Memoirs of a Life Unlived

It left as quickly as it appeared and all those fog words didn't apply. They needed to know if they were changed as they examined the clearest sky.

The same tired darkness squatting on a street different every visit, set upon by feet casts him to the dazzle, throws him to the neat and naked boulevards fainting in the heat.

He drives out to the suburbs where green out-muscles grey, streets lounge and beyond, to the top of that hill with birds circling and the pure air gusting.

You ask if I have faith and I witter on - a hundred hundred turns and words to admire but the truth is I don't know. I'm not aware of faith in the everyday. Without belief could I have endured us? Hope against all odds, does that count? Need, dependence, fear to be alone, your hair against my face? Faith's reserved for the God fearing; I'm too frothy, too free from insight for that. (March '96)

(written late 80s/early 90s) I should like to be remembered by millions after I die; my name mass produced, desktop published, plastered up on the walls of laboratories and schools. Not for me the frugal plaque, vague recollection, cobwebbed room made famous by tenuous association. Boxed, numbered, suffixed in Latin, I'd survey students  learning me by rote. It would be perfect. Without the e I should look a little internal; with, I should promote phonetic debate: Col(e)ium - The Difficult Element.

I will always have the wayward heart and the tear in my soul which runs along the seam but will not be ripped apart.                                     I will always circumvent the path and the mesh of fine parts which makes you how you are but will not reveal your truth.                                                                            I will always be the purest youth in the midst of the old which darkens every dream with that huge descending roof.

Looking back at things we used to do, You were younger then than I am now! Though I'll always have these seven years on you, It feels like a massive cheat somehow.

Pain dries like blood All his strength lifts one foot from the mud Senses pared down To some shapes and the taste of the ground She took his heart In a book he was taken apart King of the rain Has the dream he is running again

Maybe I was reading in the classroom, Maybe I was dreaming in my bed. Half a world away, a newborn soul bloomed And a perfect moment looked ahead. From that day we shared the world, my darling, Moving ever closer till we kissed. On that day, you set the Heavens swirling. Every day, you are my greatest gift.

His lips are clamped around his latte straw like there's a petrol tank to drain. She knows he's glancing at her - both are - despite that solid staring at their phones we all do. That part of her that knows they care she's cordoned off; she'll need the space. Not tragic, because most come back, but sad because this table scene is probably the best they'll have for years.

He sees fluid swaying in a semicircle and his balance in the bubble of a spirit level. Anvil, oval window, stirrup - cityscape of minute parts. Perusing the Tube map he journeys, connects, anticipates snafus: the lungs of the Northern line cradle the ruddy pump of Holborn, as clean and clear as Metropolitan nostrils. The right foot of Heathrow Terminals shoots scores of planes a day. Slowly, steadily, he teases Operation from the pile of childhood games.

He sees fluid swaying in a semicircle and his balance is the bubble in a spirit level. Anvil, oval window, stirrup - cityscape of minute parts - he doesn't want to know. Choosing the Tube map he journeys, connects, anticipates snafus: the lungs of the Northern line, cradling the ruddy pump of Holborn, as clean and clear as Metropolitan nostrils. The right foot of Heathrow Terminals shoots scores of planes a day. Slowly, steadily, he teases Operation from the pile of childhood games.

Unknowable things - wrapped up tight like Ramesses - play on your mind. Through shades this full beam sunlight, sorrel, roasts bare skin and lying on sharp grass brings just enough respite to draw out the notepad and the pen. But straggled words won’t set it right; nothing will, save the cool smooth familiar walls of your cave come blackest night, half-promising tomorrow will be simple and more yours.

The pasture rolls a little, sweet and plain, perhaps a little boring. Herding cows ignore you. You unfold the map again: that blood still cakes the mouldboard of the plough. The Brabants' fusty sweat-steam in your eyes, you squint and hear the fragile thrum of cars along the A19, that crow that flies in such a sag. A burst of sunlight mars the clearest view you had of slender smoke. You stop mid-field, removed of shade and hope.

The pasture rolls a little, sweet and plain, perhaps a little boring. Herding cows ignore you. You unfold the map again: blood and mud cakes the mouldboard of the plough. Your Brabants' musty sweat-steam in your eyes, you squint and hear the fragile thrum of cars along the A19, that cawing crow that flies in a long sag. Sudden strong sunlight mars the clearest view you had of slender smoke. You stop mid-field, removed of shade and hope.

Five o'clock winter lowers eyes - blue whale heart rate of an anxious man - the stories plod on and the Cola can tries so hard, but will not revive. Clapperboard blink - you're on your feet exploding across the South Circ divide, the frantic positioning stands astride sweets and tobacco in burnished racks. Pass in the doorway, spy the blade, chase like there's meaning in all of this; know in a moment forever you'll miss - frayed, discoloured - a life so vast.

Just as shingle at ebb tide is troubled less and less by smother, glisten, froth, so we view the damage after each fresh storm, anticipate the sun, the sea far off. Alternative version: Just as shingle at ebb tide is troubled less and less by smother, glisten, froth, so we view the damage after every storm, anticipate the sun, the sea far off

You hate the blank - hate its block weight, significance. When ink hits white the freedom goes and all that might you'll never know. And that's the rub - push all you like it just won't shift. There's God to thank for things like this.

They found him in the river, dead; within a week they'd caught her. This proves - her counsel gravely said -  his allergy to water.

Find elusive muse drunk alongside va va voom looking at the stars.

Blossom drooping under a hunk of snow: you struggle to recall when it first shot up, filling space with new self; sun-fed, by twilight aglow. Seems it has always been obscured, born into this balance of power, not once felt fresh cells divide, expectant, glorying in growth. Inured, it bears its burden with dispassion. One morning without fanfare the snow cleaves, slides clean off: your need for it to stand erect unlessened.

The steam from your coffee swirls like starlings, adding glamour to your scene: the book that consumes you, laces webbed around your boots, layers of pilled fleeces, that twisted spine. I should want to know your story but time and again I return to the steam.

They come over in droves and march to the top of the hill which affects the weather causing markets to crash and mayhem. How else to explain the mould on the pickle, bats in the belfry and your wife's temper? Only last week I saw a man doing something which wasn't right. The sooner it's sorted, the better we'll be: looking forward to things as they were.

Pushing back the old door creates an arc of dust; and there it sits once more: your universe at dusk. Stepping in the half-light on boards you used to own, you know it isn't right to call this house your home. Searching through the toy box unearths so many things that hold you in their bones: yo-yo like a coiled snake, a telephone that rings your teddy bear awake, spinning tops and spark guns - that emery and flint! Smiling at your loved ones reveals the very end those memories postpone.

Foolish folk evoking Hitler should try harder to belittle 'er. Thank your lucky stars that you   don't wake up in Timbuktu, cry for cameras in Korea, live in fear of the Shabiha. Things are bad? Half-empty glass? Pull that head right out that arse!  

It's breaking down and spilling out - crazed arms, and fingers clutching to hold it guide it stop the diffusion of the sleepless. Chemicals beguile  like brushstrokes on a print, bring a dullness so profound it curls up and settles down like it owns the place. And maybe it does because anger won't set. With one eye half open through its dog mouth: "You've had the quick and the keen. Get used to me."

It's breaking open, spilling out, arms and fingers crazed to hold it direct it stop the diffusion of the sleepless. Chemical sleep is all of a piece - brushstrokes on a print. Dullness slinks around and lies down like it owns the place; in some ways it does because anger won't set. With one eye half open through its dog mouth: "You've had the sharp and the keen. Get used to me."

Wires and a net this time last week now a concrete coated tongue. With rich concussion this kind of fall feels cruel. But one might ask who predicts their own steps bandaged by such a task?

Wires and a net this time last week now a concrete coated tongue. With rich concussion this kind of fall feels cruel. Who predicts their own steps?

In the old district buildings face lifted by warm Spring sunshine allow you a glimpse of dark history.

He waited and slammed on the pedal too late -  she checked her hair and pulled the trigger - he made the phone call - pushed the button -  signed the papers. Look at these acts stripped down to parts and wires, repeat the clich és, gawk at geared outcomes, ruination, and modern life clatters on reducing your concerns to words. 

He waited and slammed on the pedal too late -  she pulled back the metal hook with her finger - they made a phone call - pushed a button - signed on a dotted line. You look at these acts stripped down to parts and wires, repeat the clich és, ponder the geared outcomes, tragic ruination and the agency. Meanwhile modern life clatters on, reducing your concerns to words. 

Handful of sweets like teeth launched with finesse straight into his open mouth makes you wince: head flipped back - trilby soldered on - and all over in no time. Back to the broken nose you first saw, and the glare. Looking around won't help; he knows how nerves work - it's his living. His thoughts aren't many but they're stark and they cover this. Have to hope something happens out of a book and he loses interest and leaves. Close your eyes like life won't end.

He's begun again to disappear - bundles of needs threshed to shreds. Thrashing around in silence, looking for a socket or a live wire. It might be the solace suits him fine and they're all wrong. "See the varnished floor where I stood downstage." Dust grows like weeds.

The ocean is clear soup out here beyond their longest lines and you have too much time to think you're running out of time. There's so much electricity been firing up the night: step back to view the painting just as they turn off the light. The tide will draw you just enough to guide you out of sight.

Farther out than ever beyond our longest lines; too much time to think time is almost done. This was it! Finally used up: so much electricity for its own sake. Feel the drift tugging just enough to be claimed.

It's always sometime somewhere (give or take a quarter hour); the sun's always there bold as brass, or hiding; we're always the same until we change, telling the truth or lying. Everything just keeps going till it stops.

And so they sat waiting for sun (and for the sun that slides around the sun) in the crouched dark. Starved of the glow, hands and knees to that heavy door they know leads out to light. All we ever need's right here proclaims the sage. If opened it would never spray diamonds. All we ever need's right there in here.