Secret Agent Artist

The furniture dinosaur’s moving again.
Flexing it’s sections of oak paneled thigh,
raking it’s bar table - aluminum
clavicle over linoleum tiles.

The furniture dinosaur
only comes out when it’s dark; scrapes
stacked drawers
of shelved hearts.

Upstairs, in number 12 -
it’s swishing like a crocodile - dinosaur -
dancing: tapping out a beat
like a drummer with a stool.

The furniture dinosaur
knows how to move.

It’s doing the rumba
sashaying numbers
that would make you blush
if you could see them groove.

I’d like to
go up there
and tell it a thing or two -
but at times like these

it’s risky - far too unpredictable.

Just before he left
I talked about the song by Radiohead -
the one that

use to fly
like Peter Pan-

Ricky Gervais once said,
it raised a lump in his mouth.

I’d mentioned this
and then he’d left…

and it began to play.

Which only goes to show
coincidence alive and well -
inside of bars and random chat.

It was like the pair of gloves -
the ones we’d watched
being rollered by the tractor just outside:

The way the orange canvas
pressed against the tarmac.

You would have got
the metaphor
if you’d been drinking at the bar.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds -
but then it was there-

the proverbial mountain of gold dust
lit up like a dancing girl -

and everywhere else was closed -
it being a religious day

and only the church of Ronald McDonald,
was sending it’s teenage priests to pray.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds
with it’s choices of burger

or burger and fries.
it’s dark eyed and listless workers

it’s glossy bright awning
the same in Dubai.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds
where they serve only minimum wage

where expectations are swollen with chip fat
and people collect coupons for more of the same.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds
but everywhere else was closed

and I couldn’t believe it was really that awful -
till I’d unwrapped the burger,

bleak as the lino.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds -
but then it was there-

the proverbial mountain of gold dust
lit up like a dancing girl -

and everywhere else was closed -
it being a religious day

and only the church of Ronald McDonald,
was sending it’s teenage priests to pray.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds

but my boyfriend was hungry
with nowhere nearby -

I said it was hardly a place I would favour
but thought for his sake I should give it a try.

I said I’d not eat in McDonalds

with it’s choices of burger
or burger and fries.

When I asked them the options
for veggie and diet -

they told me the Salad McChicken was nice.

I met one of your teachers
just the other day -

the one with the name like
gossip, gosling -

soft feathers of baby birds -
corsage worn by bride or girl -

Mr Gossage - showed me to the room
where we were taught -

asked me how our mother
was - said he’d kept the

paper that you wrote
for years and years until

just recently -
he’d always thought you’d

work in Academia - so I
told him -

about your education
your Oxford Don and

Doctor winning thesis
something to do with

literary criticism
and Walter de la Mare.

If you should ever wish to return

(you’ll have to hurry
they knock it down, sometime next year)

you should know
they hold your face,

somewhere safe
in slanting boards:

a young man,
smoking a pipe,

a jacket patched -
probably corduroy.

I told them that you didn’t smoke.
Left your sister out of it.

The table of longing was like two lovers -
separate but vital - to each others
continuing survival. It’s two sets of wooden legs
even ended in a set of four,
perfectly sculpted oaken claws.

The table of longing smelt of all the years
they’d ever eaten: butterscotch pudding, hot fruit
with vanilla ice cream. It tasted of the wine
occasionally spilt, the skin of the hands
banged together.

The table of longing was the sound of
all furniture ever moved. A distant sea
in the ear of a grand piano. It was a tree uprooted
and black soil stirred. A car moaning
at the foot of a hill.

The table of longing was lined paper
written with verse, varnished petals
of bronze wood. It was three panels
of a painted screen, sheets to hide it’s naked dreams:
a desire to be folded - to rest limbs.

The table of longing was a pair of wings.
Gold hinges, glowed in the dark.

Bandi, who we call Barchi
which is Hungarian for uncle,
has left a tub of swiss chocolate,
a small plate of twiglet circles,
an open atlas circa, 1956.

In the kitchen, Bandi Barchi,
has laid out breakfast - could be tea -
for each of us he’s told will come
at 1am to find his flat – several rooms
that live above

the Almentstrasse.
On the table is a pencil
someone’s used to draw a flag.
The wax lined union jack,
is placed upon a cushioned chair -

at either edge, are cocktailed slips,
the kind you’d use to stick in cheese-
one Hungarian, one Swiss. Bandi Barchi’s
set three plates, stacked like dolls
with cups for tea. He’s left:

a loaf of bread,
two jars of jam,
a small tub of chopped apple,
three sachets
of powered soup.

At 2am we see the note,
that Bandi Barchi’s left to read:
For three bears who’ve come to Bern,
he will call at 9am -
and we will meet.

In the morning
lie in bed and eat some squares
of swiss chocolate.

You can do that when abroad
and when in Bern,
you have no choice.

Drink a cup
of sleek velvet.
Ski the alps, take a tram.

On Wednesday morning in the kitchen,
Uncle Michael scrapes toast -
like climbers chipping ice caps,

Through the window,
curled roofs,
jut against the solid sky.

This morning, Uncle Bundi came
to find me typing in the bedroom.
“Lydia -

she is always writing?”.
Can almost see him
pushing back the winter coat,

bending down
to stroke the fur
on Ika’s back.

This is the second draft of a piece I started at a workshop on Wednesday. Not sure how it’s reading. Is it working or not? Not sure whether to take out the first 2 stanzas and start with ‘Here’s what I did’…does anyone have any ideas. All gratefully received…

Midasia

I’d always liked trees so that’s where I started.
Those that burst into colour
in the middle of the summer, in the night.

Those that look like lampshades
made of gold. The gold
is important.

Here’s what I did:

I photographed the baubles
from a pound shop,
the raised foil –

from off my mother’s Christmas cake,
a stack of Get Well Soons –
their bright, crimped lettering.

I cut the photos into pieces, made them into leaves
and you know what’s coming next,
I built the tree. Ok,

here’s how it really got to happening…

It was an all gold tree.
Gold like Cadburys, Maple Syrup,
candelabras, glittered milk.

I made it - but not really –
it was Midas made me do it,
took me by the hand

and led me through the forest
stopped me at the weeping willow,
handed me the prodder.

He pushed me, made me,
forced me, touch it
and I did –

I wish I hadn’t – it was awful –
curling crunching
as the branches sprang upwards

in a head of ripping foils.
The sap turned molten
and the leaves ran golden

and the birds bounced thudding
on the bronze and blacked ore.
I smoothed the shards off my jacket,

shook the carrots from my pockets -
tucked the wand
into the foliage -

but not before I’d touched his arm.

Post Match

After the hussle and howl of the
hand grenade, leather stitched bag
that’s been stitched like a face
the silence is stark in the stalls –

on the pitch,
in locker room showers
where the cleaner is finished -
but surprised by the shirts.

The players look small on the field
but you’d think they’d be larger up close.

Not tiny and flattened like pieces of litter
She thought they were flyers
but then she saw collars
and paper ripped hems

The woman thought players
were towering goliaths,
hulking great giants, leviathan fired
and muscled with rope.

She never thought they were all
miniature Handed – Tiny Tom Thumbed
with runner bean lungs
and tops made from boxes of

emptied out fags.
She held one up between two palms
Like a baby safe from harm -
oddly mothered.

She traced the Victory on one’s chest,
Smoothed poor Park Road’s
rained on crest, kissed Hans Solo
frowned at Real.

She hooked her post match boys
in pockets, slipped them in her jeans
and jacket, took them home
and watched them flourish.

Secret world’s first woman governor.
She let them out for Cup Days.