DAYLIGHT FIREWORKS (a.k.a. Remember, Remember The Sixth of November...)

The fifth of November was yesterday but I'm still out launching fireworks. I don't mind it: my brother forked out a fair bit of dosh towards it so he can work in peace. I'm used to being fobbed off. Personally I prefer it these days.
    My brother's work has taken a funny turn. He keeps odd hours now. Hence sending me to set off fireworks at one o'clock in the afternoon. Daylight fireworks. It's pretty overcast today but still, if you ask me, the pretty colours are being wasted on it. All I can really see is the fluorescent pink of the rocket just gone up, Velvet Flare. I think that's supposed to be a pun.
     Still I suppose it's just as much about the sound effects. The whizzes, the bangs, the crackles. There's something so crisp about it all or maybe that's just the Autumn chill.
     At least we had a bonfire last night, of sorts. My brother stuffed some folders and loose papers among the logs and twigs, even some metal once the fire was really blazing. I daren't ask about it, besides he wouldn't say anything, just grunt at me and slink off straight back to work.
     I think it must be a bad time of year now for him, November. A lot piling up before Christmas. As for New Year? It all just comes round again, he tells me. You should see the look on his face when he says that, grey bags under his eyes and that weeping scar on his chin. You should hear how hollow his sigh has become.
    I wish he'd just pack it all in but then his line of work isn't the kind you can get out of easily. Cleaning up he calls it but I know it's too messy for that.
    Why else would I be standing in the middle of a field at the edge of our estate as a favour to him? Why else would I be lighting touch paper and running? Because of the spectacle. The distraction. While all eyes are on the way I'm popping a dull sky full of holes, he can safely get away with doing similar with smaller, earthbound targets. There must be a few to get through tonight: I am to keep launching fireworks till it's actually late. Then he'll come tap me on the shoulder and we can finally go home.
     While the rest of town are out brightening winter, my brother and I will be back indoors. Well, while he lays down in a darkened room yet again, I'll be by the window looking out for the both of us.

SEASONALLY-AFFECTED (a.k.a. A Chilling Transition for Halloween and Autumn)

When he wakes up and it is dark outside, he knows it could happen. He feels it spread from his chilly toes, up his achy legs till it bursts in his chest which coughs and splutters accordingly. Sometimes it’s just a cold, a flu maybe, but he knows at this time of year that it could be so much more. The world-weariness of a full year now keeps him prostrate on the bed.

            Still he resists and moves, feeling the cold as he crosses his bedroom for the day’s clothes. He dresses quickly, avoiding touching skin against skin and the cold sensation that brings. He adds another layer of clothing and then another layer on top of that, just in case. When he is numb to the frost that has crept through his window overnight, he parts the curtains and raises the blinds. A grey lumpen sky fills his vision.

            After a perfunctory breakfast, he sets out. He sidesteps slugs and snails on his porch to get to sparkly frost patches on the long path to work. It is dark so he needs to be careful and watch out for anything that might come up.

            He keeps glancing skyward, not able to tell if the clouds have shifted position or even broken. The monotone of winter is particularly oppressive when it is still technically autumn. Nevertheless, the atmosphere isn’t quite cold enough yet for anything to fall. He does his best to enjoy the crispness of the air while keeping his hands covered and safely tucked away.

            On he goes, over vales and hills, along main roads with cars few and far between but speeding as if black ice weren’t a problem. When able, he takes side roads with few pedestrians crossing, shortcuts where he can still be alone. If he sees trees upcoming, he steers well-clear in case a sodden leaf should tumble down from the bush and take him by surprise. He knows he should wear a hat; it would certainly keep his ears warm but then he wouldn’t feel anything that might land on him. The very idea of pulling off a hat and feeling foreign moisture there is quite unsettling.

            He perseveres until his path finally ends and he stands in front of his work hut. He kicks his boots against the porch step just in case he has waded through any puddles without realising it, before pulling out his ring of keys. He tries the front door key but it will not turn, as if water has entered the lock and frozen overnight. With a little force, he manages it though the sudden action leaves him oddly light-headed. As he depresses the handle, he barely notices the tiniest touch to the back of his neck. It drips down and he knows that’s it. Snow has fallen on him at last.

            The door clatters open. Stepping inside, the warmth drains from his face. Embracing the cold, he becomes a part of it...

TODAY AT A CAFE (a.k.a. A Nonfiction Experience from Actually a Few Weeks Ago Now)

The café was all black granite top tables with padded white stools and booths that were difficult to slide into from the eyesore diamond tile floor. Still, it was clean. As I approached the main counter, the man behind it spied me as I passed by an interior design topiary.

            “Hi there,” he began. “Today we have a special deal on curry and rice. You can buy the Jalfrezi, Tikka or Korma for just £6.”

            I nodded along as he showed me the contents of each steel container on the heated display. I looked back up and said, “Can I order a hot chocolate please?”

            He gave out a whiny little laugh but turned towards the steamer behind him. “Is that with whipped cream?”

            “Yes, please.”
            “That’ll be £2.80.”

            As I passed him a fiver, a skinny waiter with a fat yellow tie stopped beside me.

            “Bored,” he announced. The man behind the counter grinned in response. The waiter caught my eye. “And how are you today, sir?”

            “I am fine, thank you. How are you?”

            “I am well. As well as I can be working with this kidder over here.” He gestured at the man behind the counter as he handed me my change. They both giggled. “And what will you be doing after your drink, sir?”

            “Go home.”

            The waiter nodded. “Do you play computer games?”

            I hesitated. “Sometimes. Not as much these days.”

            “You look the intelligent sort. Would you say you’re intelligent?”

            I frowned but laughed it off. “That’s not really for me to say.”

            This was not the most comprehensive of answers. I waited for the interrogation to continue but then the waiter turned, apparently called over.

            “Sorry about that,” the man behind the counter said.

            “That’s all right,” I lied.

      I sat on the opposite side of the topiary, using it as a green leafy window to the only other customer in the building. She tucked into a panini, knife and fork tearing through the thick bread. Her eyes were damp and she had to stop a moment to wipe away the tears. The waiter appeared with fresh napkins for the table which he handed to her personally. Her wedding ring glistened in the light as she touched one of the stiff brown sheets to the corners of her eyes.

"Poor dear," the waiter muttered before moving off in the direction of distant clattering crockery.

I felt bad for looking at the woman so I stopped. Nevertheless, she watched me carefully until she finished her panini.

The man behind the counter came to bring the hot chocolate over to me himself. There was a small biscuit on the saucer. "No extra cost," he said with a smile before returning to his post.

I then took out my phone and lost myself in my emails. Halfway through my hot chocolate, I heard the waiter reappear at the counter.

“Bilal's got a chicken bone in his throat," he told the man.

"Is he choking?"

"Go see for yourself."

The man came out from behind his counter once again, this time in a definite rush. Barely a minute later a short woman with a beehive hairdo arrived to take his place.

"How are you today, sir?" she asked me. I gave her a thumbs up as I crunched my biscuit. 

Raising my phone again, I finished composing my last reply then emptied my cup. I left behind a small crumbly corner of the biscuit. In the meantime, the man had come back and he, the woman and the waiter were all busying themselves behind the counter, all getting in each other's way.

"Thank you," I said. None of them turned to me. A little flimsy wave and I was away, out of the door.

I'm afraid I didn't have the wherewithal to compose a thorough review at the time. Something tells me this here will suffice.

I STOOD ON A HOLE AND OTHER ODD-DATED POEMS (a.k.a. Happy National Poetry Day!)

I STOOD ON A HOLE (2019)

I stood on a hole
because I'm told
on the hole
everything is fine.
It all works out.
Positive.

Except on this hole
the bottom fell out
and now
it's got me down...


GUNFIRE? FIREWORK? (2017)

Gunfire?
Firework?
Work out
outdoors.
Doors close:
close call.
Call cops,
cop out.
Outlast
last night.
Night scares:
scares you.
You hand
handgun.
Gunfire?
Firework?


BLOSSOM GOSSAMER (2015)

Got some blossom gossamer,
bought some blossom gossamer
for those blossom-gossamer-loving
fools.

'Cos there is nothing awesome as
a big old blossom gossamer
atop that foursome's boss Amir's
stools.


WE MAKE ALTERATIONS (2013)

the pillow slips
the duvet covers
the curtain rails
the carpet rolls
the bedside lights
the window blinds

a deal on sheets
and memory foams.


UNWRAPPING TIME (2011)

TIME is an envelope...TIME is not the card.
TIME is a curtain...TIME is not the art.
TIME is a coat...TIME is not the skin.
TIME is all without...TIME is not within.

TRAUMA FROM THE SHADOWS (a.k.a. Cheeky Fan Fiction Celebrating Eighty Years of a Certain Caped Crusader)

The dark figure hid around the corner. His black gloved fingers pulled away from the brickwork, dust having accumulated on the tips.  The Gothic architecture usually looked so distinguished from afar and on high but the foundations were a damp crumbling disappointment.

      The voices picked up again. Two large men in a nearby alleyway at the back of the cinema.

      “Guy with the ring on his pinkie,” one spoke up.

      “Blonde widow’s peak?”

      “That and the ring on the pinkie.”

      “Yeah. Looks kinda like Uncle Herman...”

      “Hey!” A slap on the forearm. “Don’t make this personal, stupid.”

      “What? Herman wasn’t related to us or nothing.”

       “Still weird.”

       “This has to look good. We grab him, drag him to the van, take him far away and get the stuff out. Can’t do that if we’re thinking about dad’s work buddies.”

      “Okay! Okay…”

       The figure clutched his cape close around him. He wanted this to look good too, didn’t want to just jump out at them. His next few movements needed to have a certain grim gravitas. This had to put the fear of God into these thugs. He regulated his breathing until the doors opened up at the cinema.

       “What is this?” a new sophisticated but startled voice rang out.

       “Get down!”

       “On the floor!”

       “These are new pants!”

       “Oh, wah!”

       Time for the reveal. The figure rustled his cape as he dashed out of the shadows and into the centre of the alleyway. Only then did he throw it open revealing his all-black costume and rapier.

      Criminals and victim alike gawped at him. They squinted. One of the thugs reached into his jacket pocket. Before he could take his hand out again, the figure rushed forward and slashed it. Feeling the accomplice draw close, the figure elbowed him out of the way too.

      “Hey! This ain’t…”

      The figure stabbed the thug in the foot. The other abductor had lunged hopelessly, still clutching his bloody hand, and the figure kicked him away as he pulled the rapier loose. He pushed the screaming criminal down on the floor too, holding the blade to his throat.

      “Don’t even think about it,” the figure snarled.

      “I wasn’t going too!” The man was on the verge of tears.

       His accomplice grabbed the figure from behind before receiving an elbow to the gut and stumbling to the sidewalk. He was out cold. Meanwhile the other thug limped away under a flickering street lamp.

      “Oh…please…please…”

      The figure turned to the victim. He looked shocked beyond belief, reaching out for the thug just gone.

      “Leave!” the figure said. “Now!”

      The victim frowned. “Not a chance!”

      The figure double-took. “What are you doing? You’re safe!”

      “This was a consenting act, you weirdo...asshole!”

      “What?”

      “I hired these boys to rough me up.”

      The figure hesitated. “Why?”

      Now seething, the victim took a moment to reply: “This was a consenting act!”

      It took a moment for the figure to realise just what was going on here. Still, in that case, he didn’t think it right for the man to be calling him the weirdo asshole.

      The man jabbed his finger. “You know what? I’ll sue you! This was consensual!”

      The figure stepped away from him, grimacing. He turned, forgetting to sweep and flourish his cape.

      “I’ll sue you, Banderas!” the victim cried out.

            The figure froze. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He reached for his utility belt. He turned back around, holding a bomb in his hand. Suddenly the man fell silent. Throwing it down, smoke rose almost instantly. While the victim coughed, the figure ran away.

            He weaved through the surrounding blocks, clinging to the shadows, following the less occupied streets. So many suspicious people and interactions and yet he couldn’t stop. He took out his phone.

            A mile or so along, he was met by a limousine. He jumped inside.
            "No cuts I trust?" the driver, a thin elderly man with a pencil moustache, asked.
            The figure ripped open his shirt to check. "Not on me."
            "If only the same could be said of tonight's criminal element."
            "They're fine."
            The driver gave him a pointed look via the rear-view mirror: "That is blood on your rapier tip."
            "Just drive."
            The figure ducked down in the plush leather passenger seat, peeling off his black mask. He smoothed down his sweaty black hair and sighed. "Alfred? I lost it. For a moment. Control."
            The driver shook his head as he accelerated uphill and out of the city.
            "You would stand outside the cinema. You would dress up as Zorro."
            "I am not Zorro!" the figure snapped.
            "Then what are you?" The driver raised an eyebrow. The figure pouted then tried to disguise it with a nose wipe. The driver sighed. "Bruce," he said, "What were you expecting? Another boy and his parents? A repeat of your own trauma? Your own personal hell? Speak honestly now. Would you actually be able to act in such a moment or would you...succumb?"
             Bruce didn't make eye contact. He refused. One single admission and here he stood accused all over again. Well, he wouldn't say anything now. He wouldn't mention the embarrassing turn of the apparently sexual scenario and he certainly wouldn't leave himself open to more snide remarks. He would also keep the rush, the righteousness of running lesser men through with a barbed idea, purely to himself. Bruce smiled as he recalled the sound of grown men screaming. He heard 'Banderas' again and thought about that phony victim screaming too.
             Alfred cleared his throat: "Another thing, sir. One of the windows has been smashed."
             Bruce thought of hoodlums with bricks in their hands, hurling them at the millionaire's house. As pathetic and cowardly an act as it was socially inevitable.
             "Which window?" he asked.
             "The study. By the fireplace."
             Bruce dug his gloved fingers into the car door armrest. "And the bust?"
             "Intact." Alfred replied, pulling into the drive. Switching off the engine, he turned back. "It was a bat of all thing."
             Bruce stared out at his manor. If he squinted, he could just about see the break from here.

OLDOUNCE'S COFFIN (a.k.a. Why Antonym Poetry Is Tricky)

Tomorrow I was entertained

so I worked with an Oldounce's Coffin.

I pushed forward the last block

then ignored them staying forth and back,

clack and click.

Earlier I disregarded down 

and missed the night remaining into day

and the darkness was brightening slow.

So I started...

THE MAJESTY OF NATURE IN LANDSCAPE (a.k.a. A Lindisfarne Vignette)

Man and Boy stopped a while to snap a Red Admiral. Boy had his phone out in seconds while Man was still fiddling with his Fuji camera strap.
   "Landscape or portrait?" Boy asked, tilting his phone.
   "You'll get more of the majesty of nature in landscape," Man replied.
   Camera finally switched on, he pointed it at the butterfly in the hedge. It flitted off. He groaned. Boy laughed.
   "Too slow," he said.
   "I'll get the bugger," Man muttered. "Don't you worry."
   They followed it along a stone wall. The Red Admiral stopped at every other crack, unhelpfully keeping its wings folded. They waited for it to move.
   In time a procession of school children passed by: ten little reflector jackets led by one big one. The teacher hesitated, wondering just what Man and Boy were doing.
   "Butterfly snapshots," Man explained with a curt smile.
   The teacher nodded and moved the kids along. They were almost away before a girl at the back spoke up: "I licked one of those once." The rest giggled till they were all gone.
   At last the Red Admiral set off again.
   "Oh yes!" Boy said. "I got it mid-flight!"
   Man sniffed. "If you would be quiet for just one second, we might catch it by those pink flowers."
   Boy snapped his fingers. "Look! Quick!"
   Man saw his perfect picture opportunity. The butterfly landed on a single low-hanging branch and was steadily fluttering its wings. It held them open long enough for him to take quite a few photos. Man even managed a detailed close-up of the wing symmetry. Meanwhile Boy stood beside, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He smiled at Man when he was done.
   "Will that do?" Boy asked.
   Man nodded his thanks to the Red Admiral. It bowed low, twitching its antennae as if contemplating him in return . Then a gust shook the branch and the butterfly followed the currant.
   "Yes," Man said, tucking the camera back into its case. "That'll do for me."