Bloodshot Monochrome Read online

  and sometimes you. Nobody knows I’m here.

  Don’t cry, Janie, I’m your mother now.

  I knew that one day we’d be reunited

  like this. A mother needs a daughter, dear.

  All I want is half your heart to know

  I love you, Jane. God’s gracious gift, don’t go.

  EAT ME

  When I hit thirty, he brought me a cake,

  three layers of icing, home-made,

  a candle for each stone in weight.

  The icing was white but the letters were pink,

  they said, EAT ME. And I ate, did

  what I was told. Didn’t even taste it.

  Then he asked me to get up and walk

  round the bed so he could watch my broad

  belly wobble, hips judder like a juggernaut.

  The bigger the better, he’d say, I like

  big girls, soft girls, girls I can burrow inside

  with multiple chins, masses of cellulite.

  I was his Jacuzzi. But he was my cook,

  my only pleasure the rush of fast food,

  his pleasure, to watch me swell like forbidden fruit.

  His breadfruit. His desert island after shipwreck.

  Or a beached whale on a king-size bed

  craving a wave. I was a tidal wave of flesh

  too fat to leave, too fat to buy a pint of full-fat milk,

  too fat to use fat as an emotional shield,

  too fat to be called chubby, cuddly, big-built.

  The day I hit thirty-nine, I allowed him to stroke

  my globe of a cheek. His flesh, my flesh flowed.

  He said, Open wide, poured olive oil down my throat.

  Soon you’ll be forty . . . he whispered, and how

  could I not roll over on top. I rolled and he drowned

  in my flesh. I drowned his dying sentence out.

  I left him there for six hours that felt like a week.

  His mouth slightly open, his eyes bulging with greed.

  There was nothing else left in the house to eat.

  SKINS

  It’s not like you don’t turn me on.

  Every time you walked past

  I thought, She’s fit.

  Come-to-bed eyes.

  We both want to

  feel my skin

  against your skin.

  It’s not like you’re on

  or I’m changing into

  a woman. It’s my past.

  Look into my eyes.

  I just wanted to fit

  in. A misfit.

  Mixed-race but light-skinned,

  brown hair, blue eyes,

  bootboy with a hard-on.

  I passed.

  I had to.

  Then I got this tattoo.

  I did it in a fit

  of rage. It soon passed.

  You want to read my skin?

  Whatever turns you on.

  I closed my eyes

  and put my soul on ice,

  denied a black dad, too

  terrified to let on.

  I wore the outfit,

  marched with the skins.

  I don’t like to talk about the past,

  I hate my past.

  My big lie reflected in their eyes,

  their hatred in my skin.

  With this tattoo

  I’m a walking Photofit.

  That’s why I keep my clothes on.

  It’s past midnight. I’ll call a cab if you want me to.

  But your eyes know how to fit

  a condom like a second skin. Come on . . .

  YORE JUST MY TYPE

  You can’t find a good gay shag unless you pay for it

  in airmiles. Berlin. All you get is shit

  in your own backyard. Take this lad I met on Gaydar.

  Said I was just what he wanted. Good sex, car,

  roast dinner on Sunday and all that crap. I believed him.

  Ten years younger, spent his life in the gym.

  Horny as fuck, his photo. Better in the flesh, he said.

  I swallowed it all. Best thing since sliced bread

  and I knew where mine was best buttered. Sends me a text:

  Yore just my TYPE. I promis more than good SEX.

  Still on my phone. I know, but I’m a romantic.

  I keep them all. Three days and nights, ten arselick

  messages saying how much he loves me and crap.

  Problem is, he’s near Swansea, not on the map,

  and I’m Manchester but he says he’s bought a train

  ticket for next weekend. I got plans but I rearrange.

  Saturday morning he rings to say sorry, got toothache,

  has to see emergency dentist. But it’s heartache

  he says hurts most. I’m gagging to meet you.

  I’m gutted but believe him. We set our rendezvous

  for a month’s time. I have a few shags but my date’s

  on my mind. A month to the day my phone vibrates.

  It’s me he says you’re never gonna believe this . . .

  but of course I do, I’m romantic but I’ve got this abscess

  on my leg . . . You see, I’ve fallen in love so the only bells

  ringing in my head are our wedding vowels.

  Our third date’s set. I fly to Berlin for a shag

  with Helmut who used to work in the Reichstag

  and wants me to live with him but all I can think of

  is some village near Swansea. You see, I’ve fallen in love

  with a lad I never met. And I never meet the wanker!

  Rings up the morning he’s meant to arrive in Manchester,

  says he’s leaving for coach station ’cos trains are fucked

  at the weekend and I believe him. Just my luck

  to fall for a lump of shit. That evening, lover

  boy rings to say he’s in hospital, got run over

  by the Manchester coach, could we make another date?

  I’m not a vengeful person but I got this mate

  knows a lad, horny, tattooed to fuck, inside

  for GBH, doesn’t mind his photo being used online.

  So I make up this false page on Gaydar and hit on

  Swansea: You’re just my type. I’m staying at The Hilton,

  Cardiff . . . crap about champagne and coke.

  Swansea replies, I’ll be there in an hour. The joke

  is, he went ’cos the next day he mails a message

  asking what went wrong, he must be the village

  idiot forgetting to pack his phone and is it too late

  for me to text him to make another date?

  I do. This is what it says: FUCK YOU!

  JOSEPHINE BAKER FINDS HERSELF

  She picked me up

  like a slow-burning fuse. I was down

  that girls’ club used to run in Brixton,

  on acid for fuel. Lipstick lesbians,

  techno so hardcore it’s spewing out Audis.

  She samples my heartbeat and mixes it with

  vodka on the rocks. I’m her light-skinned, negative,

  twenty-something, short black wavy-bobbed diva.

  She purrs La Garçonne, fancy a drink? I say

  Yes. She’s crossing the Star Bar like it’s a catwalk. So sleek!

  A string of pearls, her flapper dress

  studded with low-cut diamonds

  through my skin, straight to my heart.

  Twenties chic! She works

  me up and down. I worship

  the way she looks.

  The way she looks

  me up and down. I worship

  twenties chic. She works

  through my skin, straight to my heart

  studded with low-cut diamonds.

  A string of pearls her flapper dress.

  Yes! She’s crossing the Star Bar like it’s a catwalk so sleek

  she purrs, la garçonne! Fancy a drink? I say.

  Twenty-something
, short, Black, wavy-bobbed diva:

  Vodka on the rocks, I’m her light-skinned negative.

  She samples my heartbeat and mixes it with

  techno so hardcore it’s spewing out Audis

  on acid for fuel. Lipstick Lesbians,

  that girls’ club used to run in Brixton

  like a slow-burning fuse. I was down.

  She picked me up.

  HEADS

  She was, pray God forgive me, worse than plain.

  When I commissioned Holbein, he was paid

  to beautify her face with paint. The king

  pledged marriage to the portrait, Anne of Cleves.

  A Protestant exchange. The date was set,

  the table laid, the marriage consecrated.

  The wedding feast was tainted, Anne being absent.

  Henry, in liquor, claimed the wine was sour.

  Addressed the hogshead centrepiece, M’lady,

  which for my Catholic rivals caused much mirth.

  Cromwell, he said, you mate me with a mare

  I will not mount. Then told the joke about

  the virgin executioner unable

  to sunder maidenhood nor maiden head.

  Roared at his royal wit. Then looked at me.

  My fate was set. For Anne Boleyn he hired

  the best from France: for me, a beardless boy.

  Be not afraid, I said, pray, take this gift.

  ’Tis all I have. Both of our hands were shaking.

  I prayed aloud. The crowd, an army shrieking

  Traitor! Its face degenerate with hatred.

  MAN AND BOY

  And Abraham stretched forth his hand,

  and took the knife to slay his son.

  Genesis 22:10

  Open the blind, son. Wide. I’m not dead yet.

  Did you hear the hail? Like it was deep frying.

  Your mother says forked and sheet lightning

  at the same time spells trouble. I know she is.

  What’s it like, the sky? Blue-grey? Grey-blue?

  I wish I could see it too. Like surround

  sound with the ghost of a picture.

  What’s the use? I’m dying. Give me your hand.

  Hairy from day one, you were. Born old.

  We knew your mother was expecting twins,

  expected one of each. Your brother Jacob

  followed, gripping your heel, a born tackler.

  He takes after your mother. Never trust

  a woman. He intends to run the business,

  but you were first. There’s something I must tell you . . .

  I’ve so few pleasures left. Will you prepare it?

  It’s OK. Use the Volvo. I’m not going

  anywhere, am I? Son, I know you do.

  Who is it? Son, is that you? Back so soon?

  Come off it. Do you take me for senile?

  I’ve taken leave of one of my senses

  not five. Come a bit closer. I don’t bite.

  You smell, feel like my eldest son yet sound

  like Jacob. Is this some kind of a joke?

  Forgive me, son. Must be the side effects,

  it isn’t age that kills you, it’s the drugs.

  You know there’s too much pepper in this soup.

  OK. I’ve kept it buried long enough.

  Do something for me first, though. Lock the door

  and if your brother knocks, don’t answer it.

  No one knows this. Not even your mother.

  I wish you’d known your grandfather. We’re all

  cut from the same plain cloth. Identical.

  I was an only child, my father and I

  did everything together, man and boy.

  I’d just turned twelve. My father woke me early,

  We’re going for a drive. There were two men

  I didn’t know, the one on the back seat

  beside me had black hair, a nervous twitch.

  The car smelt of sweat and burning leather.

  The journey took forever. No one spoke.

  The next thing I remember is the office.

  A huge black director’s chair, a table,

  a telephone, the décor was old-fashioned

  but classy. Me, my father, no one else.

  Sit down, son. I’ve never felt so small.

  And then he did the thing that shocked me more

  than anything that happened since. He tied me.

  Tied me to the chair. No. I didn’t.

  He was my father and his word was law.

  He pressed a gun hard up against my head,

  my inner eye. Twelve years flashed in a second.

  Then the explosion of the phone ringing.

  It rang eight times before he answered it.

  He didn’t speak. Just put down the receiver

  and fired the gun towards the candelabra.

  We never talked about it. In the car

  on the way home, I noticed his grey hairs

  for the first time. I never blamed him for it,

  I understood. He always kept his word.

  He would have fired that shot. He knew I knew.

  Bless you son, I’m fine. I need to sleep.

  Wake me in three hours’ time. I’ll drink to that.

  Who is it? Who? I’m far too old for this.

  If you are who you say you are, then who

  the hell sat on my bed, shared my secret?

  I’ve lived too long. He should have pulled the trigger.

  Where are my tablets? I’m a dead man.

  I have two sons . . . forked and sheet lightning . . .

  first come, first served. The sins of the father . . .

  Forgive me, son. He let it ring eight times.

  I’m sorry, I’m too weak now. Ask your brother.

  There’s too much salt, I have no appetite.

  He went grey overnight. Where are my tablets?

  What time is it? Where am I? Who are you?

  I only have one son, never had two.

  PROBLEM PAGES

  CONTRIBUTORS

  In Joy and Woe, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, ?1517–1547

  Two Loves I Have, William Shakespeare, 1564–1616

  A Crowne of Sonnets, Lady Mary Wroth, 1586/7–1651/2/3

  My Light Is Spent, John Milton, 1608–1674

  Queen of Shadows, Charlotte Smith, 1749–1806

  Scorn Not the Sonnet, William Wordsworth, 1770–1850

  O for Ten Years . . ., John Keats, 1795–1821

  Not Death, but Love, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806–1861

  Send My Roots Rain, Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1844–1889

  Not Love but Money, Robert Frost, 1874–1963

  On ‘The White House’, Claude McKay, 1889–1948

  Babes in the Basement, Edna St Vincent Millay, 1892–1950

  Knew White Speech, Gwendolyn Brooks, 1917–2000

  From Africa Singing, June Jordan, 1936–2002

  IN JOY AND WOE

  Dear Patience, I’m the Mont Blanc of blank verse, the Renoir of rhyme. I’ve invented a hybrid sonnet that retains the Italian elegance yet is more suited to the modern English tongue. Pierced. My little song is more ‘abab’ than ABBA. I execute sonnets to unobtainable fillies for fun but my most recent ‘gg’ is GBH. How do I learn to hold my tongue, my sword?

  There’s a theory that all criminals are thwarted creatives. But that applies to organised crime. Craft your discipline on the page and the stage. Reinvent yourself. Court favour with the critics, use your tongue to celebrate song and remember daily what they say about the pen and the sword.

  TWO LOVES I HAVE

  Dear Patience, I am a poet who writes for the stage and thus typecast a performance poet. Yet my plays are on the GCSE syllabus so my verse will stand the test of time. My sonnet sequence, addressing a white man and black woman, aims to dress old words new. My publishers claim it will confound the reader but I suspect homophobia/racism. Please help!

  I empathise
. When will people stop categorising and embrace the page-stage, black-white, heterosexual-homosexual continuum? I applaud your literary range! But who is the reader? Seek critical advice and/or ditch your publisher for one who’ll take risks. Your solid reputation will help.

  A CROWNE OF SONNETS

  Dear Patience, Writing is in my blood: my male muse said Look in thy heart, and write. My feminist autobiographical prose romance culminating with a sonnet sequence containing a 14-sonnet corona has sparked controversy and libel accusations. No one explores beyond the prose to appreciate my poetic achievement. Now it has been withdrawn from the shelves.

  You could publish the sonnet sequence or corona separately. The latter could stand alone and fly off the page, the line repetitions enhancing narrative, a multiplicity of meanings, an intricate music. Few women publish coronas: may yours receive due critical attention on and off the shelf.

  MY LIGHT IS SPENT

  Dear Patience, I am a middle-aged, respected, white, male poet, neoformalist yet reformist, who is losing his sight, and therefore losing sight of his poetic vision, whose ultimate aim is to implant and cherish in all people the seeds of virtue and public civility. Not writing is death but to write in perpetual darkness is also death. And I lack companionship with women.

  I wish more poets shared your ambition. Poetry has long been afraid to admit it wants to change the world. Invest in a dictaphone that transcribes. You may begin to compensate with your other five senses, especially your sixth sense, insight, that will rekindle love of writing. And women.

  QUEEN OF SHADOWS

  Dear Patience, Wife of a gambler and mother of invention, I write to feed my children. My first book was a sonnet sequence conceived whilst in prison for debt. I borrowed from the past masters to add gravitas to my melancholic landscapes, reflecting a life degraded from colour to black-and-white. Critics screamed plagiarism. I disagree. How do I fight my case?

  ‘Immature poets imitate: mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different . . . A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time or alien in language, or diverse in interest.’ T.S. Eliot. I rest your case.

  SCORN NOT THE SONNET

  Dear Patience, My first collection was a joint venture with a friend to whom my intellect is most indebted. Subsequently, my sister reacquainted me with the sonnets of Milton, which inspire in simplicity and unity of object and aim: but my friend, my most severe critic, an alcoholic and heroin addict, scorns my ‘habit’ of writing ‘such a multitude of small poems’.