Making love to you is a ritual –
When the rain is done
and the air is new and clean and fresh
After all of that
I still love you, I just love
It lays there bare, a knowing, a fact
A feeling on its own
Separate from place and journeys and destinations…

I open and close the window
as the wind abides and sun appears
I spend my day like this
Adjusting a sail
Yet the tree always stands in the courtyard
letting the wind through its branches easily
Perhaps it’s true, it has no choice
but to grow towards the sun from where it’s rooted…

I look for my voice in hiding places
A child playing, koo koo

In 2002, in the mushroom town of Garamanda, there was born a young goblin. This goblin was named Cooke and he grew up to be the greatest warrior ever seen by the goblins. By the time he was ten, a war between the goblins and the elves broke out. The war went on for three years and soon the Wise Goblin, Yadamante, became ill and died. He was the commander of the goblin army so the goblins were forced to choose a new leader. All eyes fell upon Cooke. After three days of intense battle, the goblin warriors gave up. They said,
“We are outnumbered, and unmatched. If one of their spells can kill the Wise Goblin, then what could one hundred spells do to the whole of Garamanda?”
Cooke listened for a long time. Finally he spoke.
“You giving up will do more harm to Garamanda then the elves could ever do.”
The warriors were silent for a while before a massive cheer erupted. They rushed into battle and their desire for safety of Garamanda was no match for the elves. After ten days of war the fight came down to Cooke and the Elf King. Cooke slashed and stabbed while the Elf King could only just defend the blows. The fight went on for three days and took Cooke and the Elf King all the way to the desert. The two fought viciously until Cooke lunged at the Elf Kingʼs chest. Time seemed to slow down as the golden goblin blade grew closer to the heart of the Elf King. Just as the blade pierced his heart, the Elf King said,
“Who are you? Are you some sort of god?”
Cooke replied with only a wink and killed the Elf King.
Cooke was never seen again after that battle, though some warriors claim to have heard his voice while in battle.

Between the Red House pub
and the Railway hotel,
after Ready, Steady, Go!,
the rendezvous. Handbags
circled like wagons, tactical retreats
to the loos. Revving up scooters,
puffing on fags, waiting for ever
to make the first move.

Perfumed sweat, floor sticky
with beer; every Motown beat
of my heart. Forces sweethearts
starting fights, drinks spilt,
innocent squaddies tumbling
into bloodied streets
while not-yet-famous bands played
on. Most saw their names in lights.

Why didn’t we? Things you’d
forgotten with the years;
words that once made sense.
Where can she be? Fingers
tapping keys, hands searching
in the dark. The longest kiss
you’ve ever known; holding her
close on the last bus home.

We rubbed our faces against the clear cool glass,
The border land almost breached as we laughed.
Barefoot in hand-me-down Armani I held my sister,
As she beamed at ivory white mannequins six foot tall.
We giggled and danced invisible in front of our Gods,
As we forgot our hunger and my sister’s missing hand.

Thundering bahar descends full of outrage,
As we flee the dream temple onto the baked lands.
At half height we weave like acrobats in our dirt skins,
Ready for the next bad-trade and hunger-meal.
With our three paws we forage for the glinty-things,
And see only images of oranges where bottle tops lie.

My sister finds apple peel and we share double quick,
And spit out sand and memories of our mother-land.
We cross the bady-bady where the stone-boys roam,
And find the water crack to clean our panda eyes.
Safe like hunted deer we pause and with cracked mouths,
We yawn knowing the day has only just begun.

We fist trade our glinty-things for finger bread,
But kutra circles so we push-off to monkey land.
Our dancing friends keep the black dogs at bay,
As I give my sister a marble I name Samsung.
She holds it eagerly in her only-hand and cries,
She wants to hold the marble,
She wants to hold my hand,
But more than this,
She wants to lie down and die.

(Diamond Jubilee)
Intensity is done
Now the wait
Wondering
What comes next?
We, immigrant
Moving nations
Not across borders
But inside bodies
Our blue eyed son
The reminder of migrations past
That cut across
Boundaries made from desks and glass partitions
The inventions of form filling
Line making
Appetite suppressing
This Indefinite Leave To Remain
Speaks of staying
The softness of the story, human sized and roughly hewn; indistinct
Asks for audience
But, childlike, must quiet itself
Elevating certainty above ambiguity
For the egalitarian process
Of mutual address, proof
Credit card payments
The evidence of our good citizenship
Heading home
Bus driver rides angry,
Son of forced movements sweetened later with the cultivation of recruitment promises
Cushioned beneath a Jubilee weekend
Sixty diamond years of continental drift
Culminate in a pen stroke of declaration
That what we are is enough
That what we are is the truth
The pragmatism of surrender
Another layer on the foreshore
As 1000 ships sail by.

isn’t into dwarf rights,
cares not a fig for mine safety
or forest ecology:
she’s set her cap for the prince
and his castle –
meantime, she blows
seven old men in a single bed.

The process of pouring yourself
into another was alien to you
Yet, you pushed back your fears
the god forsaken donkey years
And plunged deeply
Into hope-
Ah, that shiny coin
caught between heads and tails

Being the women I am
I walked away,
leaving nothing more than
small bites of poetry
bellowing behind

Small flutters of wingless love
that you hungrily chewed
until blood gave way to bone

Using all your strength
you captured what the wind
would steal

As I gorged myself on life
your preception of reality
was forever altered

How I remember
How I am shamed

(Things I had to search for on Google Images at work today)

‘Animatronic Party Tortoise’

You wouldn’t have ended up broke
two weeks before each payday
unable to pay the rent
or heat the house;

and you wouldn’t have looked for
easy ways out of it: therefore,
you wouldn’t have seen the
open door as an opportunity

and you wouldn’t have poked your
head inside
and you wouldn’t have noticed
the flatscreen TV
and you wouldn’t have taken it.

And even if you’d ended up there,
you wouldn’t have panicked
at footsteps upstairs;

you would have walked out calmly,
rather than fled
so you would not have dropped
your wallet.

Pity those
Who in fruitless pursuit
Of all evil’s root
Forsake that which matters most
That which can’t be controlled,
Hurried, cajoled
The commodity, none can trade
An end that can’t be stayed

It slips right by them
Where they stand
That most precious gem
The hourglass sand.

Rather still, the thinking man
Who knows what it is
To sit and gaze on that or this
Who just rests a while
Beneath birch,
Or perched
On style
And just is
And just be’s
Who says I am,
I understand.

His streets
long before the
flurry of the
earliest morning feet
And this makes him smile.

Not perfect yet
Nor will they be
But they’ll be better
Yet

Each stroke
Palming away
The unwanted
Always forward
Firm grip and downward
Push, past memories
Swept up with butts and plastic cups

While most look down
He looks back
Happy
He’s made a difference
And this does him.

I lay plank-like darting eyes,
you the unknown reminding me I’m
alive.
Between beeping light and white coat,
I see you cleaning floors
and opening doors.

I spy you in profile radiant,
ignored by passersby hidden and shy.
Between morphine and news at nine,
I see you cleaning floors
and opening doors.

I guess at your state of mind,
and what loves and shames you hide.
Between new hairstyles and hemlines,
I see you cleaning floors
and opening doors.

I hold you in my mind’s eye.
Escaping and collapsing
Into
each
other.
Between adrenalin and the final
Flat__________________Line,
I see you cleaning floors
and opening doors.

I want to see films of bleak environments like desolate Iceland and harsh Russian tundra.

I want to see films about change and class and discontent.

I want to see more films about space. There aren’t enough.

I want to see films with colour palettes of faded browns, deep turquoises, semolina yellows,
And subtle tones of grey.

I want to see films in different languages, un-subtitled, because they only make sense in their native tongue.

I want to see films that make me uncomfortable,
And angry,
And those that make me think about them for weeks afterwards.

I want to see films that make me see differently,
And ones that show me I’m not alone in my thoughts.

I want to see films with dialogue so natural it’s perfect,
And quiet films … with minutes between lines.

I want to see films with characters I loathe, and then fall in love with.

I want to see my future favourite ever film – but not just yet.

I want to see films that instil in me the urge to make films …

I want to see the film I keep thinking about making, but doesn’t yet exist.

I’m going to write in italics
For the rest of my life.
It helps me put my own
Slant on things.

I worried I was pretty fat,
So I curled up
Small and started a fire.
I was a little lighter.

They told me I needed
To be an advocate for turf.
I felt very forlorn.

I went to the tobacconists.
It was closed,
So no cigar.

You think I’m bad?
Well, the internet’s
Doubly selfish.
It’s all meme meme
Meme meme meme.

You know what pisses me off about Draw Something? PEOPLE. Stupid, lazy fucking people.

For those that don’t know (are you serious?), Draw Something is the latest app to make people drop their yoghurt. It’s basically Pictionary without the time limit – hang on a minute. How did they get away with that?! Maybe we should all take a popular board game, remove something fairly unimportant and make an app. It’s the modern day get-rich-quick scheme.

Anyway, back to the people. The fucking people. The people that think it’s ok to draw ‘table’ because ‘dandruff’ is too tricky. Just draw a Head and Shoulders bottle! We could earn 3 coins! I may take it a little too seriously. I tend to avoid (or delete) my best friends if they pick a one coiner, or draw something so ludicrously abstract I waste half an hour crying with rage, frantically pressing the shuffle letters button. They don’t deserve me.

I’m not gonna lie, I’ve become a master at this game. OK, a master of half this game. People come to me to help them guess because of the idiots I’m used to playing. But drawing is in my top 3 weakest skills (my girlfriend can tell you the others). But I try, I really try (go on, ask her). I look at my drawings before I send them and smile. I even draw them in a way that makes it easier to guess quickly so you don’t waste your precious time.

That’s all I ask from fellow players. Fucking DRAW something, don’t waste my time. Be considerate, it’s a team game.

That reminds me, I need to draw Shrek for my shrink.

The Hundred and One Dalmatians
Dodie Smith 1956

MDNA is Madonna’s twelfth studio album, and the first since 2008’s Hard Candy.

Anticipation has been high for MDNA, particularly after the singer’s widely praised performance at this year’s Super Bowl XLVI half time show, which scored a record audience of 114 million.

Lead single Give Me All Your Luvin’, featuring Nicki Minaj and M.I.A., became Madonna’s record-extending 38th top 10 single in the United States, whilst the music video for latest single Girl Gone Wild, a throwback to the singer’s Erotica days, has been banned on open view on YouTube due to sexually explicit content.

Needless to say, this has all generated a huge amount of publicity for the singer’s latest album. Early reviews of the record were glowing, with Billboard referring to it as ‘sheer brilliance’. So, does it live up to the hype? In short, yes. MDNA is an eclectic album, full of dance tracks practically made for summer, pop songs and reflective ballads.

Whilst perhaps not as strong as earlier albums, such as Ray of Light or Like A Virgin, MDNA is a solid album that reestablishes Madonna alongside her contemporaries.

Highlights include I’m Addicted, I Don’t Give A…, Love Spent and Masterpiece.

I’m a hippopotamus
When I’m alone, just I.

But when there’s lots of us
We are hippopotami.

Sweet, sticky golden rain
forms puddles of goo
on dense, creamy goodness
and drips down to soak
graham cracker crumbs
and quickly disappear
with the quick swipe of
my grateful tongue