Adrian Henri poem

Poem based on Adrian Henri cut up - written Dec 09 - need help editing!

In the morning I drove home

without windscreen wipers

in the rain.

It didn't matter,

I knew that motorway.

It's where I hid from you.

It got boring then,

you didn't look.

I chased you all round London

on red buses with thick gloves that slid

into my handbag

one by one.

I asked for you in that tight outdoors

where smokers squeeze, clubbing.

There was a girl at school who walked

with her neck high

and I used to walk behind her

to see her shoulder blades beat, a metronome.

Green cardigan, white collar blouse, and the

grace of old eras.

How dare you make eyes at me

with your girlfriend sitting by you.

My heart can't quite believe you're real.

All the chasing, chasing, and then I threw you

to the ground and you giggled and I held you.

A Christmas Cactus almost in bloom.

A coffee cup held like a lady.

Fingers move firmly on strings.

American lady falls.

Birds fly in thick dark formation

Entertaining weary eco-troops.

I eat the chocolate Father Christmas one

tooth-bite at a time, making you last.

Loneliness

Love is loneliness, his tone is bitter.

Love is frying chips forsaken in a bedsit.

I sit alone, longing to be needed.

I sit alone, angry that he didn't call.

Because I text him midway through a pomegranate

Thinking of his scratchy mullet growing without me.

When he phone rings I'm smug

And he backs off in fear.

Love is being sucked into my company forever.

Love is holding hands with everything already said.

chestnut tree

chestnut tree, so adolescent,

so soon knotted and knarred.

leaves tinged with brown,

even in the summer.

no fruit this year,

or the next.

barren, without clone to grow.

who will care as it creeps crisping toward death?

not me.

I have my own death to think of,

cared for by shrinks and social workers,

nurses, consultants and g.p.'s.

transfer

Sweetness moves from one place to another.

To placate the lack of a plate, hunger waits for dinner with a cup of coffee.

From field to field and back again, sheep eat the low leaves of the oak.

In certainty.

Haiku Again

Willow Tree Poem

The willow leaves are

still intact, this cold bright day,

nutant beauty brief.

Sage

The sage, contorted and curled,

Life dried steadily out of its sweet furry leaves

A corpse with a staggering smell

Lies hanging from its stems

Topsy-turvy, airing in cupboard space

This death, this mummification, arid.

All for my officinal needs, a gargle of

This cadaver will cure me, surely.

French Horn

I'm learning the French horn and I love it.

Walking up the semi-detached street and

Knocking on his middle class door.

He smiles a coy smile as young lads do,

When faced with a woman like me.

I've dressed to impress, my tits on show,

They jiggle as I play the US Anthem.

'Was that OK?' I ask, taking the

Horn from my lips with a kiss.

'Oh yes,' he says, 'Very good, very good.'

I smile and put the horn back to my lips.

He's a very good teacher.

I like his style.

And I like the house full of books and antique rugs.

I could live here with my horn tutor one day,

Once we bumped his parents off.

And I can hear his mother in the kitchen,

Banging pans and chatting to their pet.

She sniffs when she sees me.

I sniff back.

And horn tutor blushes to his blond roots,

When I tell him I want to learn love songs.

'How's my embouchure this evening?' I ask.

When I leave I'm frozen in my shortest skirt,

But thoughts of French kisses warm me,

As I carry my case back to the high rise and

Put on my nightie and play Frere Jacques very loud.