Red Horse

Red Horse

+63 9483849137

‘This is my new number, it’s me, Cherry’

Not very clever, together drinking Red Horse, or worse

Watching her change ring-tones, selecting a Tom Jones

Then another round, another sound of clinking Red Horse

‘ You got it, you got my new number?’

I smile, confirming the worming wriggling, giggling, girl

[ Forgive me Delilah, I just couldn’t take anymore ]

Cherry’s new number, Boracay,Philippines

Receipting Words

Receipting Words

Receipting words in my head

Making-up stories in my un-made bed

Counting sheep

Wishing deep sleep

Was it a big mistake, a lover’s fake?

I ache and can’t dismiss the truth

She knows, it’s all about her youth

The hour pass

Last Requiem Mass

The end is neigh, we both say goodbye  

I fly to Manila, she to Cebu 12^th December 2011

Reference Library : Exeter

Reference Library : Exeter

    I think I was the first one in the reference library

Killing an hour, waiting for the guy with the crash helmet

To finish reading the Telegraph and return it to the stand

    To no avail, I settle for a trashy Red Top

As I sat, flicking through column inches of crap, I observe

A dishevelled, woolly fleeced man with uncombed thinning hair

That should have been attended, to disguise a lumpy discoloured

Bit of cranium, looking like a bunch of knuckles from some operation

Gone wrong

    And, as I tried to play ‘Who are you, What are you ?’

He opened a borrowed newspaper with his dirty nails and proceeded

To read the Chinese broadsheet.

   He didn’t look Chinese, or looked like the kind of guy who owned

An Oriental Dragon restaurant.

    My  inquisition speculated alternatives.

Was he a mercenary, a missionary, a Mongol trading in jade and expensive

Excentrics?

    Then my hour passed, I returned the newspaper and watched

The mystery man exit and slowly walk towards the Rising Sun

Return to Ermita

Return to Ermita

Buying cheap shite from the cheap

      Shite man

Walking past the dog crap and nasty gaping cracks

Knocking back the San Mig fallen off his

      Cebu van

Past the muggers alley where the kids get smac

I enter the smokey bar where pretty heads turn

      Like owls

Where night and day blares out  thumping rock ‘n roll

And the queer masseur applies dampened

      Neck towels

I watch as my last pesos pay for her gas, or was it coal ?

Flowers from a Book

Flowers from a Book

Opening, slowly as a forgotten murmuring dream

Undressed, naked in its sepia hidden secret years

Of once bright orange stamen, now stained, ingrained

As an old nicotined finger of petal thin skin

Pointing it’s impress to words of once love of a lost memory

Sacrificed in a last act of submission

Inscribed by copperplate indigo ink that has paled

As lost old eyes that no longer see, now to be found

By other fingers that have touched the soul of sorrow

Kissed by lips that have tasted hopelessness

English Bakery Boracay Philippines15th February 2012