We haven’t spoken for a while,
the telephone more like an instrument
of sarcasm in your hands and the last time
I heard from you was for the voice of introspection
to try and take control of a person’s thoughts
and life that wasn’t yours to observe upon;
for the running commentary via the modern way
of stripping flesh from bone but with the crocodile
concern and false eye tear that suited your demeanour
as you laid into me, despite me having been
your only friend for a while and one who never
Can I exist without you?
For you, blasted devil, the persistent whining nag at my ear
and the dagger that sways slightly in the breeze
as it hovers without remorse or feeling
at the knotted black foul smelling lumps in my spine,
can I truly be who I am now without your whispered
torture, the sledge hammer attacks and small drill bit
sensation causing ripples up and down what is
no longer there, if you too also disappear without trace?
An old friend I hadn’t seen
You might yet win the day…
I learned long ago to never deeply
trust the advances made
by the English men
in white and the often cried for
perfect conditions in which to slay
the oldest foe,
yet somehow it has to be said
it’s looking very unlikely
that the front foot is about to come
off the Baggy Green Coat of Arms
wearing Kangeroo and the misinformed
Captain Emu, certainly not
in any way that suggest a quality
of Mercy, not today…
I am not surprised that many of us
survived the way that Shakeamaker
dealt with us,
I am astonished
that we did so without looking the maniac
in the eye and resisting all temptation
to punch him in the stomach
with our tiny eight year old hands
and screaming with our lungs
fit to burst, our lungs still blaring
as if mimicking the sirens
that disclosed the approach of the bombs
that rained down and the aftermath
in which we played in as children;
The day I found that ship wrecked
pound note, the eye of the Queen
giving me a warning glance or the drifting
smile of a woman I will never meet,
like the furtive teasing of a model
stripped down to the waist that adorned
the tossed away magazines and that got caught
in the branches of the Willow trees
that lined sentry still on display
on the banks of the River Rae,
on the dusty pavement
on the bridge
that separates Moor Green Lane
and Dad’s Lane…
There was almost no better day
than that in which I told the old sailor,
some called traitor
to the flag, some called much worse,
and that’s not for me to remark upon,
to get the fuck out of my pub,
his brand of high seas, glassy eyed leering debate
was not wanted in amongst the beer
and the stains in which he passed his greasy
fingers between the glasses ready to be cleaned,
washed and scrubbed as he waited with
a vile lop sided grin for me to shake
….bloats when left in the pour
hols sand between when it sticks
to cover and pages, stains; coffee
and wine. and sugared tea.
and your finger printing other things
smears not on kindles, dog-eared to
remind you of where to fold, for time.
do it then, read by lamp
turn off things that give off self light
Andreas Dahl 2015
It may as well have been a mountain
that yawned and gaped down
at the human insect, the bravado of its species
missing from its frame
and the slight quivering in its teenage body
as the crevice seemed to melt before his eyes.
The rock face, one hundred
dramatic feet high,
even a thousand surely at a pinch
heard the gentle tapping and prayer like
call whispering in the bright
Welsh light, God, don’t look down,
said with same impassioned plea
of the atheist who sits tied
The first memory I retain,
not the ones handed down to me in black and white,
of going missing as my mother and nan
were shopping in Abingdon
and after going spare and wondering
how they were going to break the news
to my father, only to find me
giggling away to myself in the coal shed
that joined the house, having apparently walked
home alone…
…the memory I have that still hurts in my mind,
that has seared so much into the very fabric
War is in the air but for now the year is content
to stretch out is tentacles
and feel the Northern sun warm the soul
and the days to become ones of bliss,
of harvesting the rewards
of bounty and the food
that will sustain the people under
Weodmonath’s care.
The gladiolus bloom everywhere
she looks and her charm, tempered by
anger of Solmanath’s revenge like fury
on her previous troubled psyche, is still…
Deep in the heart of her bosom though