Bare chested, fresh out of pomade,
\nhe lies with a beat-up paperback
\npropped for the benefit of shade.<\/p>\n
Lothario of seltzer, tight with the riot squad,
\nhe remembers the Margate Lido,
\nart deco on the Bray esplanade.<\/p>\n
Dozing in a cloud of powder and snuff,
\nhe dreams where red brick stores
\nand gives back heat like a risen loaf.<\/p>\n
For a brief lunch hour he can waive,
\npay check, bus pass, toothbrush
\nwaiting in its cup, the grave.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Still dark days pining for light
\nwhen a Vespa drone of chainsaws –
\npulley strapped on migrant shoulders,
\nbandoleers with pearl apostles –
\ngo criss-cross waltzing through
\nour borrowed acre of Holm oaks.
\nWith their hauling stirrup pads
\nthey swing in the leafy rigging
\nas if dressing an opera backdrop.
\nAnd just as our time
\nshould be, and is, indifferent
\nto the oakline, and like a set change
\nreading from stuttered prompts,
\nthey lop more than their usual
\nstray saplings, till one whole
\ntimber bowl comes down,
\ncurtains part, and decades
\nof pent up light begin to warm
\nour cool January wall.
\nAnd when time itself bears witness,
\nthe bandoleers in silent single file
\naccept applause as their due
\ntaking back the Zen carmine,
\nfrom parterre, pit and gallery,
\ndeeper, deeper and dimmer
\ntill that diminuendo of nothingness
\nis unable to fathom an encore.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Nothing may well come of nothing,
\nbut on this balmy day in the borough
\nI set forth, paint brush in hand.<\/p>\n
With my sneakers and work gloves
\nI check out the scuffs on
\nrubbish bins, bollards, benches<\/p>\n
and those hard recliners – not so citizens
\ncan linger too long of course,
\nsince the mantilla crowd or militia<\/p>\n
might spring from less. But things need
\ntouching up, unnoticed soft corrosions
\nand creeping indents, can do<\/p>\n
with a lick of turps at least. I\u2019m not
\ndefacing, but I do notice gradual paint
\npeeling, on tree guards, fire hydrants,<\/p>\n
lamp posts even. And those confessional
\ngrills for butts, the post boxes
\nwhere I can bring back the inlay<\/p>\n
of Regina crests, as the mottled green,
\nchipped and spritzed by dogs,
\nhides some half baked graffiti.<\/p>\n
Rust paint works best, primary colours,
\neven now and then a black trim.
\nI don\u2019t worry about the shades.<\/p>\n
Blue is blue as far as I\u2019m concerned.
\nIn the next street there\u2019s a water fountain
\nand a kiosk. I think I\u2019ll need primer.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
When Don Givens made off with a treble clef
\nfrom the USSR\u2019s hammer and sickle,
\nI was skiving off with the backroom boys,
\nthough in truth it could hardly have been me
\nin that real sense, since I\u2019d yet to make out
\nin the cause of employment or recompense.
\nPhibsboro Tower gave off its usual blank stare \u2013
\nthe north face of ambition perhaps \u2013
\nas our comrades, out to test the rub of Dalymount,
\nmade a fuss on those sheets of asbestos,
\notherwise the stands. And there were even a few
\nwho managed to leave the buff files
\nof sob stories from deserted wives,
\nto abseil in, while I foolishly enquired,
\nbelow that famous roar as to what was going
\ndown up there that could ever have held
\nso many beguiled while giving so little care
\nto the punishing nutmegs of Giles and Brady,
\nBrady and Giles. And as if this were Subbuteo
\non immaculate baize, the seasoned few
\nwho attend out of duty from outlying steppes,
\nstill passed hush-hush notes for future show trials
\nin some disputed off side. Left with the odour
\nof Don Givens\u2019 flicks and feints, and a sombre
\nnicotine pall from the Soviet bench,
\nI was unable to parry that insistence, and moved
\nto embrace the allure of long afternoons,
\ndozing and shredding files, while ignoring all talk
\nof futures, derivatives, or contracts for difference.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
(i.m. Peter Delaney<\/em>)<\/p>\n A yellow bedroom, an empty cane chair, Work a passage through old Europe, Come back with tall tales and rumours, Join the outr\u00e9 crowd who can\u2019t sit still, Send postcards with mercury tags, Distrust, discard the given narrative, Too tired to attend your one exhibition, More your taste his fugitive recitals When the last buses are long gone home, this is your time; a fox on the road, After a Short Illness Bare chested, fresh out of pomade, he lies with a beat-up paperback propped for the benefit of shade. Lothario of seltzer, tight with the riot squad, he remembers the Margate Lido, art deco on the Bray esplanade. Dozing in a cloud of powder and snuff, he dreams where red brick stores […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":91,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[346,349],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\ninflections, colour, tone,
\nand that first great rule, steal the image<\/em>
\nuntil you\u2019ve made it your own.<\/p>\n
\nhitching still a noble craft,
\nwind up spent, on Hydra,
\nsay hello to Leonard for a laugh.<\/p>\n
\nchoose your poison in plain view,
\nmedicinal amber in stubby glasses,
\nrum and coffee, just for you.<\/p>\n
\nmake love on the run, work nights,
\nresurrect those unruly long lost calls
\non a switchboard plug-in, bang to rights.<\/p>\n
\nlines of coke for Paul Klee,
\nfuse-wire, Duchamp style, to addresses,
\ncatch up with the ghost of Kandinsky.<\/p>\n
\nyour stylus always stuttered on repeat,
\nkeep posting those anonymous missives
\nand see what might come back complete.<\/p>\n
\npreferring to break in a new 12 string,
\nsourced in a pre-Haussmann warren
\nwhere Pierre Bensusan used to sing.<\/p>\n
\nin an Aungier Street, upstairs bar back room,
\nhe too, trying to make himself heard
\nthrough the hazy fog of a lost afternoon.<\/p>\n
\nengines idling on a frosty kerb line,
\nchauffeurs snooze with the morning edition,
\nand milk floats jump with adrenaline –<\/p>\n
\nsuits still wrapped in papal sacs and sheets,
\nhead for home as the dawn crackles
\nin a light that shines like a field of wheat.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"