October is the kindest time, killing
geraniums into the living sky, separating
forgetfulness and indifference, leaving
bright leaves to stand with autumn sunshine.
Summer made us cold, revealing
sea with reminiscent dew, starving
much death with juicy apricots.
Winter was predictable, going under the Solent
with a ray of sun; you ran over the plain,
and stood in the rain, outside the demolition site
and ate bananas and shouted for ten minutes.
Ja wohl. Ich bin ausländer!
And when we were babies, going from the baroness's,
your sister's, she brought me home in a car
and I was secure. She said, Kevin,
Kevin, leave go!" And up we came.
In the valleys here I feel trapped.
I talk much of the day and stay north in the summer.

Where are the twigs that drop, what berries die
in this lush abundance? Mother of woman,
I cannot think or deliberate for I know more
than an arcade of new-made statues, where the moon shines
and the living horse gives protection, the otter much satisfaction
and the wet mud a sound of air. But
there's no shade over this green mud
(go out over the light of this green mud)
and you will conceal something similar to either
my afternoon lustre standing before me
or my nocturnal luminoscity failing to bid me farewell;
you will hide courage from me in a bag of vegetables.

'I gave you begonias again last week;
' we called you the begonia man.'
- And when we went forth, early, to the begonia house,
my hands empty and my feet dry, you were
eloquent and listened acutely, you were both
dying and alive and you knew it all,
smelling round the borders of the dark, the noise

Señor Cortez, obscure historian,
was as fit as a fiddle, but
nobody realises is the silliest man in the world,
with a holy ouija board. There, he said,
is my piece, the baptised Roman soldier
(this is a turnip that will be his nose. Hark!)
There's an old codger, the Sandman,
the man of journeys.
There is the woman with a doughnut, and there the engine,
and there is the four-legged customer, and that piece
which is crammed with information is something she pushes along,
which only I can touch. I've now found
the blest woman. Welcome birth in sand.
You hear someone walking in a straight line.
How dare you! If I hear that old git, Mr Treblebass,
I'll tell him you'll take the history book yourself.
You'll be all right.

Actual village,
over the yellow mist of a summer evening,
a person staggered through the Rotherhythe Tunnel, so few,
you wouldn't have thought life could make so few.
Chortles, long and plenteous were gasped
and the person looked straight upwards.
Staggered down the hole and up Maiden Lane
to where Stalin lost the day with a merry ding
on the first dong of eight.
Here you heard a stranger and urged him on, saying, 'Bowler!
I who was with you in the bus at Peckham!
That embryo I dug up yesterday from my farm,
it has grown ripe. It will die next year.
The slow heat has left it sleeping.
Ah, let the cat, man's adversary, approach,
or with his teeth, he'll bury it.
Me! Dependable author! Your opposite! Your enemy!"

The table he stood on, like a dull gallows,
stood darkly on the floorboards, where the wood,
pinned down with undecorated nails,
in which silver demons were blinded
(others gawped with arms akimbo)
merged the juices of a crucifix,
casting shadow on the chair as
the drabness of his clothes fell from it,
to a cardboard box empty of all plenty.
In plastic tumblers and plain bottles,
corked, lay his familiar, natural waters,
gravel, unground or stony, soothed, affirmed
and rescued the numbness with noises, stilled by the methane
that stank towards the door, this fell
out of narrowing the brief water-spouts,
wafted its spray into the tomatoes,
shaking the plainness on the floor.
Tiny land-salt, starved of iron,
froze brown and yellow, topped with the black ice,
in which happy darkness, a goat soared.
Under the new door-jamb was hidden,
as if this ghastly sight were obstructed by a board,
the chastening of Derek by the gentle wench,
so politely persuaded; and here the sparrow
emptied the orchard with fragile silence
and she stopped saying, and everyone flees,
"Mug mug" to clean minds.
And the same blossoming bales of space
were kept secret on the ceilings; peeping nonentities
stood back, standing back, making the open countryside very noisy.
Fingerprints danced in the attic.
Above the ice, above the mirror, his skin
stayed tight and unlit,
dimmed into music, then moved gently.

'Your muscles are good this evening. Very good. Go away.
Don't say a word. When do I ever listen? Shhhh!
Don't tell me what you're thinking. When speaking? Where?
I always know what I am saying. Watch.'

You know they are in Elephant Boulevard
where the ripe girls found their flesh.

'What's that smell?'
The rain on the window.
'What was that smell before? Where is the rain going?'
Everywhere.
'Do
I know everything? Do I see all? Do I anticipate everything?'

You forget
this is a turnip that will be his nose.
'Am I dead? Are there things in my feet?'
And
ah ah ah ah this Mihiltonian Rap -
it's so disheveled,
so bedeviled.
'Where did we go yesterday? Where did we go?
We walked inside like others and ran through the woods
with our cocks up, not like this. Where did I go yesterday?
Where did I ever go?'
The cold milk at five,
and if it was sunny, an open bus at two,
and you worked physical drudgery without thought,
lifting your earlobes and instantly hearing a bang on the window.

When Bob's wife got called up, I said -
well, in not so many words, I said to him himself,
TAKE YOUR TIME THE NIGHT'S YOUNG
now Doris is going away, let yourself go a bit.
She doesn't care what she does with the goods you gave her
to get herself an old wig. She doesn't. You were here.
I'll take it all in, Bob, and get a bad one,
she said. I'm not sure but I think you can hear me comfortably.
And so can you, you said, so don't have any pity for Doris,
she's been living it up for six months, she needs a bit of hardship,
and if she gives it to you, no one else will, you said.
Ah, won't they, I said. No, you said.
Well, she won't know whom to blame, I said, and took a bent ear from her.
TAKE YOUR TIME THE NIGHT'S YOUNG
If she doesn't hate it, she can't carry on, you said.
It's Hobson's choice for all of us except him.
And if Doris comes back, it'll be through too little communication.
She should be proud, you said, being so modern
(and him getting on a bit).
She can avoid it, he said, grinning,
it's that seed I gave her to make her pregnant, he said.
(He doesn't have any kids and almost came with old Meg)
The grocer said to watch out, ’cause since then, you've been rejuvenated.
I am a clever man, you said.
But if Doris won't let you touch her, there we are, he said,
why did I get divorced if I needed a woman?
TAKE YOUR TIME THE NIGHT'S YOUNG
Anyhow, the next Wednesday, Doris was out, he had cold rabbit,
and he told me to go away and have breakfast, 'cause cold rabbit is disgusting.
TAKE YOUR TIME THE NIGHT'S YOUNG
TAKE YOUR TIME THE NIGHT'S YOUNG
Morning Kate. Morning Ted. Morning Nigel. Morning.
Hi there. Morning. Morning.
Good morning gentlemen, good morning ghastly gentlemen, good morning, good morning.

The lake's house is repaired; the primal toes of trees
loose their hold and rise from the arid mountain, the loud fire
agrees with the green sea. The imps are arriving.
Bitter Windemere, rage, till we start our discourse.
The lake holds unopened tins, cake boxes,
woollen scarves, plastic trays, juicy grapefruits
and no denials of winter days. The imps are arriving.
And our foes, the passing ancestors of country labourers,
arriving, have given their telephone numbers.
In the Gobi Desert I stood up and giggled .
Bitter Windemere, rage, till we start our discourse.
Bitter Windemere, rage, for we sing all day long, very raucously.
And on my bosom in a hot breeze I spy
the tones of blood and grief piled twixt eye and eye.

A donkey trotted gaily past the shops,
pushing its hairy arse under the hardware store
as we were setting birds free over the bright pool
on a summer morning, square in front of the electricity generator,
forgetting about the Queen our sister's success
and about the Queen our daughter's birth after her.
Adorned black spirits in the high dry sky
and skin caressed in a big tall wet basement,
toned not just by the donkey's tongue, day by day.
And on my bosom, very frequently, I see
the sight of headlights and tailbacks, which have taken
Polly to Mr Dunn in the Autumn.
Ah, the sun set dim on Mr Dunn,
and on his son,
we soil our hands in shit-loads by the ton.
Mais, O regardez l'hommes petons sur la fenetre.

Hero, hero, hero.
Mug mug mug mug mug mug
so politely persuaded.
F'tang!

Actual village
over the blue dew of a summer's night
Mrs Stanwell, the customer from Penge,
well groomed, with a handful of nuts,
insurance and freight not included, Swansea; no visible credentials,
told me in the Queen's English
to dine at the Rupert Street Café
preceded by an afternoon in a field.

On the red day, where the ears and breast
sag to the chair, where the bestial chassis loses patience
like a skateboard, numb, losing patience,
you Jenny with twenty-twenty eyesight, numb below one death,
young girl with smooth masculine lips, can't see
on the red day, the breaking day that slouches
to work, and takes the pilot away to the clouds,
the newscaster at work for breakfast, prepares his lunch, switches off
the fridge and picks up bottled drinks.
Inside the door, securely packed,
his moistening separates, seen by the moon's early beams,
under the table are spread (his desk during the day)
socks, shoes, vests and Y-fronts.
You Jenny, young girl with smooth cheeks
couldn't see it, but asked what had happened -
you alone were with the surprise intruder.
She, the unblemished old lady, departs,
a large shopkeeper with many timid peeps,
two of the aristocracy, apprehensive,
like sackcloth gloves on a Camberwell tramp.
She knows this moment is inopportune,
the drinks are not ready, he is excited and lively,
succeeds in giving him the brush-off
with approval, though craved for.
Wan and uncertain, she is eventually on the defensive;
cold feet repel the sortee;
her lack of confidence demands some reaction,
but reviles passion.
(And you Jenny have known so little
of inertia on a different table and desk;
you who have stood in Tulse Hill on the roof
and run around the highest of the living.)
Received several first respectful punches
and walked out purposefully, losing the bright corridor .

He sways and listens for hours to his own voice on the tape recorder,
acutely mindful of his arriving enemy;
his heart forbids some fully developed idea from tarrying:
'So when this is started, I'll be sorry it's begun.'
Where ugly man rises to wisdom
and sits in his garden for the first time with many,
he soils his clothes with an untrained mouth
and turns off the telly.

'These pictures ran through you under the fires'
And across the Aldwych, down Arundel Street.
Ah, village, village, you can never see
inside a restaurant on the Victoria Embankment,
the awful drone of a tuba
and a tinkle and a hush outside
where butchers work at midnight; where the floor
of Henry Heretic releases
all-too-familiar squalor of Cornish black and tin.

The lake absorbs
water and malt,
the liners forge
ahead against the stream,
blue masts
narrow
to windward, hang dead on the flimsy deck.
The liners begrime
rigid twigs
up Walton Lagoon
through the Continent of Cats.
Heda heda hedo!

George and Portsmouth
losing to sails
the aft was disintegrating
a plain egg
blue and copper
the slow sag
smoothed the sea
north-east calm
smothered in its depths
the drone of trumpets
black tunnels.
Heda heda hedo.

'Shuttles and clean flowers,
Balham killed you, Holloway and Hampstead
set you up. At Holloway you lowered your ankles
face down on the roof of a wide aircraft carrier.'

'Your hands are at Hammersmith, and your liver
over your hands. Before the holiday
she smiled. She said she might make "an old end."
You talked about this a lot. How could you pity?'

'At Hammersmith Bridge.
You can't separate
everything from all.
The pristine knuckles of clean feet.
Your person proud person which remembers
everything.'
Hedo.

From Luxor now you go

Quenching quenching quenching quenching

Ah lady I graft you in
Ah lady I graft

quenching

Debbie the Mancunian, five days old,
remembered the cackle of dolphins, and the shallow pond sag
and supply and demand.
A wind over hills
fed her blood with shouts. As she went to and fro
she stopped at the screens of her weight and infancy
leaving the hurricane.
Christian or Muslim
ah, we that pull the anchor and listen to leeward,
forget Debbie, that is for ever plain and short as me.

Before the sunshine gold on cool bottoms,
before the warm gossip in the streets,
before the orgasms in the watery depths,
the whispering and the giggling,
prairie and ghetto and reflection
of lightning of autumn under adjacent valleys,
she who is dying was once alive,
you who are dying were once living
with a short temper.

There is milk and not mud,
soul and milk and the spotless path
going straight down to the valleys
which are valleys of mud with milk.
When there is milk, you can come and eat.
Beside the mud none can come and speak!
Tears are wet and hands are in the water.
Indeed there is more than milk beside the mud.
Vibrant valley eye of perfect lashes that can cry.
There none can walk or run or sprint.
There is also shouting in the valleys
and wet potent lightning with snow.
There is also company in the valleys
and pink happy heads grin and laugh
from windows of bricksolid palaces.
When there is milk
and no mud,
when there is mud
but no milk;
and milk;
a cow;
a bucket beside the mud.
When there is the appearance of milk as well
and the stick-insect
and wet trees chanting
and appearance of milk under the mud
where the sociable sparrow talks in the rhododendron bush;
tip tap tip tap tip tip tip
for there is plenty of milk.

Who is the first that runs in front of us sometimes?
If you subtract, there are many of us, standing apart,
and if you glance backward down the dark path
there is never anyone else staggering behind us.
Struggling, almost naked except for a green rag, bare-headed.
You can't tell whether a boy or a girl
- so who is that ahead of us?

Don't tell me about that apparition deep in the ground.
Song of infantile joy.
What is this bare-headed person, standing
in enclosed ground, floating over lush sward
boxed in by the hills in the foreground among other things?
Where is the village under the plains?
Tones and conversation and implosions in the yellow soil.
Rising bungalows
Beirut Kabul Baghdad
Paris Edinburgh
Actual.

A man Brylcreemed his short blond hair down loose
and blew rasping discord through that mop.
And owls with adult arses in the yellow murk
shouted and twanged their toes
and walked sideways along a whitened floor
and at an angle of forty-five degrees were bungalows
beating unfamiliar drums that lost the days
and percussion banging into brimming pots and fresh pans.

In these sappy hills beside the valleys,
in these bright sunrays, the trees are moaning
beneath the regimented cots, near the brothel.
Here is the busy brothel, dwelling of many tempers.
It has several doors, and the window is fixed,
lubricated skin can't please everyone.
And a cow crouched on the floorgrass;
mo mo mmmoo
with a ray of sun. Then a dry breeze
taking away the snow.

Humber is raised, and the rigid branches
were saturated, but the white mists
dispersed nearby, below the moors.
The desert stood, tall with noises.
Now sang the lightning
WHACK
Receive: how have I received?
My enemy, water calming my mind.
The pleasant cowing of an aeon's perseverance
which a moment of recklessness can easily bolster.
In that, but not only that, I have died
which can be seen on my prospectus
and in hopes thrown by the greedy butterfly
and on keys mended by fat locksmiths
outside my packed hallways.
WHACK
Be callous: You haven't seen the lock
fixed to the window and fixed many times.
I ignore the lock, I in my field,
ignoring the lock, I deny my field.
And at daybreak, subterranean songs
kill for ever the proud Volumnia.
WHACK
Serve: The bike will struggle,
miserably, against the cyclist with tyre and pedal.
The road was bumpy, my mind will struggle,
miserably, if rejected, calculating bossy
to serving feet.

You stood on the sea bed,
setting fish free, with the fruitful sea floor before you.
Should you go so far as to make chaos of your waters?
Rotherhythe Tunnel is rising up rising up rising up
But you inquire of me by that vice
which takes you from the lowest landing - Ah salmon salmon
The poor man of Burgundy in the popular hovel
This whole you have given for your betterment.
Well then, you'll strip me. Geoffrey's recovered his wits.
Receive. Be callous. Serve.
Havoc havoc havoc