BURNING TOAST



Hand on hip, tongue in cheek,
At the bar imbibing Guinness,
Bearded poet addressed his thirst.

'I laughed,' he said, ' . . .at first.'

In the room sipping lips susurrated, 
Owly eyes in mirrors boggled,
Nobody moved, nothing stirred.

' . . .wurze failed me,' the poet slurred.

ONE LESS 


Grey rain persisted so there was no dawn. Instead, a lessening of night.
Sad birds crooned unseen, and a dog barked, once. In the distance, trains
began monotonous shuttling. The street was untidy and most of the houses
were drear. Mysterious doorbells studded the porches, paint peeled around
dusty pockmarked windows, oddly curtained, and against the fencing there
were numbered dustbins with decrepit lids. An electric milkman floated,
flitting door to door. There was almost a smell of decomposition, and always,
half heard, the sound of waste flushing.

In one of the rooms the dead man woke. He lay staring at the wall opposite
his bed, a moment uncertain where he was. On the floor beside him a flat
bottle quite dry and an open book. Morning light seeped through carelessly
drawn shades. Outside, doors slammed, cars started, runners drummed,
more dogs barked, and some birds sang. There were few children.

The dead man came out and began to walk, at pavement's edge, head bowed,
hands deep, avoiding contact. The rain redoubled. When he reached the main
thoroughfare he glanced about him, watching for an opportunity to cross. A
manic pedestrian knocked him into the path of a speeding car that struck him
so hard his back snapped. Passers-by soon gathered to stare at the body
lying broken in the gutter. Those with umbrellas raised them and raindrops
sparkled on the black shroud.

THE BIG AFFAIR



Wayne led the parade twirling his baton, delighting the cheering
crowd; posters everywhere depicted colourful scenes in the big top,
though Wayne was himself a monochrome figure. It was a large part
of his charm. Clowns cavorted as clowns will, trapeze artists
posed, and the usual cages contained pacing lions, tigers, and
a single black panther couchant.

A family of seals occupied a glass pool on a flatbed truck.
Two giraffes swayed in their specially adapted open top double
decker bus, and Tom, Dick and Harry the dog act, all frilly
collars and pointed hats, walked along on their hind legs, barking,
getting in the way of the horses in all their finery. Not that fine,
mind, it was only a small circus, but the girls riding them looked
pretty in high boots and red, green, and purple costumes.

Wayne strolled on at the head of the parade, now and again
turning to wave at someone in the crowd. Anyone really, he knew
good Public Relations did Wayne though you couldn't tell from
looking at him. As they turned the corner by the Town Hall for the
return leg he heard his name called and a shiver ran up and down
his spine. Hardly daring to look, he turned his head and there she
was, blonde and beautiful in a bright blue dress. The world stopped,
disappeared for long minutes as the two of them looked deep into
each other's eyes.

The procession began to back up and Major Culpepper marching
along behind Rafiq the Berber dromedary, cracked his whip,
and the two star crossed lovers came back down to earth. As he
gathered himself, Wayne could feel his cheeks aglow. He turned
for a last look at her, winked and did a little fourstep. How he loved
to dance. They had met at the Annual Masquerade in the big city
and that night as they embraced it seemed as though destiny brought
them together, but it was not to be. He had his work, of course,
and she was a married woman. They had one glorious night
of wild, almost impossible passion. Somehow it just happened.
She couldn't stop herself. Or him. Although his wild lovemaking
hurt her, it was what she wanted from him. His long probing
caresses took her to the brink over and over, until at last they
lay there, exhausted but content.

They could hardly bear to part the next morning but eventually it
was time for her to leave for the hospital. Days later, she called him
to say goodbye and wish him well. Their brief fling was over. It
wasn't long before she was able to walk unaided again, walk back
to reality, without him. It was all so long ago.

Now, as the procession moved on Wayne had to accept it was the
last time they would see each other. Next day, after the second
show, he was packing his trunk and leaving the circus, finally, for the
far off forests of his homeland to take up an important new post as
a logging consultant. Whatever else might happen to him, at least Wayne
was certain, in his heart of hearts, that he would never ever forget her,
his Cecilia.

JESUS LOVES YOU 



Ten years
Since I saw you
This drunk
With your head
In the toilet
Upchucking
Like a lady sure
On your knees
Crying out Jesus
Like you do
In these extremes
Oh Jesus
I hear you moan
Nothing like
A good Catholic girl
vomiting I always say
Jesus loves you
Every one
Here drink this
Oh Jesus
It's only water
There that's better
Try standing up
That's my good girl
Lean on me
And think of Jesus
Like you do
In these extremes
I'd carry you
But my back is out
If you remember
From turning the fridge
Upside down
Like you told me
Oh Jesus
Hey don't worry
The agony
Is worth the ecstasy
Of course
I didn't take
A picture
The flash you saw
Was Jesus
Come to save you
Trust me
Here hold my hand.

 HEROES


Seamus and me, we're meeting Vince today, going over to the port,
shoot a couple of ships, do the rounds.

I say to Seamus, 'You know, he's better  these last few months,
more like his old self.'

We're doing 110 on the A12, passing eighteen-wheelers sucking
at us and I'm now absolutely certain that white car up ahead is the
dawn patrol on a late shift. My foot sinks deeper and deeper into the
carpet but we're still doing a ton, and Seamus says, 'He was always
fockin mad, sure, why would he change?'


"There's no answer to that," I think, "fucking mad the pair a them, and
me with this one about to die."


We hit the brakes and shed sixty mph in three seconds, dive into the
roundabout, the Jag squatting hard, squealing gently, squirting fast out of
the exit past the white car, not Old Bill but a new Beemer full of ladies
who lunch, in hats, and Seamus waves.


'He sounds cheerful enough on the phone,' I say.


'Would we shag 'em all if they asked, what?'


'He said he was thinking of going back to work, nothing heavy, maybe
local.'

'I could find him something, sure,' Seamus says, as we pull up outside
Vince's place. His old mum lets us in, kisses all round, tea and hot
toast, and packed lunches for the boys.


"Nothing changes," I think, "Only Vince, every day."


He doesn't say much, never does now, but he looks really well today, eyes
quizzical, and Seamus flirts with Herself, "No, just like old times," I think,
and Vince says, 'Come on, let's be going.'


More kisses and we leave, the three boys, again, and Seamus throws the
keys to Vince, "Jeeezus Fucking Christ," I think, "They are fucking mad."
It's four miles to the port, and Vince drives like a vicar doing his rounds
only slower. Seamus is in the back and I catch them looking at each other in
the mirror, eyebrowing.


We spend the day out on the river, and it's like it used to be, like it was
when Vince and Seamus and me came down here to shoot ships, riding down
from London at five in the morning, death defying, the bikes screaming louder
than us and Vince taking risks you would hardly believe. I looked over at them,
heads together, doing talking about me, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Fuckers,
if it wasn't for me they'd be dead, nearly.

They were fast. Oh, I could ride, don't get me wrong, but I'm sane. We'd ride
out to the coast maybe, early start, and they'd be 3,4,5 miles ahead of me most
of the time. I'd catch up at cafes and they'd be downing the last of their drinks,
coincidentally, just as I rode in. They'd wait for me, checking watches and when
I finished we'd mount up and they'd loiter so I'd take off first into the traffic.
Yeah, you know it, couple of miles and I'd clock them in my mirrors, flashing.
They never just overtook me. Opportunities would go by and they'd be there,
in line, in my mirrors. Ahead would appear a ten year old Sierra in the outside
lane doing exactly 70. I don't have to tell you, do I?

The crash happened one summer evening. They were gone, and I would catch
the occasional glimpse of them on straights. I leaned into a long right hander and
straightened out to see a big Merc van across the road rammed into the barrier,
a fire taking hold in the engine, both bikes under it. I stopped, dropped my bike
and ran towards the accident. I could see Seamus' boots and as I pulled them
a gob of oily flame dropped onto him. I got him out and rolled him until the
flames went out. It was raging under the van. Vince was on his back, fire sputtering
on his melting visor. I dragged him out and wrapped the helmet with my jacket.
Police and ambulance guys appeared and I passed out.

I was discharged the next day, Seamus a couple of days later. Vince wasn't so
lucky. He had burns to his hands, his upper body, not too bad, but his head and
face needed a lot of work, and a lot of time. Three years later, when he knew
what his face was going to look like, he began to change. He spent most of his
time gaming, put on weight, stopped answering his phone. He's getting there, sure,
and he's OK with us. Plastic surgery is sorting him out but he's never going to be
as pretty as he was. Mind, he's going to be a pain when he realizes, as his injuries
are healing, that he's taking on a certain heroic, dashing mien . . ..

I felt in my pocket for the spare keys. It's always me drives us home. I'm the oldest.

SLIM VOLUMES


I'd spent the morning at the Commonwealth Institute. Well, not all
morning but let's not dwell on it. So, having an hour to myself before lunch,
I thought I would wander over and take a look at Albert, in his new coat.

The High Street is always a good stroll, into Kensington Road and
then along Kensington Gore, with the Gardens on your left, and there,
the Royal Albert Hall looming, across the road. I was about to turn
left into Alexandra Gate when I was astonished to see my old friend
... call him 'Eustace' - he's one of those Englishmen, getting out of
a cab opposite me. I wasn't that surprised, sure, just that he looked
absolutely bloody marvelous, which was in itself a shock. He had on
grey slacks and a blazer in that stuff Jaeger sells to the tourists,
cashmere, nearly.

We shook hands and I saw that his were quite exquisitely manicured. I
could hardly believe it. The last time I'd seen him he was crawling up
the down escalator at Leicester Square wearing one shoe and a tall hat
with 10/6 on a card in the band and he was shouting obscenities at the
theatre crowds until he rolled over in a dead faint and I helped him
onto the train to Highgate slipping a fiver into his pocket for cab
fare.

The Albert Memorial has just been restored, as you know, newly gilded
and given a thorough makeover. Not before time, you might think, if you
cared about these things; anyway, there we were, me and 'Eustace' on a
bright Autumn morning looking up at the Prince Consort in all his new
glory. I didn't say anything to 'Eustace' about his own renewal but it
was in the air - you know? Your man was a vision. I mean to say, he put
the Prince Consort to shame.

I could hardly say no when 'Eustace' offered to buy me lunch. We took
a bracing walk along the Serpentine, past the restaurant, and made our
way across Hyde Park Corner to Piccadilly and down to Soho. It was odd
that neither of us mentioned the recent tragedy, 'Eustace' especially.
He had always had a lot to say about the Poet Laureate, none of it com-
plimentary, and he knew I was no admirer of the fellow's work. Turned
out 'Eustace' had a new book out, in time for Christmas, another one
of his slim volumes of gentrified verses for the new genteel. He had
found his niche, his hollow, let's be honest, and he was stuck in it.
He taught at one of those glass menageries in North London, contract
lecturing he called it. He had a big house on the wrong side of Highgate
Hill and a small wife whose civil service salary kept them in comfort.
He'd given up the drink, on doctor'd orders, he said. Overnight, he said.
Six years ago. Fuck me, I said.

Today, we had a good lunch, a sober lunch, and talked about the old
days. I reminded him, I always did, about how he was the one who had
introduced us all to the IBM Golf Ball, all those years ago, and how
we changed the world overnight, only nobody knew. We parted about
three o'clock, promising to write, like we used to, and I walked away
down Shaftesbury Avenue. I couldn't help thinking that poetry can just
about ruin a man, if he isn't careful.

WRITING AMY 


The beginning was inevitable. Amy sat down at her desk to write. She
had a groovy leather chair and sometimes she sat in it naked, most often
when she was a little drunk. She could trust the chair. Not like some
people. Some people were rats, they fucked with her life, as only rats
can fuck with a twenty eight year old life. She liked to tell herself
that, even though it wasn't true. Life is just a bowl of cherries for
a twenty eight year old and she was only blaming the rats because they
were men. Amy knew how to have a really manic hangover. It was one of
the things she did well, that and PMS. She smoked too, but nobody's
perfect.

 So, Amy was at her desk, writing - writing poetry because she thought
that was all she could do, she had no idea how to write a short story.
Nothing seemed to happen to her that she couldn't cover in a poem.
Sometimes when she was out drinking with her friends, not all of whom
were rats, she had ideas for poems and they swam around in her head,
like ideas do. Life has its compensations and sometimes Amy maybe got
laid. She was twenty eight years old, after all, and it was at these
times she thought that life was the bowl of cherries she'd heard about.
This was one of those times. This has to be one of those stories because
this is one of those times when Amy is sitting naked in her leather
chair sipping cold beer from a glass in the middle of the day. Sometimes
a poem is not enough.

Amy sat naked in her groovy leather chair writing poems about vege-
tables she had known. It was as though the rats didn't exist. She was
alone with her thoughts, at her desk, sitting in her groovy leather
chair. She could feel the chair, warm as blood, soft as lips, and as
smooth as the insides of her thighs. She watched as a bead of moisture
started to roll down the side of her glass. When it was half way down
she picked up the glass with her thumb and middle finger and raised it
so it was about so far from her face. Then she gently pushed with her
naked toes gripping the carpet. The chair rolled back. Amy sank into the
leather, her legs stretched out, the glass exactly centred as the drop-
let grew minutely, becoming heavier, and at last it stopped, quivering
and flashing light. It was warm in the room and Amy could hardly bear
the waiting. She closed her eyes, leaned back a little. Her hand trem-
bled. It was enough to break the tension. She didn't see the tiny globe
leap from the glass, but she felt it burst, just below her navel. She
couldn't tell where it disappeared to, her skin was so hot, but she
didn't mind. She wrote a poem about it in the end.