As I lean in, unwashed
in aftershave, I kiss your neck
gently, the barest brush of lips
on your scented neck
and I hesitate
briefly,
my breathing becomes shallow,
almost spectre like, ghost patterned
as I become intoxicated by your presence
and I leave my senses behind;
slow,
slowly
I summon the courage
to ask you
if you would like to
dance.
Ian D. Hall 2016
You will happily pay for likes,
on your not so smart phone,
that is after all your prerogative,
your reason for twenty-first living,
abandoned by reason,
ashamed of shame,
but you cannot bear
to part with cash
for someone to truly despise you,
such is life, pay in
or pay out, me
well I have a credit card holder
always standing by,
for the multitude who silently seethe
under their breath
when they picture me.
Ian D. Hall 2016
You couldn’t know
just how relieved I was
when I found out you were not going to be there,
a weight off my mind,
too say the least,
for your bulky shadow
is forever stalking me,
and yet
your physical self
is insubstantial
and ghost like.
Ian D. Hall 2016
The sinister sound of the deafeningly quiet
fills the frightened, leaden black skies
and as the border draws closer,
the rat bags cowl and skulk
in their misbegotten dens and Waterloo Station
is a million miles away,
London is a million steps distant and the channel,
the long sleeve that separates us from absolved culture is dry,
spent and full of wondrous starving starfish
hell bent on retribution;
we cross the border
in our rag tag finery, our mockingbird feathers and brutal denim,
half peeled, half stitched jackets…
A kiss in the dark,
hands held tight, the distant
pleasure of love
often alluding us, like water
in a barren land, but one
that still grows cacti
without hesitation;
a thousand stubbly pricks
in search of water
and the tendrils
that slip underneath the soil.
Ian D. Hall 2016
I have a silver knife,
purchased from a stall
on a street market, with the faint
taste of Greenwich tea
hanging in the air
and making the early morning hunger
cripple my stomach.
It is blunt but beautiful,
this market letter opener,
it would do the job on my skin
if pressed.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Lost: The sense of propriety and its partner decency,
last seen wearing, The Emperor’s new clothes,
or even ragged, dishevelled suit, tramp like holes,
smells a bit off, funny, peculiar…but with a coin
or hundred million quid
in disposable, untraceable notes, watermarked,
wrapped in an old argyle sock with a promissory
note tied around the big toe’s end.
Noticeable features: none, just delusions of grandeur
and bucket loads of self-importance.
If found please contact, England, the United States
of America, possibly France, maybe Germany, Austria,
Hungry or Turkey, or phone the Kremlin
Football on the radio
was always a bonus of Saturday
afternoon childhood,
it filled the void between Tiswas
or the forced trip
to the supermarket,
bored and regretting having to carry the bags.
Now football on the radio,
listening to the Blues,
is a staple of middle age,
now I cannot go shopping
for proper items
worth my soul
inside the club shop.
Ian D. Hall 2016
It seemed much colder
for the time of year,
November in Bootle on the doorstep
whilst I fiddled for my keys, unlocking
the door with its customary deep groan,
“Hurry it’s cold”. You pronounced it cald
as if to draw out the meaning
and I told you so as I flicked the
inside light switch.
“What’s in a vowel?” You smiled,
beaming brighter than the bulb
over your head, incandescent.
“A lot”, I replied, “You would moan,
if in the cald,
I asked you to show me your tuts”.
Come inside the Mall,
the lights are bright and everything
is super, cheap and worth the risk,
of the stampede, of the pushing
and shoving, the charge of wallet and purse brigade,
the scattering of Stilettoes, the handbags
seized and used as battering rams,
the abuse towards the sales people, that’s O.K.,
the abuse towards your fellow man, that’s O.K.,
worth a black eye, that’s O.K. man,
as long as you get your 50 inch television
for fifty Dollars, quid, Euros, nicker less,
the money saved still more