P.A. Morbid

Street Life

Two women with pushchairs and a gaggle of children coming up the street

in the dusk with a man on a bike, like a spare part, an afterthought.

Already I can hear the one on the left shouting, swearing at the kids, none of whom

can be older than five, because they won’t share their drink with the others.

As they pass one of the mother’s turns and grabs a child, screaming

“Come on Kylie, you’re taking the fucking piss!”

her face etched out in neon, perfectly framed by the darkness behind it.

Netherfields, Sunday 8th of April 2007

Staring from this first floor window I can only just hear

the wind that’s harrying the clouds across this Spring day.

Its silence that rules here, lurking below all the transient sounds of the day –

the wind’s moaning, the drone of the traffic as it comes and goes.

At times it feels like I’m remembering it all as a dream, there’s such

an overlapping of past and present, the day unchanged since I was a child.

But your face is stretched over everything I see, rupturing

the illusion of timelessness I’d escaped into, a place of no density.

Brought back to myself, this body leaning against a window,

the thought of you a millstone round my soul. A lingering sickness, a curse.

Dark in a bright place: Albert Park

It was one of those days, when the sun comes out after a long absence

and the winter-white flesh reveals itself, blinding the eyes with reflected light.

Leaning against the railings with Lyndsey the sun was an eye

that watched us as we watched our respective children,

gazes sharp as if anything bad could happen in such a crowded place.

That we were in a scene from Jaws and that seething mass of small, pale bodies

was a sea of deceit, hiding god knows what? it was best not to think about it.

The sudden spurt of blood in the air or a remnant of t-shirt

washed up at our feet amidst the butt ends and sweet wrappers.

There was a chubby ginger girl, face flushed,

as she jogged past with her friends.

Happy as only the innocent, or those on drugs, can be.

And I felt my spirits lift, a smile playing on my face –

the sky so blue it was a boon to the broken hearted.

Then the day changed, moving strangely around me.

The noise and the people becoming too much, an overexposure of the senses.

Across the playground, beyond the huge blue climbing frame,

my eyes caught on a glare of sunlight flaring from a woman’s earring,

a semaphore of desire I refused to acknowledge.

I put my hand over my eyes and pray for rain.

A walk with my brother

Under lowering skies of grey we walked away from Tees-side Park

skirting the road’s edge when the pavement ran out.

All around us there was evidence of the season’s changing –

tiny buds and lemony scuts hanging on the trees.

The river lapped angrily at our side when we finally found it,

a thick dirty scum gathered against the small pontoon marked ‘private’ –

but open to the public, just like the path we were following.

The rain started when we were on Stockton High Street,

a welcome relief after the stifling heat of Cash Generators

and I didn’t even bother pulling up my hood, or fastening my zip.

I was too caught up in my epiphanising, watching the bodies pass,

intensely aware of the beings trapped inside.

So close I could reach out and touch them, make my presence felt.

But only madmen do things like that.

P.A. Morbid © 2010