A Secret

October 21, 2011

Bleach makes your hair grow
It makes your hair grow back
My doctor told me to do it
She said a bit of bleach
will probably help.

Bleach makes your hair grow
it massaged my follicles back to life.
Forget your greens. Keep your carrots.
It’s bleach that makes
your hair grow right.

Roma Girl

October 16, 2011

In a cafe made of people
with a white cup of brown tea,
leant forward across a table,
sun spreading over seats.

A stack of papers, thumbed
and folded, silver slab
of light and keys,
jacket full of keys and lipstick,
sugar sachets, pocketed.

And the man from Roma,
middle distance,
stirring coffee, Portuguese,

and the seat across, just vacated –
my friend like a hologram
flickering with diagrams
walking backwards,
down the street.

All of the secretaries in the admin office are women
And most of the nurses on the ward are wearing bras,
But most of ministers in the cabinet are David,
Or Andrew, or William, or Liam.

Most of the social workers, have experienced periods,
Most of the therapists, have worn rouge,
But most of the Bankers are in the boys club
And the Hedge Fund managers are wearing suits.

And most of the mothers will be staying at home
After the Government’s programme of hems.
It will be mostly women. Sitting in lounges. In 2011.
Mostly women, will collect their papers
And remember their mothers
And think of their children
And remember how
To sing the blues.

Homecoming

October 10, 2011

It was after the Tottenham Riots

and after the trouble at work,

after the death of the singer

and the dancing, at the carnival.

The day after she came back home

we drank tea in her kitchen

poured from a saucepan.

We walked down her quiet street,

leaves heaped,
 into crevices.

We ate lunch, lemonade and cups of tea.

We talked about the weather in the Midlands,

light collected round our feet.

It was the day after they discovered

that time travel might be possible;

the day after the man
had said so, on the news.

We were sat there in her kitchen,
dust swirling in the forecourt,
after the gown and the corridors,

after the waiting and the phonecalls.

The sun shone on the curtains.

We stirred tea;
time, moved.

Home Coming

October 4, 2011

It was after the Tottenham Riots

and after the trouble at work,

after the death of the singer

and the dancing, at the carnival.

The day after she came back home

we poured water in her kitchen

boiled on a stove.

We walked down her quiet street,

leaves heaped,
 into crevices.

We ate lunch, lemonade and cups of tea.

We talked about the weather in the Midlands,

light collected round our feet.

The day after she came back home,
a ladybird, landed on her shoulder;
the sky was a shade of paint box blue;

a postman over took us;
shadows stretched
from under foot.

It was the day after they discovered

that time travel might be possible;

the day after the man
had said so, on the news.

We were sat there in her kitchen,
dust swirling in the forecourt,
after the gown and the corridors,

after the waiting and the phonecalls.

The sun shone on the curtains.

We stirred tea;
The day after
time, moved.

October Girl

October 1, 2011

In October I put on my space girl suit,

I’m a crime fighting super hero,

I’ve got 90 denier rocket tights

and a button down dress,

like a suit of armor.

I’m losing legs in flowing coats
,
forgetting bra straps into sand
,
I’ve left my sarong in Gibraltar

with a closed umbrella and a bronze man.

It is October and the heat has risen,

the leaves have settled into iron grates,
I am mostly wearing my mother’s cast offs
her seventies shirt, like a secret cape.

October, Borollo, Sangria and Merlot.

October, Genoa and Earl Grey tea.
I’m zipping into boots and wearing a tiara
like Wonderwoman, off Gold TV.

And in my head, I have every outfit,

I’m a bobble hat holding my father’s hand,

a short black dress, taken in for a party

at Halloween, on a velvet night.


I’ve an emerald skirt knitted by neighbour

and an emerald cardigan, left in a flat,

a pistachio ballgown folded in a hat box

worn for a fancy dress ball on a farm.

October, Borollo, Sangria and Merlot.

October, Genoa and Earl Grey tea.
She’s a superhero, ninja, diva
as the night falls, at ten past six.

October, Borollo, Sangria and Merlot.
October, Genoa and Earl Grey tea.

It is October, 
and the days

are getting shorter,
air is thinner

October is running

in a gas blue skirt,

kicking leaves.