02/04/2013
DIGGING SUBURBANITE by DB Fishman
That heavy silence
inherently stencilled
‘residential’
The fences, gardens,
trellises, ramshackle but
presentable
An evident
safe haven
set back from the traffic
From the centre’s
crowds and revelry
a place where nothing happens
In each contained
unit, furtive rooms lurk
behind uncurtained
windows lit from some
light deeper inside
or the television’s
lapping blue; neighbours
parties sounding
through the walls
The gathered ornaments
less showy than
a record, artefacts left
modestly in sill corners
A quiet rests over
the streets capturing,
containing broads strips of
becalmed grey sky, bisected
by passing flight paths
Where you can stand
in the road, tracing
the cracks worn in
the tarmac, watch the
slumping course of
hedgerows, these
understated borders
And you can hear
nothing but
slight birdsong on
the indifferent breeze
and the steady warm pulse
of trains passing
at a distance
lulling the neighbourhood
to sleep; Comfort
the anaesthesia
we inhale as
relaxing, we
harden to the
faster currents, to
anything not
routine and
familiar to these
idyllic flat-pack pop-up
eddies that run
a thread the length
of the country – and
could be anywhere
across it - this
launchpad and steady-
state; Home.
26/03/2013
ENGINEERING THE MOUNTAIN by Michael Docker
They are engineering the mountain now;
Streaking steel across the fell,
*Derogatory term for fair-weather walkers.
Streaking steel across the fell,
Wire-caging
wild boulders,
Gluing
bridges over precipices,
Marker-painting
dangerous edges.
Tools
and nails on the shoulder
Of
the mountain fence the sky. The hill
We
played on! Like a builder's merchants now.
Once
we scrambled teetering cliffs somehow,
Vibram
soles an inch from hell.
Parks
are safer now we're older
But
who fidgets over precipices
In
our place? There are no badges
Fit
for 'scenic trails'. It grows much colder
On
the mountain, the hot sweat of skill
Has
all gone. Like a DIY store now.
Who
needs mountain-factories anyhow?
Snowdon
an office landscape? Go to hell.
Authorities
should be much bolder;
Put
a gadget at fell-entrances
That
locks a gate on grockles*, bodges
Holes
in tourist's heels. Hold a
Guard
on the mountain: "Who may ascend the hill
Of
the Lord?", He only who is pure, now.
*Derogatory term for fair-weather walkers.
27/01/2013
BAD DEBT by Melissa Harrison
With each kiss, love blooms hotly up the vein,
as dangerous as gambling.
What once sang in joy now whispers too of pain.
The lips can be a window on the soul
and yours are where I find you:
a more reckless man than that whom others know.
For months we wrote blank cheques and lived in bliss.
Love stalked us all that winter
in the pubs and on the dark streets where we kissed.
The bill comes. Far too late, by now, to find
we can’t pay. Adjustments start
in all the tenderest reaches of the heart.
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