Monday, 10 December 2012


SLO MO

As he speaks, it is not such good news,
I start to process
“it’s back...need to get it under control,
or we’re talking months...”

Not what I expected or prepared for
a silent thud as I fall back to earth,
so many questions windmill, struggling to form 
as this sinks to the shadows of my soul
there to leave an immovable mark

For a few moments time slows to eternity
no reference points, everything blurs and swirls
I am at the centre and yet removed
lost in a familiarity that I cannot touch

I am called back to consciousness by a sound,
small at first, then swelling
out of place, unforeseen 
yet familiar, frightening, it rattles my heart
the sobs of my wife

Pent up tears, now released, of realisation
of compassion, love, heartbreak, frustration
of anger, rage against impotence
an elemental fear

And I am the cause, the reason, the source

I pull her into my arms, away from the medics
I try to comfort, say things helpful
I rationalise but it doesn’t stop
and for the first time I feel helpless, lost,
aghast at the pain I have forced into a life undeserving

What have I done?  Why?

Saturday, 14 July 2012


BIKING SHANGHAI 
Tour de Puxi Night Stage 
Adrenalin pistons my legs
as we surge into the dense sweaty night
a fifty strong throng
of unruly, liberated
don’t give a dam cyclists
intent on claiming the streets
for a brief heady moment
We blur past a monochrome
concrete landscape
neon bejewelled, its music
the dun sound of engines and wheels
chorussed by random horns
Around me riders pass, fall back
weave into slender spaces
chat, smile, touch fists
encourage each other
signal hazards
hold up traffic for the pack
in an unspoken camaraderie
spun by twin wheels
A water stop crowds the pavement
outside a store
smiles, sweat dripping
stories told, names exchanged
moments of silence
a couple passing ask what and why
Then on again into the sodium lit night
contracting, puffing, stretching like 
a cloud of starlings
approximating their wheeling freedom
on streets built for chaotic order
On to the Bund
in a forbidden flypast
a disrespectful nod 
to the city’s sombre monuments
of a distant age
We end in a tired gaggle at a bridge
and a long-bearded old man
squeals his bike to a juddering halt
to wave in a smile
and take cheering applause from us
Pushing wearily home alone
along silent, shadowy streets
my heart still beats with the 
pedal pumping, wheel whirring energy that fuels
my happy bed-seeking soul


WHAT IS IT ABOUT CANCER?
an attack
on your smallest
most vital element
your cells
the tiny source of everything you are

cancer reprogrammes cells
not to create and sustain
instead
to consume and destroy
to pull down
everything they were born to build
it’s a murderous suicide
a perverse unnatural act of nature 
rather than giving life 
by doing their job and dying
cells with cancer find a new purpose
live a bit more 
and in their new vitality 
they kill
there is no alien intruder
no external wound to blame
it is life’s order reversed
turned upside down
a civil war within
cell against brother cell
this is everything you are
and know 
inside out
on it’s head
arse over tit
the stuff you are made of 
trying to kill you
life against life

Saturday, 31 March 2012

COME AGAIN?

Come again
-Come again?
Yes, come again
-You what?
I said come again
-Eh?
You heard, come again
-Pardon?
That’s right, come again,
it’s back, your cancer
-Shit

Shanghai, oh Shanghai

Shanghai’s Temple of Luxury, the Plaza 66 mall, where new standards of miserable service are set daily.  Shop assistants’ faces are fixed in expressions of empty, arrogant misery, varying in shade from mere disdain for most visitors, especially non-buyers, to fawning and obviously faux delight in the rare event of a purchase.  The general impression is of a large, mostly empty cathedral in which worshippers wander slowly through in awe at the branded marvels on offer, under the watchful eyes of sullen vergers.
Amongst the crowd of dawdling eye-shoppers, devotees move with the speed of purpose, adorned either with the products, usually a bag, belt, shoes, t-shirt, and for men a hat, or if neophytes with the large and visible carrier bags denoting their recent purchase of membership of this elite congregation.
Often older men stroll by with startlingly young, thin ladies on their arm, kitted out in very tight trousers or impossibly short skirts, totteringly high heels and smiles of acquisitory joy.  The man, usually stout, with dyed hair, trails an air of smug satisfaction at his wealth and prowess while satisfying her craving for expensive brands.
Most of the stores are empty for much of the day, save for their grim guardians, the exceptions being Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Chanel & Hermes, where occasionally entry needs to be controlled to prevent the crowds from enlivening the prevailing misery too much.
Like the expensive fashion they house, each store has to be expensively and regularly renewed.  These are after all the flagship stores, the opulent chapels of their sainted brand and their magic and power must be constantly enhanced to feed the devotees’ faith in their ability to transform and enrich their lives.

Thursday, 15 March 2012

BLOOD

Blood
vitally viscous
coursing crimson 
through the miraculous labyrinth 
of my body
Surging, 
racing, 
pumping, 
eddying, 
oozing through every artery, vein and vessel
Carrying oxygen, life, DNA, family, 
nourishment, energy, warmth, healing, 
and identity to every cell
Giving form to my soul
spark to my neurons
flight to my thoughts
Blood lines
blood ties
blood brothers
blood thicker than water
blood and guts 
blood of Christ
blood that sustains us from one cell to a billion
Carrying disease and poison, 
bacterial and viral invaders
smoothly and quietly
to ambush life’s processes
at any and every stage
Serving two masters,
knowing and unknowing,
willing and unwilling,
helping to kill me 
as it surges to keep me alive
Blood and anti-blood

Back in Busan

Traffic crawls through the sprawling concrete, dragging us towards our hotel.  Busan looks better by night, in a veil of multi-coloured lights thrown across its hills and valleys, giving little clue to the urban mess beneath.
A new morning brings bright blue skies again and the sea sparkling like a jewelled blanket.  We head to Jagalchi Fish Market to wander through an astonishing selection of fish that has Sooka gasping with delight and hunger.  Everything is carefully and prettily laid out to attract buyers.  Long silver belt fish dazzle in rows in the sunlight; dried skate, emptied and skewered open like kites;  squid and octopus of every size, tentacles hanging down like bizarre wigs, some still alive in basins of water, squid aiming darts of water at the curious who get too close.  All as fresh as can be, clean smelling and surrounded by countless stalls ready to cook up your purchases in an instant.
The stall holders are all women, middle-aged or older, with the typical bonnet of tight curls denoting ‘ajumadom’ and tanned faces with ruddy cheeks that tell of a tough outdoor life.  They’re mostly cheerful, tolerating gawping unproductive tourists and clearly take pride in presenting their catch as neatly as they can.  Now and then an argument erupts as a grouchy grandma takes offence at an unheard slight and spits insults and imprecations at the offender in a voice sure to fright the days’ catch back to life.