Moya's 40th Birthday Party

* Warning: this is a true story. Some images may be disturbing for viewers younger than 40.

***

‘Two full English please’ he says..

and these are the first words that make sense the morning after the night before.

Is 11.00 am, I am sitting in The Wish Tower cafe and the sun glasses are dark but not dark enough…so I close my eyes, for another minute until a piercing sound hits from the left:
“Mummy, Alex is throwing stones at the fish..”
Then from the right:
“Mummy Nicky hit me in the head...”

***

Yes I am a parent of two and so is the man in front of me who looks ill but managed to somehow order and pay for a couple of brunches.

We are both quiet, we don’t move much, our bodies hurt and pain is written all over our faces. I cannot yet decide which part I would like to dispose of first: my head or my feet. Men are lucky, it must be only their heads taking the blame. For everything...

Food arrives.
Forget ‘mama’s specialite de la maison’ or oysters or Xmas pudding or brownies and cream. This is IT: it’s grease and we need it. The coffee is not great but is hot and probably black.

Something is pushing through, images behind my eye-balls are coming back to hunt me. Brain becomes the Enterprise (to infinity and beyond!) penetrating a field of flashbacks. There’s no ‘beam me up, Scotty’ button, and probably no alternative transport would allow a body saturated with alcohol to travel any distance, not a yard, not an inch. So I sink deeper in my chair and remember...

***





the night started really well (please notice people being friendly with each other, their eyes still open!)



people were gathering in small groups...



..and dancing



and dancing...



and laughing (for no reason!)



and dancing...




and clapping...



and maybe loosing it a bit...



some people did not miss a thing...



unlike others...



and this was only the beginning of the end...



we helped each other at times...



for some it was too late...



but the important thing was our iron will...




of being there, despite our ..(whoops, I was gonna say age) tiredness..



and maybe level of alcohol..



we smiled...



and smiled...



and held each other...



as only friends know how to when you turn 40...


Happy Birthday MOYA!

Lies

image by tomasutpen

...
they belong here
a nipple on our love’s chest
pierced by suspicion
smothered in dream
and silence
we lay on this rotten bed
of thoughts
day and night
alone/ restless/ unattended
watching it grow
between us
like a tumour

Missed

you weren’t there to see my life
open up with a right click
in a new window

you were out on a piss
playing pool in the pub round the corner
luck staring you in the face
like a torch

and all my posters
were screaming your name
and all I was wearing were T-shirts with
your unshaved face
on a Sunday morning

you stumbled in
stinking of unawareness
and carried on living
without me

to Anne

Alas, my love, you do me wrong

words of a king
demons of a man
seeking refuge into the heart of a woman

To cast me off discourteously

Anne
you truthful subject
yet only true to your desires

For I have loved you well and long

your grace enslaved a Tudor
changed a religion
delivered a bastard queen in waiting

Delighting in your company

and the clouds of history
rolled with the wind
a crowned head
into God’s lap

…And who but my lady greensleeves

Red

jealousy is the woman in red
Jimmy Choo and Dior
through her veins runs lava
she’s got double standards, big eyes
and one purpose

she crosses the street
through your shoulder blades
and stops between your lungs
with a lit cigarette

then cuts your patience in half
bites its lips and
hands over your blade

Poetry in public

in the pub across the road
men and women are drinking from
carefully polished glasses
and their beer is as cold
as the loneliness that makes them gather

their lips are practicing group discussion
lived with the euphoria of the man who doesn't want to know
but wants to belong
and above them airplanes and birds and clouds and other
accessories of the sky are passing by
but no one’s watching
but their well polished glass

I’d like to change something
I’d like to walk across
and read them a poem
but it would be so pathetic
so all I do is stare towards
my well polished glass with cold beer
and poetry hidden at the bottom

Glastonbury (...let go every June of your life)

music is filling me up slowly
particles of sound sinking
under my skin
in places I never knew
I existed

I’ll never make it!

I’ll die touched by the hand of a bunch of strings
holding tight to my air guitar
covered in layers of broken light

I see you!

and your hands
lost
in a ballet of utter abandon

and these people are my witness and I witness all these people die
a similar death

Unchained

numărăm pînă la 10
rupem din noi ultimele motive de-a merge mai departe
şi le aşezăm unul peste altul în
ordinea stabilită de tine
acute, cronice, fără nici o şansă

jocul acesta nu e nou
doar regulile s-au schimbat
axa noastra de rotaţie deviată
în jur acelaşi subiect

iubirea
şi-n umbra ei neiubirea şi ura şi alţii
ghemuiţi în noi într-un întuneric de calitate
generînd panică de cuvinte
ce cad se/ sparg le/ adun se/ sparg mă/ taie se/ sparg

pe masă un măr
şi calmul lui verde
e un ultim mers pe sîrmă
ori poate liniştea dinainte

pumnul tău se ridică
şi ochii
privesc mut înainte, deasupra lui, mereu
spre ceasul vechi din perete

"and time goes by so slowly"