Black Dog v Tulip Dance

Light-lidded
sleep eludes me.
Last night’s sleep was angry.
I was shouting, shouting at the Black Dog;
shouting at the Black Dog for making up lies.
In the morning, I saw that the canine teeth were just
the yellow, brown-stained fangs of an unbrushed-tyrannical
humanoid. A man not a man; an invention, programmed to cling on
to power. A shape of a man, with a hollow interior, clutching onto a cliff-edge,
unquestioningly functioning; motor ongoing and fuelled up by deeds of destruction.

Today, the Black Dog whimpers in the background, as I conjure up my favourite colours,
red and purple, and splash great splodges of my imagination onto the fields of a dreary winter,
creating bedspreads of tulips that reach up to incandescent skies. Levitating tulips loud-laughing;
roots dangling, jigging, twizzling and fizzing. Frivolity, freedom, fun – detangling my knotted brain.

I dare-devil dance on with the tulip party;
keeping the Black Dog on a leash.
Sleep eludes me.
For now.

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019

House on the Hill

eyes-158564_1280
Pixabay.com 

House on the hill stands three storeys proud,
aloof and haughty, ignoring its lowly neighbours
of two storeys, and pretending that its three storey
copies are just shadows of itself, lurking, awaiting
an invitation into existence – an invitation that is
no more than mere fantasy.

House on the hill is aware that it, too, is a fiction.
Objects such as itself only exist in the gaze of the
beholder. No-one is looking at the house of three
storeys. And no-one is looking at its neighbours.
All human presence has scattered, dissipated into
the drudgery of schools, offices, shops and factories.

House on the hill, surrounded and hidden, feels
its own fragility. It cannot be seen, by the empty
eyes rolling along on conveyor belts of meaningless
monotony. Not visible, in turn, to the house on the hill,
the empty eyes turns in on themselves, their routines
no more than private images within nightmares.

House on the hill, seeing that the public is private,
defeated, slumps down into nothingness.

This poem, too, is a nothing; a mere recording of a flow
of thoughts from a poet, who cannot be seen and is,
therefore, unreal.

Made up.

Nothing.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019

Inspiration taken from ‘Three Dimensions’ , by Man Ray.

Taking the Plunge

‘Channel’ image courtesy of Pixabay.com

Everyday I plunge my hands in deeper;
deeper into souped-up aluminium bubbles,
and my fingers swim into exhaustion,
sinking onto a bed of potato peel, carrot ends,
soggy-sticky labels, spongy chunks, and
skin cells. Peels, ends, labels, chunks and cells
twirl and skip into plughole descent. But,
only the cells succeed in making their
escape. I fish out the debris and bin it, knowing
that I’m out there. Out in the sewers, swimming
free. Going with the flow.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019

Inspired by ‘Dear Nainai’ , by Jennifer Tseng.

Shamelessly Marbellous

‘Marbles’ image courtesy of Pixabay

Shamelessly, I practise my plies at the bus stop.
Shamelessly, shameless, I sing ‘Tired of Sleeping’ in the shower.
Not ashamed of anything, I dress in old lady’s attire: brown floral blouse, salmon pink tights, and comfy white shoes from Clarks.
Shamelessly, I laugh at all the shams out there.
‘What a shame,’ they say. ‘She’s losing her marbles!’
Shamelessly, I steal my children’s marble collection,
and I start to play.
Rolling on with the marbles, endlessly and shamelessly.


Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019

Inspiration take from ‘Delilah’ by Trevor Ketner.

Enough As I Am

Inspired by the wise words of Meghan, The Duchess of Suffolk: ‘You are enough just as you are.’

The Royal Foot of Jay Cool,
a Salopian, stepping out for a stroll
in her Suffolk residence.

You are enough, said my foot.
You are appreciated for your fine taste
in dressing me up in such beautiful royal colours.
Red and purple; the colours of a Duchess, the colour of our Duchess –
the Duchess of Suffolk.

And it feels good to be thanked by my foot,
to be acknowledged by one below,
by my subject, and to be
the object of such
adoration.

To be a
Duchess
of Suffolk
is enough.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, The Silly-Savvy Salopian, January 2019

 

Satisfied

‘Coffee’ image courtesy of Pixabay.com

Ginger.
Memorable.
Memorable in its orangeness.
The orangeness of everyone’s favourite treat.
The never-to-be-forgotten excitement of eating a full pack
of Jaffa cakes – all sweet and moreish – by oneself.
To be remembered for
being ginger.
Is to be
satisfied.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019

Inspired by ‘Fish and Duck Skills’ by Metta Sama.

Decapitated

Ibuprofen.
Take it.
That’ll do it.

But …

Take it.

I take it.

Needles. Curved and hooked, curl themselves around my gums and up.
Up, up, up and into my cheekbones, pricking the rings of my eyes.

It doesn’t do it.

Fill it.
Take out the old.
And fill it with new.
Fill it.
That’ll do it.

Cement. Churned and swirled, rams into my enamel, pushing and jostling, creating waves of havoc around my full set of teeth. Skittles, skittled and struggling to stand. Stamina stolen.

I can’t stand it and it
certainly doesn’t – do it.

Cap it.
Cap it off.
That’ll do it.
Take the wind out of the cracks.

But …

Cap it.

I am capped.

Cracks. Crackle in. Burrow. Churn up my gum juice and toddle on round and down to jab at my jawbone.

It doesn’t do it.

Ibuprofen?

Knives. Stabbing and slicing behind my eye and into my brain. Excruciating. Unbearable. Stabbing, slowly, enjoying prolonging my agony. I bury my head under cushions, hide from the world. Shelter my mouth from the wind.

I come up for breath.

Slow stabbing starts again.

I dive back under, clench my jaws, consider my life. Consider my value.

It doesn’t do it.
And I can’t stand it.
Waves of agonising eye-brain stabbing, over and over, on and on. I consider burying my whole self under the earth, away from the world. A shelter of nothingness.

Ibuprofen?

TAKE IT!

TAKE IT OFF!

DECAPITATE ME NOW!

But …

BUT DO IT! DO IT NOW!

He takes it off. Decapitates me.

I come up for breath. No knives. No needles. No pain. Brain and soul intact.

Above ground again.

It did it.

I’m alive.

Living.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019

What do I buy so many books?

‘Narrative’, courtesy of Pixabay.com

Why do I buy so many books;
far more than I can read?
The answer’s simple, you will see;
a look is all I need!

I spy The Catch (1) upon the shelf;
of Smith’s in Colchester.
I did not come for this to buy,
so why not let it rest?

It eyes me up – the stag on front,
dressed up in tapestry.
I snap it up and take a glance,
at words that shout at me.

Creatures, beasts and lives – half-formed!
Compost and long-gone breath.
I know not yet the poet’s tales,
but feel I know the rest.

I’ve passed the test; can stand my own
a poem’s in my head.
But now I’ve stolen t’ other’s words
It’s only right by stead

to march up to the till and pay
for words thrown in my pot.
To read it whole is not my style,
but my old brain won’t rot’!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019

Initially inspired by ‘Answers’ , by t’ai freedom ford.

(1) Refers to ‘The Catch’, a collection of poems by Fiona Sampson (Chatto; 2016).


Falling Through

‘Teddy’ image courtesy of Pixabay.com

Was anyone looking when I fell through my brain,
fell out of the bottom and down my throat
into my stomach?

Did anyone help when I tried to climb back up
and away from the swirling quagmire
but fell back down?

Will anyone know that I am still here standing,
stuck on the perimeter shelf of my stomach
and trying my best not
to lose my
balance?

Trying not to get sucked back
down?

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019

Inspired by a reading of the poem ‘Half Girl, then Elegy’ by Omotora James.

Lilies of the Valley

I’ll find you both in the valley of lilies, wafting away the smell of mothballs from your clothes.
My country grandmother, sunning yourself on the rim of your best Sunday hat,
taking a well-earned rest from your garden of vegetables and honey.
My city grandmother, swinging yourself from the handle of your trolley-bag,
so ill in life – now racing.
I’ll see you both, my grandmothers, smiling through a haze of lilies.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019