Piccadilly Gardens
Sunday morning in Manchester didn’t exist. It was more like Saturday night’s left-overs – cold, stale chips scattered over the pavement, the mud of Piccadilly Gardens encrusted with disposable plastic beer cups. A few wide-eyed late-nighters (more accurately described as early-morningers) were ambling along soggily, waiting to be swept home by a tide of shoppers that would clog up the town around early afternoon. Till then, the city was in the hands of unfinished people.
I found what I was looking for at one of the met stops. He was taller than he’d seemed last night, but that may have been just the deception of the grey morning light. When he saw me, he would’ve turned away, had he had anywhere to have turned to, but stranded on the met stop, he settled on not meeting my eye.
“Look, Tam, I’m sorry. We can just leave it like that.”
We could do. We could have done. But this morning, I wanted to hear him say that there really was nothing between us, so I could repeat these words later, in the silence of my room and know that the smile I’d thought I’d seen playing on his lips last night, had meant nothing.
“So, let me get this straight, yeah? When we were dancing as the pub last night, yeah, I know we were both really drunk and nothing really meant anything, properly, but – I mean, it doesn’t bother me or anything – you really didn’t mean to imply anything when you said…”
“No.”
At moments like these, it’s the little things that you remember. The way his smile strained as he tried to work out what I was - or wasn’t - feeling. The slightly alcoholic smell of his breath as he touched my arm lightly. I looked up.
“Is that alright?”
I wanted to run off right there, or to just dissolve into the chewing-gum studded cement and never have to see him again. I nodded, letting impossible words boil into oblivion in the back of my throat.
“It’s my met coming now.” I could hear the familiar gush of a met snaking into the met stop. “ You’ve got my number. Ring some time and we’ll meet up again some Friday. Unless I’ve put you of this ever again.” He laughed. “Does that sound OK?”
I nodded.
A quick, close hug and a wave before he turned away to find a seat. I stood and watched the met sweep him away.

Mysurpak (no english translation)

The pan sizzled under Amama's (grandma's) familiar hand.
Mysurpak, the sweet of indian sweets, cannot be cooked in english,
she said.
So we loaded piles of kissmuss (raisins) and Kayess (cashews)
into a pan, with Hali (flour). Roasted them into a sandy brown desert.
Globules of yellow butter, turned the sand to thick, sweet paste,
cooled and cut to golden bricks. It was the best Mysurpak ever.

We showed it the gods, then munched the crumbly relic of India,
the had sprung sizzling, from the pan to melt warm and crunchy in our mouths.
It was too good to last long. Just before she left cold wet England,
she cooked us a new batch and left us the recipe. I knew it
Off by heart anyway.

A muggy shadow hung in the air as the build up of pollution increased. The constant whir and click of ancient machinery could be heard, before huge billows of smoke erupted from concrete chimneys. There was no sunlight. Years of mass production had seemed to suck all the happiness out of the town, leaving a hollow shell inhabited by withered phantoms who knew no purpose.

There was one glimmer of hope, even if it trembled with fear on most days…
The gate creaked as it was forced open with hands that had seen the same thing for so long that they worked without the knowledge of their owner. Their knuckles were cut and scarred and the skin on their palms was as rough as but they didn’t care. It was the only condition they knew.

Taupe irises were greeted with familiar nods, the seemingly endless pupils dilating further with each one. The look that came with the nods never changed; desperate, pleading, hoping that today would be the day, the new beginning, the fresh start. They were always in vain, but now? Whispers that floated in the wind told secrets that with a little help, today someone may succeed.

People Are Made Of Stars
Today I looked up really high
In the star filled sky above,
And the stars all smiled
The shooting ones went wild
When they saw me wave with love.
I asked, “how d’you do?
You pretty, pretty you
I hope you are feeling fine”
They said “well I’m just dandy
I’ve been eating candy
That’s why I shoot and I shine”
So I asked for a wish
They asked, “what’s this?”
And I thought as I closed my eyes
“I wish when we die
We’re all stars in the sky”
And then this happened, to my surprise:
They said “sure thing”
And with a swish and a ding
My dream came true
For me
And
For you.

Cannes Beach
As I half-opened my eyes, they were hit by the muffled sunlight already flowing over the loose, ivory sheets draping my hotel bed. My parents and sister slept in the adjacent rooms and I was wary of waking them as I padded bare-foot into the achingly warm main room. The sun had barely broken the nighttime’s clouds, yet its rays speared through gaps in the deep, cream curtains in poker straight sharps of light, like sloth lighting bolts from curdled storm clouds. The palatial French doors echoed the call of the beauteous cool of the wind on the balcony leading me, so enchanted, away from the searing heat of the sun kissed sitting room. The viscous fabrics swallowed the delicate lines of light before panting and pushing the immoveable waves of warmth against my skin.
I gently folded back the heated curtain as it engulfing my fingers in beige flame of orchestrated sunlight. Giving the silk glass windows a forceful tug I proceeded, possessed, onto the balcony. The wind grabbed my hair and ran with it, like a child in an autumnal park with a kite. In order to leave the soft furnished Sahara behind I shut the pearly gates choosing not to gaze back at purgatory.
The balcony on which I stood showed itself as a metaphor for the city it gazed over. The quintessence of southern France consisted of unstable crescent of concrete worn by decades of enchanted feet. Like beauteous roses rising from winter’s hardened soil; elaborate golden railings climbed towards the innocent white of the marble handrail.
I flicked the tumbling curls of hair from my face as it continued to roll around like summer blossom in a wind of equal magnitude. As I cast my eyes upward the enormity of the view that lay out before me dawned like the morning light I was staring at so wontedly. I was on the top floor, in the central room, leaning on the central balcony of the most spectacular hotel in Cannes – my urban Everest with a view not dissimilar.
The sky stretched out before me, meeting the sea somewhere an infinity away. Lazy puffs of whipped candyfloss floated across the heavens, gilded by halos of glorious sunlight. The sea lay beneath in an equally poetic turquoise as the wind created snowy peaks in the oceanic goddess’ voluptuous curves. I then watched the toasted silk, which rested along the beach as sand melt my ice caps with a delicate spray.
My eyes followed the tusk of sand as it curved to the right of me creating a vivacious bay, before morphing through some conjurer’s trick into the neutral hills lounging in the distance. The poignant blue of the sapphire deities’ meeting place seemed a hard journey away from the dusty, musky heat of the room, inches behind me. The beads of sweat that had before adorned my forehead were replaced with the gentle caress of the wind as I stared still so mystified the view. Even if I had so desired I couldn’t have taken my eyes off what enthralled them so. It felt like I had never seen anything as truly beautiful as this; not stars in the night sky, nor England’s green pastures had left me in so much awe.
Resting my captivated head in my hands I began to examine the details of my new love. From the harem of yachts bustling in the harbour, to the ships dancing with as much grace as any ballerina across the crisp horizon.

Politically Correct

Why would you do that to a language? Strip it
Of history, past and meaning, in short, bury it?
Why would you make freedom of speech a restriction,
Take tradition and make it derelict,
Turn conversation into a gender-defending epic,
An antic?
Political correctness as a substitute for genuine article,
It's a farce, the way we get pensive and impractical
Murder the smallest of scalding problems and pick over the detail
All we meant to say is – we meant to be equal.
But somewhere, got deceived into believing it's critical
Is it just evil?

The Duel

Teardrops and twisted thorns suffocate the thoughts
But petals open to light inflicted scars
And like a cure
Beauty rids the pain

Crested auras break the surface
Casting shadow aside
But always one cloud remains
The blackness creeping from doubt to haunt the future

Faded snow destroys the genuine
Smothering the new fall
Yet still it snows, eager to purge the ruin
And save the rose from these twisted thorns.

Bring it closer- the skin,
your offering of a body so that I may fit in.

Bring it closer- the blade,
and let me rip my soul away then fade.

Bring it closer; cover me, devour me,
tell me why I can never believe

in a future,

where

you exist

and

life exists.

Waves

The full weight of an experience's significance is never realised until, at some point in the distant future, before the memory descends into the listless swathes of the subconscious and after your internal camera has been dismantled, cleaned and reassembled, it can be viewed through the swooping panorama of a vulture's bird's-eye.

What you remember of beautiful seascape- the sun that bleached even the bluest of skies a gentle cream, the soft swash of waves- images almost cinematic in your mind now, is shadowed with the sobering truth that the day in Bournemouth almost three years ago now, spent in blissful ignorance of what the future could hold, was the last day you were to spend with the grandmother of your best friend.

It was also the first time you were to meet her, an introduction with an unspoken goodbye. She was ill; you drank tea, ate ice creams, accidentally got very, very wet, and then drove back that evening to a nursing home.

The death and your abstract connection, fragile and nonsensical, still remains as thread in your life. You can't really say you miss someone that your never knew, but you can see the ripples that still reverberate.

Have you ever watched a tree fall down?
No, none of this jolly woodsmen-let's-shout-timber, quick and nimble business.
None of the 'I need paper' raw wood to burn, axe to the bark-malark.
The pure giving in of a tree to be used.
To be aggitated, bothered, choked, abused.
But how can such a sturdy, tall as two twinned towers
Breathing being choose to fold upon itself and all that it stands?
With roots that could give the Queen of England a run for her money.
Isn't it funny how royalty managed to fall on it's own accord?

Well, in a world where providing life for those who abuse
Is understated. And where structures so powerful can be taken
With one almighty swing. One that could
make Kings realise
They're not worth a thing.
In this world, why should a tree, for instance, stand for this much longer?
Let them fall, let them die, let them realise they were too good for us,
After all.

Royal family portraits with the smiles painted in.
Ebony black scars on a powdered maid's skin.
Gone with the wind that's blowing the wrong way.
Realising you had so much more to say.
Eyes of a child seeing a little too much.
Teasing a kitten with a fire like touch.
Seems as though Regrets exist in our oxygen; Take a deep breath then we won't breathe again.

Can anyone remember him being seen?
That lean, mean fighting machine
With a costume tight and a cut so clean
And teeth that let out a tinkling gleam.
But can his reputation ever redeem?
When an innocent passer died at the scene
He feld to the morn, sky aqua-marine
They say he was never as brave as he seemed.
But he still fought on, boy wonder supreme
His success built to rival Miss Norma Jean
His stride accompanied by a melodic theme
Kids that talk as they eat their ice cream.

It's a wonder there's any space left to dream
With a head so cramped with self-esteem.
They say he lived his life 'downstream'
Or, rather his head was a fraudulant scheme.

It's a shame people laughed at his head full of dreams
As he leads a life falling apart at the seams.

Well, I still believe in this fighter extreme
This lean, mean fighting machine.

I'll take a double scoop of chocolate, please.

this is a good poem