Stan on Spoons.

in the back of a van
beside a caravan with
Deirdre and Pam cooking
noddles to have with our Spam,
with Pam’s uncle Stan
accompanying on spoons.

but before then……

it was fun while it lasted
our ménage a trois.
it was quaintly exotic
though not exactly erotic,
squeezed into a transit van
beside the fun park.
in the dark.
smothered in stork.
and beef dripping.

in the dark
we’d bump and grind
and unwind to Wham and
Patsy Cline. and sometimes
a track from James Last.
it was a veritable blast.

it couldn’t last.
and it didn’t.
the final straw
was a knock on the door
from the filth and
Pam’s uncle Stan
from stoke. i almost
had a stroke.
from Pam.

(Deirdre was busy with the noodles)

in the caravan next door
Sally and Bill taught
their pet Pekinese tricks
as they watched apprentice
bricklayers laying bricks
on the caravan channel.

(blissfully unaware of the shenanigans)

we went quietly.
with pc plod and uncle Stan
from stoke.
and after formalities
we were released
into the Skegness breeze,
back to our van
beside the caravan
with Stan.

(the main man)

and we became
a ménage a quatre,
Pam, Deirdre, Stan and me
in a van
beside a caravan,
quaintly exotic
though not exactly erotic
bumping. grinding.

with Stan on spoons.

(playing badly, of course)

Without the wine

crunch of bone.

like shards
of toblerone,
chewy bloody triangles
of sinew clinging to mangled
mess as I, singing
with wine,
cry like a baby

the morphine kicks in.
oozes like a dream.
a wave of dreams.
a riot of dreams.
it seems I am broken.
bent. misshapen.

a fog of sirens and lights.

i awake. dry mouthed.
hooked. tubed. in pain.
my mother cries.

i am bloody, pissed off,
yet very much alive.

i have a switch to press.
a magic morphine switch.
i sleep again.
dream again.

now i limp.

not noticeably to you.
but to me i lumber
and teeter totter like
a lurching imbecile.

flashback to

a tractor
two wheels.
a blur of metal
and tarmac
and hedges
and steel.

i never did get my motorbike back.
that block of aluminium,
leather and speed.

but I got my life back.
my life with a limp.

i was young.

i did as I pleased.


and. I would do it again.
but without the wine this time.

Empty air

hung over
alarm-filled morning
i wake and snooze
and snooze and snooze some more

falling out of bed
onto the floor where
sometimes i snooze some more

i scratch and yawn and slippers on
i sit to pee, too lazy to stand
nursing my phone in my hand

no messages today

is a gut wrenching pain
she reminds me
again and again
that i’m alive

my end game hasn’t come as yet.
not yet

i turn my brain on
put my clothes on
sip a coffee or two

i think of you
and your curves
and eyes
and teeth
and hair
and smile
and i sigh

after all,
it was you
leaving me
that makes me
feel like dying
giving up trying
not caring about waking
falling asleep crying

a sad lonely shell of a man

it is raining outside
and big soft raindrops
cling to the window pane
a melee of precipitation
does nothing to fuel my
excitation about the day ahead

i consider
going back to bed
to sleep and dream
of multifarious things with wings


i persevere
with this trite
existence of mine
dance to my
melancholic tune
imagine picnics
with Clair de Lune
by the light of the
silvery moon

today will be like
every other day
the polite nods
the quiet whispers
the offers of nights out
the hints of nights in

today will be like
every other day
the meal for one
the pop of a cork
the smell of a book
the stale empty air

it is still raining.