Christmas for two
Now we've potted the tree
and strung lights from the ceiling,
we can shut out the neighbours
and friends, our expectant
families, and set about
opening each other.
Stood outside the office, smoking
Spits of winter knock on my skull:
"you don't belong", prints the rain
on the paving slabs. My feet cramp
in their tight, new shelters; my coat
welcomes the sharp wind's nails.
As I suck my liver warms my blood
enough to keep a video
of you running through my head.
I cannot press my lips to pause
your smile centre screen. No worries -
our scraps of chat scatter the world
around me like the heaps of leaves
we kicked last week, our shopping jaunts
for furnishings, our idle bickers.
I grin at strangers: "you don't exist".
Take this Man
I married you on a couch in Clarkenwell,
its stuffing the curls of groin-hair
that Sebastian had buzz-cut from clients.
We held hands as he dabbed the needle
in vodka, pressed its exquisite point
through the seam of my glans. Not once
did you glance away, not even to watch
my testicles dance from the pain. We swapped
our vows in white-hard hand grasps and later
we kissed, my trousers loose on my waist
and a dribble of lust on my newest ring.
Sevenling (As He Settles In His Pot)
As he settles in his pot his bones
migrate to the top, sorted by shakes
and caresses, the currents of time.
She hid him in the toilet, let spiders
weave him to the wall. His handles become
birth-chambers, banqueting halls, crypts.
She rubs tears on her chest to ease the pain.
Sevenling (So the Devil's own cur)
So the Devil's own cur must hang, his command chain
hooked on the jibbet, a tight rope to swell his tongue
past blushing lips: Kuwait; Karbala; Dujal.
Old news; cold news; spun from a president's grave
desire for compassion in evil times: embryos must breathe,
sodomites repent, a Jesus embossed on each heart.
On every voter's card, a secret candidate: "J'accuse!"
Serving the Muse
I chose to dine at E's establishment:
a restaurant well marked for style, panache
and quality, a place for nourishment
of soul and sense - at least they kept the trash
at bay when one's inclined to eat good food -
or so I was informed. I ordered boar
and settled back to contemplate the crude
parade of riff-raff shambling past the door.
"My deeply felt apologies," a voice
beside my elbow murmured. Looking down
I saw the chiselled bones of service hoist
into my view. "Why so?" I asked, a frown
across my brow. "We've had to ban the boar,"
the waiter cringed: "It charged around the place
creating havoc, carnage! Such a chore
to clear the mess - we turfed it out, disgraced!"
Nonplussed, I checked the menu once again.
"What else is there to eat?" The old man smiled,
his lips a gruel of soup. "The chicken, plain,
is rather good - a filling dish, par-boiled."
"But rather boring, I'd have thought?" He shook
his head and said: "You do not understand, young sir,
but plain is best - no sauce to hide the look,
no herb or spice disguising taste! The bird
served bland delights the plate. Just try a breast
or two." I was intrigued, I have to say:
"You use no salt? No stuffing? Just undressed?"
"Oh yes!" he said. "It is the only way
to exercise the muse! We don't allow
ingredients to spoil the meal, the chefs
must work in peace and comfort - once the row
of discontent is banished, gone, they're left
with harmony in which to hone their skills
and arts! A space where they can learn to shape
their honest, soul-full heart-wrought chicken meals
to feed our guests: a dish you can't escape!"
On August 1, 2003, 33 people met at a Philadelphia hotel to celebrate and speak a language from Outer Space. The comical documentary, Earthlings: Ugly Bags of Mostly Water, captures the life, passions and quirks of the members of the Klingon Language Institute. Interviews of KLI members (Linguists, Psychologists, Star Trek fans and steadfast individualists), reveal the intellectual, fraternal, liberating and no-nonsense, direct qualities they enjoy within the constructed-from-pop-culture Klingon language. From Louise Witty, who becomes fascinated with the language from her interest in Star Trek boots (and then fabricates and sells them) to a Paintball King who shouts strategic, military movements in the Klingon tongue, Earthlings examines the interplay between culture and language, communication and emotion, and the rather delicate line between reality and fiction.
Produced within a visually interesting and texture-filled, Sci-Fi style setting, Earthlings might be categorized as a Picture Show, a highly-stylized subjective documentary that emphasizes specific narrative strands and takes liberty with the tone, pacing and composition for comic effect. This is not a Trekkies (1994) imitator, but instead an entertaining view of an intellectual (and not-so-intellectual) endeavor to sort out and to explore humans and language, and the definitions of success and failure.
First night
It was your eyes that sobered me: ice
at the end of the world, the ghost of a fox
staring down his hare across the tundra,
a chilled air vaulting through the sweat
of men as they drank, posed, assessed. That glance
of shivered blue left me feral. I was in the bar
and then I was in the bar with you. When
you passed me lager I spied iceflakes glint
on your dew claw. We danced, I think
we danced, or possibly you stalked my tracks
through the snows of our private ecology;
new ground frozen from the polar seas.
First night
It was your eyes that sobered me: arctic
like the ice at the end of the world, a fox
staring down his hare across the tundra
of the crowded bar; tight shirts and shots
of cheap whisky mixed with slanders and lusts.
I don't think I smiled. I was in the bar
and then I was in the bar with you. Did we
dance, or chat? When you handed me lager I spied
iceflakes glint on your dew claw. I was
bounding through tundra, a London suburb
draped in white water, pack-ice in the streets.
Did we meet in the road? You goaded me
here, your arctic eyes reflecting curtains
of ghost-light, a god's disco crackling static
before our next dance, before we kiss.
Eating Out
When he laughs his tongue splits
his lips, his eye-sides fold
like the accordion serenading
the hall; the veins across his nose
map out his joy of fine malts.
Her joy is steady, beige hands
around the linen where she hides
her smile, beige eyes fixed
on his; I can see her heel
stroking the curve of his calf.
I curve designs on the tablecloth
with the heel of my knife, quiet
amid the clatter. As I wait for your
late arrival I refuel on house white
and the sight of the waiter's groin.
Trade
Beyond the veil, darkness:
a wrist-free hand contacts
the unseen skin, stroking
my vestless chest. Someone
exhales, his breath seeks out
my stubbled nape. Kisses
of palm to arse echo
through stairwells, vault manshapes
who seek the spilt saltlicks -
I sit on boots, open
my mouth and wait. Presents
come cheap beneath London's
relentless streets: weakness
is mine to devour.
The Knife
"She's messed me up, again: my shiny blade
a tarnished map of haemoglobins. Look
at how she spoilt my spine, my bolster glued
with fingerprints! She's crying now, as if
the cuts are my responsibility -
like I should care; she hasn't sharpened me
in days, not since she last kissed me, my scales
and tang held fast between her breasts. I know
she can't love me - I'm just the tool. But still
there must be something there, a hint of care
in choosing me repeatedly to mark
her skin with messages, her runes of loss
and hurt and farewell notes, the secret pains
she takes to wrap me safe in swaddling cloth."
Mandarin
It takes a glance to catch him: turn a head
and he'll be gone back through the wall - the one
with counties catalogued by colour. Quick!
He's there. He stares around the room, a man
who's lost his century, bemused by desks
and phones, dividing screens, fluorescent light
that makes his inky fingers glow. He wears
a frown beneath his wig, a blot of mud
still wet around his calf. Why is he here?
His shoulders slope in chalk cascades, his arms
solidify round parchments, briefs and notes
with ribbons wound about them. When I turn
my head, he turns, returns the stare. I smile:
'see us', my eyebrows arch, 'both lost inside
this treasury, too poor to seek escape'.
Trafalgar Week
Saturday
Dancers on the stage built beside
his plinth: his hair is a weave
of pigeon wings. They watch
the crowd below - billowy flags
tied across burnt shoulders. Today
our stage is glitter, our page
a crease across the usual trade
this place attracts. My hand
wraps yours and when the band
sings Abba, man to man, we kiss.
Wednesday
A singer on the stage beneath
a screen that somersaults
into the sky, its fringe a rump
of pigeons. Announcements ruffle
through the crowds of patriots -
each one crossed in red, and white,
and blue as dark as airless blood.
Some ghosts in Asia tally votes
and mouth a word: London! London!
Bodies scream and dance and kiss.
Thursday
Children on the stage. They play
oblivious to sirens screaming
through the square. The crowds
today are pigeons; rats with wings
that peck at bread abandoned round
his plinth. He sees the bowl of London
from his perch, the whirls of smoke
that mark the city's wounds, the litter
of a busted bus to Hackney - trees
decked in death before October's kiss.
Rogues
A grift of sunshine teases bulbs to bloom
through snow, whose cold wheeze huffs
through a jemmied window; men with badges
paint the frame, looking for clues. Who
dumped the fridge across the driveway,
let its vapours heist ozones from the sky?
Breeze-blocks hold up a car where kids
play out their game of cops and fathers -
they'll harvest the world for a laugh.
Respect
It's strange how our fingers
interweave when we cross roads,
shop for carrots, newspapers,
cartons of milk. Sometimes
I'll fold my palm around
your knuckles to keep them
warm while we wait for the bus,
or walk to town. Sometimes
you knuckle my hand away: decisions
are shared in this space, we both
must agree to risk the spits
of strangers, haters, sometimes.
Nothing much
Look how quiet the room is: a cat
whiskers behind sunlit curtains
for spiders; noses cold rice
from a plate in search of meat.
Shadows shoal the tank, each a life
behind the green scum growing
on the glass. Tide rings in the mug
mark a consumption of coffee.
You activate me remotely, the song
of the phone triggering animation,
audio smiles and shrugs as we chat
for a while about nothing much at all.
Stanley in Moonlight
He lopes slow-motioned, each footstride
matched by the seesaw dance of shoulders
humping over his nape. He keeps his ears
pert: black tips scanning tufts and twig-tumbles
for scuffles, volesqueak. The morsels whistle
warnings ahead of his thoughtless trek -
then silence. Odour sources tangle colour
through his greytone bush-scapes. He sits,
sniffs his tailpit tag glands, tongues clean
his fur-pursed wolfhood: still the gift-disk shines.
When he howls, his bones recall the loss, the pain
of change, complexity; the moult of flesh.
Sevenling (there are no rules)
There are no rules for those who wait.
she swallows the starling whole:
as it beats, the heart grates her chest.
Rules are made for breaking the hearts
of the little people. Watch the swallow:
a feathered boomerang curves across the sky.
When the angels called, she was not at home.
Nothing Much
Look how quiet the room is: cats
whisker behind sunlit curtains
for spiders; knock a fork from a plate
as they nose through rice for meat.
I sit and watch fish - each shadow
a life behind the green scum
growing on the glass. I sip coffee,
wipe the cold drug from my chin.
Phone tones switch me on: your voice
triggers muscles to tango lips and tongue,
stretch me beyond my teeth as we chat
for a while about nothing much at all.
Accessory
Such a stupid hat.
Not you, the way it falls
across your eyes, the brim
sieving dust mites;
a swatch of orange
without feathers
- felt, maybe,
or shoddy.
So many rags and snags
rolled tight to fit
in this cupboard.
Dress up for me.
Let fall your hat, your shirt -
wear me, tonight, my supple
leather laced tight
to you, your fingers
my wicker crown.
Coots
Look at you, sloven shortwings, your nests
a dereliction of twigs poked in sludge
beyond the gardened soils of the pond.
Tourists gather to watch you fornicate,
his grub-chain toes scouring oil from plumes
as her head dives to avoid the bloodeye leer.
Last year I watched you hatch four cuties,
bundles of floating chirrups, watched you peck
each to death in turn when you tired of them.
Still you flirt your jaundiced legs, squabble
as you wave your saddle-white heads like liars
while scrumping breadcrumbs from the geese.
| You Should Be a Science Fiction Writer |
 Your ideas are very strange, and people often wonder what planet you're from. And while you may have some problems being "normal," you'll have no problems writing sci-fi. Whether it's epic films, important novels, or vivid comics... Your own little universe could leave an important mark on the world! |
The RikVerse
The RikVerse website is a living book of poems, regularly revised and updated with new work as the muse I ride sees fit
22 Facets of my Father
A set of poems loosely inspired by the Major Arcana tarot cards, investigating the relationship between a father and a son.
hardcopy: £2.49 + p&p
Play Time
These 22 poems are some of my earlier work, from the poems that survived the post-puberty bonfire up to around the turn of the century.
hardcopy: £2.49 + p&p
From Each Skull, A Story
None of the people described in these poems are real – they've all emerged fully formed from my imagination. Feel free to draw whatever conclusions you like from this admission.
hardcopy: £1.99 + p&p
Poems to Quote to your Lover
In this collection, I am proud to present you with some love. These poems deal with loves and relationships in all their wonderful and woeful manifestations.
hardcopy: £1.99 + p&p
The RikVerse: volume 1
Includes all four of the above chapbooks, at half the price!
hardcopy: £4.99 + p&p
The RikVerse Website
The Kalieda Encyclopaedia
The Rikweb forum
Rik's Issuu page
