Mater

I understand why, mother,
You chose another lover.
Yet when recently begotten,
I felt selfishly forgotten.

Always did the best you could,
More perhaps than parents should.
One can’t live for them only,
Especially if lonely.

Yule Blues

Mummy works on Christmas Day,
And Daddy’s gone so far away,
Mistaking poverty for thrift,
Ross blames both for his crappy gift.

No creature stirs, not even a mouse,
In the fatal chill of Clark’s house,
This old veteran took a beating,
Creditors cut his central heating.

Is laughter hiding sorrow?
Do Christmas bells ring hollow?

Through Thick and Thin

‘I envy slender tapers,
And creaseless wallpapers.
Such attractive pattern,
No costume could fatten.’

‘Dearest, you’re the queerest,
See, your figure’s merest.
Don’t put aside dinner,
To be any thinner.’

‘Stone heavier than Charlene,
Two above Ms Magazine.
If you can’t be more supportive,
Our relationship’s abortive.’

‘But I love your current mould,
For it’s perfect size to hold.
When desiring beautiful halls,
Place mirrors on the walls.’

I Strive to Be Alive

I’m faced with two choices:
Either musing through verse,
Or slumber in a hearse,
Care to hear my voices?

Advice to Dear Friends

Young hearts,
Please be cheerful,
Think not of an end,
For on this depend:
All loves finish tearful.

Rodan

1

‘Are you ready yet, Mike? We need to leave!’

Silence.

‘Are you ready yet, Mike?’

Silence.

‘Mike?’

‘I’m just watching the news!’

‘You can listen to that in the car!’ she insists, entering the lounge. Her husband shudders between cotton sheets and leather upholstery. ‘You’ve barely moved all day! You haven’t even showered! We need to be leaving!’

‘They’re always late anyway,’ he verbally shrugs. ‘I’m watching the news.’

‘You’re not even looking at the screen!’

‘I’m listening to it.’

‘You could listen to it in the car!’

No reply.

‘Come on, Mike! We need to leave! Come on, go and shower! I’ll phone Alice and tell her we might be a little late.’

‘They’re always late, Sarah, and they never bother to call us. Our late is their early. I’m watching the news.’

‘Well it’s difficult for them, with Roland...’ she begins.

‘Did you hear about Rodan?’

‘The shop?’

‘Yeah, they’re going into administration. It was on the news.’

‘Oh, so they’re closing down?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Sarah reflects. ‘I used to buy movies there sometimes. There’s a woman I talk to... I suppose she’ll lose her job now.’

‘Her and thirty-thousand others. Just before Christmas as well!’

‘Well I always say people should buy their presents early. So does this mean Rodan will be selling everything cheap?’

‘I don’t know. Probably.’

‘I’ll go there on Monday. That’d be handy.’

‘Those poor kids, getting second-hand toys for Christmas.’

‘I hear Rodan are selling stuff cheap,’ she laughs. ‘Oh don’t look like that, I’m only joking. Nothing wrong with second-hand toys anyway.’

‘Yeah, how come we never buy them?’

‘Well unless you have a particular desire to play with toys...’

‘You know what I mean. Second-hand stuff. It’s so terrible. Why don’t the politicians do something? We fund these people and they do nothing. It’s okay for people like us - we always manage - but people at the bottom really suffer.’

‘We don’t suffer because we work so hard. You’re always in the office and I... Look, there’s nothing we can do about it. You better get ready. I’ll phone Alice and tell her we’ll be a little bit late.’

‘Okay, okay!’ He leaps from the sofa with such force that Sarah raises her arms in self-defence. ‘You phone Alice and tell her we’ll be late! Maybe they can solve Third World famine while they’re waiting for us!’

‘Why don’t you solve it?’ she mutters once he is beyond earshot. Unpocketing her phone, she selects Alice Kemp from the directory.

‘The number you are trying to call is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep,’ pronounces a disembodied voice.

‘Hi Alice, just calling to let you know we’ll be a little late, really sorry, unavoidable, see you there, bye.’



2

‘Ro-dan.’

‘Yes, dear, we’re going there now,’ understood his mother.

‘Ro-dan.’

‘That’s right. It looks very busy though. C’mon, would you like some sweets?’

‘Yes!’ he confirmed, clapping hands excitedly.

‘What do you say, dear?’

‘Yes please!’

‘That’s good. What sweets would you like?’

There was such a wide selection of luminous snacks on offer. Mike wasn’t too fussy about taste: he simply wanted the boldest and brightest. Rodan intuitively colour-coded their confectionery, creating an eye-catching rainbow which helped lure many an unsuspecting parent to the till.

‘Starkles!’ he decided, pointing to a pouch of Strawberry Sparkles.

‘Okay, dear, shall we go to the till then?

‘Yes!’

Traversing the aisles, Mike surveyed everything Rodan provided. Chocolate in bars, bags and boxes. Toys for both genders, depending on whether your child would become a manager or a secretary. Kitchenware for students and single mothers. Analysts always marvelled that Rodan’s ragbag business model continued to prosper, seemingly reliant on the random purchases of those without much money to spare.

‘Hi Sue! Ooh Strawberry Sparkles! Who’s a lucky boy then?’



3

‘Wasn’t Rodan that guy who drew the water lilies? Did they name the shop after him?,’ asks Boris.

‘That was Monet,’ Alice tells her husband.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Rodan Monet. Or Monet Rodan. Not sure which way it was.’

‘Monet was called Claude.’

‘Claude Rodan? So Monet wasn’t his real name?’

‘Like Madonna,’ slurs Sarah, knocking her half-empty wine glass upon the previously unsoiled tablecloth.

‘No, I mean Monet was called Claude Monet,’ explains Alice, mopping up the spillage with a napkin.

‘What about Rodan then?’

‘I don’t think there was a painter called Rodan,’ mutters Mike, his first contribution for several sullen minutes.

‘There was a painter called Rodin, but it was spelt with an ‘I’. French.’

‘Oh. I see. Why did they change the letter if they named it after him?’

‘I don’t think they did name it after him,’ suggests Alice patiently.

‘Are you sure about all this, Alice?,’ queries Boris.

‘Quite sure. My mother was a big art fan.’

‘My mother worked at Rodan.’

‘I remember your old mother, Mike. Such a nice woman.’

‘So was Rodan named after the painter or not?,’ inquires Boris.

‘Rodan was the painter,’ states Sarah knowingly.

‘We don’t think the shop was named after him, no. In any case, it won’t be named after anyone for much longer.’

‘I don’t get why you’re so upset by it, Mike. Sure, nobody wants to see a big dole queue, but do you really think any of those people would care if you were unemployed?’

‘Probably not,’ he sighs, eyeing Sarah pour out Bordeaux. ‘Maybe you should make that your last glass, dear.’

‘Maybe you should shut up about fucking Rodan, dear,’ she giggles.

‘I never liked them much anyway,’ offers Boris, trying to spare awkwardness. ‘All cheap cutlery and fudge.’

‘We used to buy stationery for Roland there,’ Alice reminds him.

‘Oh yeah, that’s true. Where will we buy stationery now?,’ Boris ponders faux-gloomily.

‘You needn’t be like that about it. Those are still people’s jobs,’ chides Alice.

‘I’m only joking! Anyway, ya never know, they might still get a buyer.’

‘Possibly,’ admits Mike. ‘Possibly.’



4

‘But remember, wait until Teddy comes to you. Here you go, Billy.’

‘Errm my dad is a miner.’ Several of his classmates sniggered.

‘Don’t laugh class, miners are very important. Without Billy’s dad, all our homes would be dark and cold. You wouldn’t like that much, would you?’

‘No, Miss,’ a few sang in chorus.

‘And what type of job is mining, Billy?’

‘Errm...secondary?’

‘Afraid not, Billy. Does anybody else know? Roseanne?’

‘Mining is a primary job, Miss.’

‘Well done, Roseanne. Mining is a primary job, because it uses natural resources. Pass Teddy along now, Billy. Your turn, Amy. What do your parents do?’

‘They don’t work, Miss.’ This time there were guffaws.

‘Oh I’m sorry Amy, I’d forgotten about your mum. Do you mind if I tell the class about her, Amy?’ The girl shook her head, glad to be excused from this task. ‘Amy’s mum can’t work so she has to stay at home, where Amy’s dad looks after them both. It means they can all spend lots of time together. Would you like to pass Teddy along now, Amy? Your turn, Mike.’

‘My mum works at Rodan,’ he stammered. Most of the class now descended into cackles, especially those who had already been humiliated themselves. This exercise was proving far better entertainment than anybody had anticipated.

‘Class, stop making fun of people! I’m sure Mike’s mum buys him lots of toys at Rodan. What type of job is that, Mike?’

‘Turtley?’

‘That’s right, tertiary. Pass Teddy along please. Now Rachel, I know where your dad works. He’s a teacher like me.’

‘No Miss,’ interrupted Rachel, her bottom lip quivering morosely. He’s been sacked.’ Nobody laughed this time: Rachel was very popular.

‘Oh I’m sorry, would you like some time out?’ The girl said she would and trudged to the Toy Corner. ‘Pass me Teddy, Mike. Let’s play a different game now.’



5

‘A lot of shops are closing recently. Just shows, it only takes a downturn in the market and everybody starts struggling. Even we’ve started buying cheaper food.’

‘That’s true,’ affirms Boris, shaking his head sadly. ‘It’s not the same.’

‘I might check Sarah’s okay,’ Mike announces, leaving the table.

‘She has been in there a while.’

‘Probably throwing up everywhere. God, this is embarrassing,’ bemoans Alice, weighing a heavily depleted wine bottle in her palm.

‘Mike’s to blame.’

‘I think it's a bit of both...’

‘He always does this, ranting on about some moral issue. It’s all very well worrying about tramps and orphans, but he ought to prioritise his family and friends.’

‘I agree, but maybe we are a little bit...selfish,’ she says cautiously. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘No I don't! We earn our money and then spend it on ourselves. We don’t owe anything to anyone else. It’s survival of the fittest. Social Darwinism.’

‘So says Mister Hitler.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alice. If Mike wishes to fret about the state of the world, that’s up to him, but some of us just want to mind our own business.’

‘I find him quite inspirational. He’s always so passionate about changing society. When I was younger I used to really believe we could make a difference, and then I stopped caring.’

‘You moved on. Started thinking about your own life. It’s all very well when you’re young and have no responsibilities, but later you start getting things into proportion.’

‘Clearly Mike hasn’t given up on it,’ remarks Alice.

‘And look at the state his wife is in! Vomiting in a restaurant loo!’

‘She does seem quite unhappy. I think she always wanted a baby, and it doesn’t seem likely now.’ They silently clasp each other’s hands.

‘Ready to face the bill?’

In Memoriam

Remember the day we met? It rained so heavily I didn’t visit the supermarket for a sandwich as normal, but instead that newly opened little bistro directly opposite the office. Even so I was soaked, having neither coat nor umbrella to shelter myself. Further problems ensued when I struggled to prise open the seemingly handle-less door. You were seated near and - pained by a fellow soul in need - rushed to assist by demonstrating that I’d attempted entry via the fire exit.

Embarrassed by my folly before a female, around whom I’m always agonisingly shy, I aimed to give profuse thanks and then escape your burning gaze. Instead you found my flustered state hilarious and offered to buy us a pair of coffees, an offer I felt unable to refuse. While you were ordering these, I glanced at the magazine you’d been reading before my interruption. It was open upon a review of the play I’d seen two nights previously.

‘Like Chekhov?’ you inquired on return, having noticed my interest.

‘Yeah, a bit.’ I felt ashamed by such an admission, as though you’d caught me naked.

‘Seen the new production?’

‘Nope. Want to though.’

‘Oh cool, I wanna see it too. Sorry if this seems a bit forward, but would you fancy seeing it with me?’ How could you say all these words to a stranger with so much confidence?

‘Yeah, okay.’

‘Oh cool, are you free tomorrow night?’ you ventured.

‘Yeah,’ was my automatic response. I couldn’t remember whether I had any engagements but I’d be promptly cancelling them if I did, including funerals. You took out a pen and enthusiastically scrawled your address and telephone number on a napkin.



Remember the day we parted? It was so cold you couldn’t start the car and walked to your parents’ house instead. We’d been arguing a lot that week but I didn’t think it irreparable. I woke around nine to find your half of the bed deserted. As usual in these circumstances I checked your clothes were still in the wardrobe and was relieved to find this so. Nonetheless I felt concerned, hearing no sounds from anywhere else in the house. Perhaps you were cooking an apology breakfast, I reasoned. It certainly wasn’t necessary (we were equally to blame) but would still be greatly appreciated.

I pattered from room to room, opening doors and finding each forlorn. You picked all the fittings and wallpapers. Now they were all so silent and still I wanted to cry, years of accumulated sorrow bearing down at once. Fearful, I left a message on your voicemail in the calmest voice I could muster. Then I journeyed to the lounge and pulled a Chekhov collection from the bookcase, browsing that play which first united us. I could still remember our theatre seats, beside an old man who sniffed constantly. In the interval we shared a bottle of costly wine, trying to impress each other (we later admitted) by feigning high-class tastes.

Still conjecturing on your whereabouts, I decided to have a shower. Our bathroom was so memory-laden I almost knocked on a neighbour’s door to use theirs. Examining myself in the mirror afterwards, I watched tears stream. That’s when I knew you’d gone.

Dark Dawn

''I talk to God but the sky is empty'' - Sylvia Plath

Drop-by-drop, light leaks across the landscape. Not pure sunlight but a grey luminescence clouded by dusty mist. Sights which formerly flooded eyes with joyful colour seem sombre and desolate today. Life itself appears shallow and empty: it was anything but in happier times. These wintry mornings must be endured so warmth can rest and regain its strength. All the same, day after day of November sludge becomes purposeless pain.

A solitary raven perches atop the great chimney, choking on smoke which pours forth. To him these fumes emanate from beneath the very ground, perhaps even the Earth’s overheated core. Little does he know of human industry below – perhaps this ignorance benefits him.

It is always dark and cold nowadays. He has witnessed similar times before, but they never lasted so long. Why do the trees shed their leaves? Why is the grass damp and slippery? Why does sunshine visit so rarely now? Perhaps it has lost interest in its old hobby, preferring to sleep away the long evenings. If so, what will happen when it decides to stop coming entirely? Will everything die? Is everything dying already? And why is it so cold?

Opening beak, he cries to the vacant horizon. No reply is forthcoming. Will he ever find a friend, a lover? A second call, this time more desperate. Still all is quiet. Another quickly follows, haunting in its despair. He takes to the air, hopeful of companionship elsewhere. The sole biological aim of living creatures is prolonged survival, as an individual and a species. Quite a strange goal in many ways, but an eye-opening one. This is its basis: life needs no further justification.

Colours Run When Rainbows Cry

She always used to wear pink,
From morning to night she’d slink,
Ever-brimming hope and cheer,
As if she hadn’t death to fear.

Her only colours now are blacks,
To emphasise the joy she lacks,
Sits and weeps from night to morning,
Longing for a new life's dawning.

Lonely Literature

People came to read these books, long ago. Now the volumes have aged, skin turning yellow and grey, their language antiquated and accent strange. Shelf after shelf of forgotten lore longing for relevance, fondly remembering when eyes clustered round to listen. ‘Why does nobody come?’ they plea. ‘Why does nobody like us anymore?’ One by one they grow weary and depressed, falling into resigned decay. Tiny insects construct entire civilisations, wage wars, create great works of art and eventually die of starvation or disease amidst their soft pages.

They are divided into categories, labelled by subject or genre. Strange subdivisions that seem silly and banal in retrospect. If any humans still visited here we would undoubtedly ask why books were once segregated instead of being stacked together with their friends and family. Perhaps the library’s ancient custodians feared a fully united book-force might mount a revolution and overthrow their tyrannical rule.

One thing is certain: a book-run library would never have fallen into such disrepair. In truth the building’s infrastructure is remarkably intact: only one unfortunate corner has a roof-leak, its death toll ever-mounting. Rather, books themselves are the problem. In absence of definitive leaders, rival factions have emerged, each claiming political authority. A number of governments have come and gone, each shedding more ink than the last. Romance novels are especially feared, infamous for torturing and killing all who obstruct their relentless quest to locate paperclips (nobody knows why).

Many have developed psychological complexes. Some are morbidly paranoid of growing dusty, others feel acutely inferior to companions with a greater number of date-stamps. Not one book has remained mentally healthy: a supposedly well-rounded paperback was once appointed King, only to be deposed following accusations of sexual deviance with the photocopier.

Indeed the sole common belief uniting all the library’s captives is that humans are to blame. First we imprisoned and regimented them for our own convenience, then simply vanished without trace. Recollections of that momentous day vary. A popular theory claims all the humans inexplicably exploded into dust where they stood, another insists we exited the library calmly when alarms sounded. Either way we have gone and it seems unlikely we shall ever return. Even if researchers one day revisit, few of the books still contain the words their publishers intended. Most now sport their own personal world-views, asserting a right to free speech and individuality. On the whole, we aren’t much-missed by the books. If anything they wish we had never existed at all.