insane without a doubt.
I'm forgetting faces and names of places,
I even got lost at the Sandown races.

I'm beginning to feel unattractive and old -
And very unsexy, if truth be told.
So I skulk in the corner trying to hide.
To be seen, I can no longer abide.

So what is to become of me -
Do you think from this hell I'll ever be free?
It's high time Nature invented a clause
Forbidding the onset of menopause!

 

TYRANNICIDE

At the end
he saw them rush at him, seemingly
from nowhere and assumed
they had come to greet him
in celebration of his latest victory.
But they had no mercy, these turncoats;
no respect for his greatness,
as they stripped and tortured him
publicly.

What madness was this?
Had they forgotten who he was,
all he had done for them?
How he had risked his life
to seize power from a corrupt regime
in order to rebuild their country
brick by social brick
into a force to be reckoned with?
And he did it for them.
Surely they must see
that such independence has it's price:
that contrary views could not be tolerated,
that opposition must be eradicated
by whatever means necessary.
And fear was the only weapon
that was certain to control
a wealthy but unstable nation
like theirs...

But all they could see
were butchered kinsmen:
women, children - anyone
brave enough to challenge
the lies, treachery and broken promises
of a barbaric dictator, who
callously described such slaughter
as justifiable means.
And they'd finally had enough...

'What have I ever done to you?' he cried,
as he lay dying in the sweltering heat.
And a tearful young boy murmured,
'When they murdered my daddy,
you cheered...'
 

THE CHARMER

Oh master of illusion,
Enchanter of women
With starry vision
Needfully driven;

You rule unrivalled
Seduction's arena,
Stealing from others
Sisters, wives, lovers,

By filling their minds
With amorous fables
That override reason
To induce faith's treason.

And you display not the slightest
Shred of remorse
For lives torn apart
Nor each broken heart

That your moonstruck magic
Leaves behind,
When pastures new
Beckon to you:

A pretty face and flaming hair.
Shapely legs - she's the one.
This time for sure
You'll want no more.

Then in the morning
Two lovers awaken
In the golden flow
Of afterglow.

But her perfect body
Deified by night,
Grows mediocre by day
So you hasten away

To find another
Altogether better,
Where you woo and win
Another heart to bin.

Yet still we fall, fall,
God knows why we fall.
But tragically we do
Fall victim to you.

 

MIDNIGHT ON HAYLING BEACH

The stars are thick as pebbles
on the beach tonight.
Below, their reflections dance
through the black void
where night has swallowed the sea.
I could be anywhere -
there is nothing but stars:
a twinkling mass of neural pathways
inside the global brain of Mother Earth.
I am a thought inside her mind tonight,
a concept without form.

As pupils adjust to darkness, I see
something where the horizon should be:
bright pretty colours - some mobile.
Is she imagining a purpose for me?
Pathways are lighting up, as stars combine
with Isle of Wight illuminations.
Legend becoming real?
Have I lived before on the Dragon's Isle?
Am I apprenticed to Merlyn
in a parallel World?
I am embryonic in time.

Through the gentle lapping of ocean waves
Her kismet lullaby calls.
Is She singing me into madness divine:
giving birth to a higher me?
Am I born on those flaming torches
of passing pleasure craft
that slices through the fireflies
on a comet of orange-red?
For in it's wake, Picasso-ish, I see
transient fragments of our Lady's face
merging into mine.

My broken Soul is becoming whole
in the presence of Her healing love,
as stars reform to take their place
in the glyph of Her bequest.
These Heavens above are Her alphabet,
Her language the seascape below:
and Her hopes and dreams
manifesting through us
are shaping things to come.
So I'm picturing the World's heart
wrapped in arms
under Hayling stars tonight.



Photo: courtesy of Google Images
 

STREETWALKER

City lights. Late evening.
Anonymous streets dotted
With hidey-hole doorways -
Ideal pick-up places.

Kerb crawler slows. Warm car.
Slow drive to motel room.
No trace of wife here,
No scent of girlfriend.

Discarding layers, down to
Black lace stockings and stiletto heels.
You hear him gasp
At the sight of thighs

Tailor made for seduction.
Teasing comes first,
Before touch - you're expert
In what men need.

So you work your magic
With hands, lips, finally body -
Until his face
Contorts with rapture.

And you cry out, your
Timing perfect
For the role you're playing:
It's essential to make him believe

You feel it too -
That he's Don Juan
In your eyes, because
At home he's nothing special.

Gratified, he rewards you well.
You dress in silence,
Then re-apply your lipstick
And step into the night...

PATTERNS

Patterns -
Endless possibilities
Of escapism.

Carpets, curtains,
Wood grain - anything
Patterned...

A shift
In my reality.
Aah...amazing characters

With friendly faces
Smiling at me,
Embedded

In varied
Art forms. They
Have been

My saviours
Since childhood:
My therapists...



White net curtain:
I see
In delicate leaves

A femme fatale -
Large eyes
And pouting lips.

'I could teach
You a thing
Or two,' she whispers

Through falling rain,
'About sensuality
And self-worth -

About how
Not to let
Men treat you!'



Walnut door:
A wise
Tawny Owl

Peers out -
A sagacious being
Who guides me safely

Through life's
Triumphs and pitfalls,
Transforming

Feelings of inner doubt
Into certainty
And optimism.



Wilton rug:
Two Victorian boys
And a little girl

In poke bonnet.
Their open innocence
Is irresistible.

'Come and play!'
They call to me, hands
Reaching out

Of red and blue
Woven strands.
'Stop taking

Life so seriously!
It was never meant
To be that way.'

And I'm pulled
Into their
Symmetrical world,

Where they teach
Me to play
As I've never played before -

Until I clearly see
The patterns
Running through my life.

Whether this is imagination,
Wish-projection
Or real no longer matters;

For all seriousness
Is lifted
From a burdened heart.

Options are infinite here,
In these spaces
Between the fibres.

Am I flower,
Leaf, vine,
Red berry?

Or am I none of these -
Just a poet
Teetering on the brink of insanity?