aurora alopex

In every car hangs a cardboard tree,
pine odour pours out of our passing window.
An urban fox knows what he sees,
and smells acid on the curving breeze.

blow job

When I played the bagpipes sometimes my lips would slip on the wood and I would splutter and spit because the muscles of my cheeks would grow tired with the constant air flowing through the tubes. My mouth learned to suck round without any gaps so that the sound was total, unending and even. The feeling was of mountains and landscapes and huge skies and wind and loss. Distant armies fighting on into the evening would be evoked and soak the room around me and my ears would sing as I would bring breath and fluttering fingers over the holes of the chanter making tiny movements just visible to the eye at three beats to the second resulting in rhythm and melodic chanting. Circular breathing would allow a humming that would never end until I grew tired and the grip of my lips would begin to weaken.

Later I recognise that feeling of fatigue and of saliva leaking out of my mouth as I concentrate on evoking feelings and emotions in my audience of one, who is also my instrument. That relearning of pressure and timing and intelligent improvisation reminds me of what I had once been taught, though in pipe music there is no climax...only a sense of the constant within the changing. The sound of blood flowing round a body.

It makes me smile to think of those serious Pipe Majors, so masculine and strong and dignified, with their ancient histories and their military demeanour. Do they realise that they are training their mouths? I wonder how many of them have used their hard won skills for other, secret pleasures?

a piper's lament

When I was fifteen years old I played with a pipe band at Helmsdale on the east coast of Scotland. We were booked to provide occasional renditions of Scotland the Brave and The Green Hills of Tyrol at a Highland Games - once round the playing field and that was that for an hour or so. We were not the best pipe band in the world, a bit ragged at the edges - a motley collection of differing ages, tartans and musical ability. In the afternoon I was very tired for some reason and went to take a short sleep at the back of our parked bus. I could hear the murmur of voices at the front as some of the older members of the band quietly discussed a set of pipes with silver trimmings one of them had recently bought.

Drifting out of my doze I was aware of a gasp and silence, then sudden movement. I sat up and looked down the aisle in time to see the driver of the bus slump over into the arms of the pipe major. The driver went bright red, then slowly the palour of his skin became blue and his lips went grey. My mind was blank. Someone ran to find help. I put a rolled-up jacket under the driver’s head. Minutes passed and we were uncertain what to do. Then into my mind came a memory of a sign saying ‘medical tent’ that I had seen as I wandered about the game stalls and burger vans. I blurted out its direction and someone ran to fetch the ambulance men who were there in case one of the caber tossers or bike racers hurt themselves. One ambulance man gave the driver the kiss of life but his kiss did not work and the driver died right there on the bus. A final rattle in his throat recalling to me the sound of a reed loose in a chanter and I wished I hadn’t thought it.

I never played with the pipe band again. I blamed myself for not remembering about the medical tent sooner. For years I could not listen to pipe music without a feeling of loss. I realise now that we all just do what we can. If I had a child I’d tell her that some things just happen. Sometimes old men die of heart attacks, and pipe music is full of laments.

happy valentine

The Guardian Personals this Sunday:

Women
The ‘Attractive Black Woman’
The ‘Curly Haired Girl’
The ‘Japanese Female’
And the ‘Warm, Welsh Lady’
The ‘Vibrant Professional’ -
She’s ‘Fun, Feisty and in Her 40’s’
The ‘Classy Cosmopolitan’
And the ‘Petite Blonde’
And the ‘Slim, Tanned 44 Year Old’
The ‘Lady with the Lovely Smile’
There’s ‘Blonde from a Bottle but the Rest is Real’
And the ‘Cute Biker’
The ‘Foxy, Freckly Red Head with a Killer Smile’
The ‘Hen Looking for a Happy Peacock’
And finally ‘I Believe that I am Worth a Try!

Men
The ‘Liverpool Graduate’
‘Grumpy, Middle-Aged Old Git’
‘Drinker, Smoker and Gambler, No Wonder I’m Single!’
‘Old Cockerel Seeks Hen’
(I think I know one for him!)
Someone who asks ‘Does anyone still believe in Free Love?’
Well he obviously does
An ‘Unconventional Leo’ and a ‘Sexy Scorpio’
A ‘Passionate Sikh’ and ‘The Retro Kid’
And ‘Dylan Seeks Florence but Will Make Do with Ermintrude!’
And ‘Cyrano Seeks Roxanne’
And ‘Boring Civil Servant Seeks Help’
‘Scruffy Single Dad’ and a ‘Fun Trilingual’
And finally ‘’Departure Lounge of Love’.

this is me this is you

I’m in Boots buying condoms
When a woman hands me her mobile
Her friend on the end
Says she wants shaving foam
She can’t read the labels
I’m trying to hold the phone
And smile at the lady
But I’m carrying two packs of mates
Two for one, so ones free

Free love on cold days
Everyone can see me
Standing in Boots
With the promise of sex
And someone else’s mobile
In my hands

Whilst you, you get in your car
The long road back
You reject the present
And the modern moments
The happiness and the humour
The scandal and rumour
And drive the long road
North and further north
And refuse to give back the keys
Though they’re for a world of work
And paying your way
And loving those around you

So go on then, keep driving
Keep trying to go home
But the home that you knew
Long ago you outgrew
And now it’s just wasting
The time that you have
Hounding those you love
Because you’re scared and you’re lonely
And you’ve nowhere to drive to
That will welcome you now

night elm on mare street

Beneath the sheets on Tuesday morning
You are everything to me
There’s something in the realism
Of skin in daylight

Through the window there’s a Hackney morning
But last night I dreamt an elm on Mare Street
A kind of warning
The tree was following me

The branch is coming through the window
The clown is spinning round and round
The spirits pull all the children in
Never to be found

But its morning and I’m safe now
I can see you clear as anything
I can impossibly make up
Ignore me if I’m still shivering

No mood lighting just morning light
Harsh on the body and mind
If this is love, it’s stupid love
And blind…

stuff

Indian sweets as round as moons
Dim sum in the afternoon
A picnic in the park
Fireworks after dark
Expensive underwear
I’m afraid to tear
Long walks on new paths
Daft voices and deep laughs
Draw me with a huge head
Build me a big bed
Light candles, bring roses
Strike sexy poses
Do all the dishes
Grant me 3 wishes
Cancel the computer screen
Pretend you don’t know what I mean
Ignore the unease
Paint the pretty trees
Text me like crazy
There is no word ‘lazy’
Screen all your calls
Photograph your balls
Make me my dinner
Say I look thinner
Love me and love me
Miss me so solemnly
Don’t cut to the chase
Smile on your face
Make sex an art form
Make art from the love lorn
Dundee and London with me
With me London and Dundee