Saturday 4 November 2017

Going with the flow by Adam Parry

Flow before you go
open all the dams and barriers
wash away the effluence
spread thin this veneer of silence
No more shit or carrion eaters, 
waiting the decay of dreams
the unspoken thoughts
the end of unremembered days.
death dealers on every corner
sell you the nightmare they got in store for you.
so before you go
do the head dance 
and flow before you go.

Wednesday 1 November 2017

Rose Street by Adam Parry

On the street where you live
I stand musing all day,
knowing you know I am just the same.
But, here, now, am I different here?
On the street where you live
I stand in the sun a lifelong long,
then took a picture of a rose
on the street where you live.

Thursday 26 October 2017

The Cynic's March by Adam Parry

Wearing fancy dress so no-one will see me.
Wonder should I shout,
offer some protest apart from merely walking?
Oh, he's taking a photograph,
better not smile. This is a serious business
and dammit I can't smile.
Look at the car we've held up.
Ha-ha

Saturday 21 October 2017

A cave of home by Adam parry

Trying to make connections
going into foriegn lands
to feel more at home,
when a search for belonging begins at home.
Yearning for oriental eye
that love as those others eyes loved.
Forever in this Romantic spell,
a Merlin forgotten in his cave with no way out waiting to escape

Saturday 14 October 2017

THE MANY-COLORED PEACE by Adam Parry

They did not hear us
when we said
we wanted no more war.

Will they every hear us?

Cannot now war sleep
into peacefulness.
So we are the true hearts,
even so still super glued hearts

Saturday 7 October 2017

A July morning by Adam Parry

It seems to me my pin-prick eyes see so slow
holding back a flight into the swift swish  from tree to tree.
Never seems to me.  the morning is now full.
Angel-headed, forgetful father - a vision of the sea in the rent blue
of sky. No, never seems real to me.
Yet seems to me still I am the fascist,
a country less wanderer moving mountains
with a stolen song. Birds roost on my shoulder
and later the skateboarder wind away and it seems
a breath of wind blows the fascist father away and I know
fascist father will find his fascist child
and laugh and hold her tight, and this damned Daddy flies away to me.

Saturday 30 September 2017

Somewhere by Adam Parry

There is a place known only to a few,
not because they covet it for themselves
but because they want to keep it from being lost and stolen and destroyed
they have always nurtured this place
as best they could
and helped the folk there, even through  much danger
and it was not easy.
As many forgot as they toiled that there was nowhere more beautiful,
yet many of the bad folk
whom those folk who had struggled to keep the place fine,
and for every one of the bad there's hundred good,
that will be revealed to all.
And some say that some say soon this secret, lovely place
stretch through the wedge of night
partway between by the sun and the moon.
This land
this Earth
that we call home.

Saturday 23 September 2017

Now by Adam Parry

It spins, spirals under,
rolling over, mixing in the light-
the mile wide molecules
and the unutterable absences.
Places of wonder hove into view
while volcanoes within us remake everything anew.
It
is all colours, new spectrums,
an orgasm of spring, gently going by,
a coil in the clock of time. Our place to survive
in the cold, cold space,
these nuclear summer days
a hope in the moment
as it turns circles and mimes.

Monday 18 September 2017

Let the white roses grow by Adam Parry

The day is done, some just begun.
The sun strayed awhile, strayed into the garden.

The cat grass rises higher, daffodils lie dormant
for another spring in the day.
The stones I washed, the stones I carried as I
wagered on a turn of the day, finding a new door into now.

The cat grass grows exponentially
while the rosebush waits
for a button hole moment.

In another now, not now not then,
dreams' tears I do not recall
rises the cat grass higher, high as a hedge,
I consider cutting it, but
I will let the white roses bloom.

Saturday 9 September 2017

Pretend your a tree by Adam parry

Pretend your a tree
and come with me.
I'll take you to
where
the clouds are born, before they melt
into the sea
where all the dolphins probably pee.
We'll climb a ladder to sky
and wonder how we
got there.

Saturday 2 September 2017

Conversation with the wind by Adam Parry

The wind's my friend
some say  she pushes you up the hills
and away from places you really don't want to go.

But turn from this wind, is what I say, turn this storm into
electric lights, turn against the war like wind, hush her
spirit with the flick of switch.

The wind though sings of a thousand worlds, whose voice will never be tamed
or mimed or maimed.
And on the wind came thrown down by crows
that mankind was gone away, never believe anything
or maybe that was a rumour, some gossip.
Never mind.
It's okay, mannie, its only the wind.

Tuesday 29 August 2017

Waiting for the long weekend by Adam Parry

Falling from the dark pen onto
the wishful white page.
Turning circles
skirting by forever
never holdihng hands or touching eyes.
In the snow I felt again the fresh glow. To those
I silently say goodbye
never though going away.
Running round stone circles in the sleet.
May I? Maybe
forever more, the wishful page exhorts
as the pen races on ahead on a million mile grasp away along the wishing page, continuing
never seeming to end

Saturday 19 August 2017

A note from Alice

Down out in the wind
sun glints on this pen
spreads blindingly over the whipped white water.
A  clear view of the wind
here in the red benched half circle
where seasons stay the same
one
endless summer
weaving gold and fire on the trees.
The Summer man smiles blazed bright
in the red shelter and marvels at what he sees.

Saturday 12 August 2017

Now by Adam Parry

Now, in this bright morning,
golden and thread about each other.
I pause to stare more at the details
of fallen leaves. Not so many.
It sees obviously summer
as the
heat bangs down on me like lost kisses.

No postie came to my door
no junk mail
no 1/4 price beds for sale or charities for the whale
The flame of the still green remains
the same and the foxgloves will stay awhile.
The electric and wires remain,
perfect tightropes no-on would dare

I see a spider-web over there.
I wonder whether to remove it
they are useful for taken out the flies
and sometimes in the right night
they waft in the sunbreeze . I go to-
remove it- change my mind.
My hear seeing beauty at the back of my eye. So I leave it for now

Saturday 5 August 2017

Dreaming of the Silver Birch by Adam Parry

She spent  the day embroidering the sun
seemed to take so long
but by the time stilled, put away the thread.
All the children have risen from their beds
She watched then come out into the blue, blue day.
In the evening escaped the house heat
and found a stone in the long grass.
She fell asleep, dreaming of the silver birch
and seagulls playing faraway
and the morn's morn stitched new thread
of white and morning glee
and laughed the children on their way
New lessons learnt
this and every day.

Saturday 29 July 2017

Out by the taxi driver's garden
the children play, the Happy Land.
Now a open gate where horses beckon
with the swish of their manes.
I cannot hear what the are saying.
As the speed of light through the dense dirt on the window
muffles that game they're playing.
Another noise in the distance.
A plane flies west as the sky clears and I see
through my foggy frames a thousand light years ahead.
I torn my neck and play the same game but in my music
and my shadow.
No need for light
or a necessity to sham
as naked under the streetlight
I play in the rain.

Thursday 27 July 2017

Of what do you really dream? by Adam Parry

To turn back
a moment, to know it can be done,
all free now, all silent, no way to stay young.
My face all crumpled
all shaded and scorned.
These  laughter lines like new children
waiting to be born.

Saturday 15 July 2017

BORN BY ADAM PARRY

Born to be selfish
born not to care
born to be ugly
born for us all.

Grown in then city
nutured by smog
Breeded by money
Living to work.

Time to pay back now
this cheque will no bounce.
Paying back interest on tears and on blood.

Buying back the silences
and homes for the blind.
Love takes a hostile take over
Or is that all in the nind.

Saturday 1 July 2017

To all sides...peace by Adam Parry

Peace has broken out
in pockets it reamains
inside people peace never went away,
but in all these peaces
war never ceases.
No prayer, no song
no life long negotiations,
changing front war
but peace marches,
bend and break
and reconciliates, peace keeps
pushing, but unlike war,
peace will never end

Saturday 24 June 2017

Joy by Adam Parry

After so much silence
Joy spoke again
and lifted my feet into a Helter Skelter of dance.
Frantic. Ecstatic. Patient. Still.
Opening my eyes
to the love in peoples sighs
dancing
slow
all around
then somehow inching their laughter line
up
from their lips.
Knowing, remembering
that their hearbeats' as fast as any
and as slow as the song
calling all to
awaken
from the half light
and dance beneath the street lights
as children do
as we never expected to.

Saturday 17 June 2017

The Artist's Day by Adam Parry

Seems like rain at first light.
A yearning for colour, life beyond smoke filled rooms.
Far beyond TV flickers can I make day
One unstarted before, how can I know what I
startedparting those seas, painting in scenes
unseen before, this tree, that hill, falling from me
waiting with excitement when the brush to breatth
life into me

Monday 29 May 2017

Dream by Adam Parry

Red bright in my beautiful dream, a snow queen
long locked-
our eyes met across the the ice cream counter
a green bag over her shoulders
of plastic and lace
her face unmarred unfleckled.
She sleep-walks to work. dreams her own dreams
counting foot-prints in the snow.
I left when I left her behind.
Perhaps this snow queen will come to me as
I sleep in beauty.

Saturday 27 May 2017

Weeding by Adam Parry


WEEDING

Pulling out the weeds this work, unpaid, unseen

in the garden of my mind.

I let the cherry blossoms bloom

by  the tall grass growing to the edge of

the sea.

The painters In the rapeseed fields

wave a silent greeting as I weed until all perfection is regained.

Tuesday 25 April 2017

A demain




A love-song sung in French
is most heartbreaking of all,
but all I have are these words
 they will have to do.
‘...a demain’ she said. I felt no sorrow
I kissed her again lived thinking of tomorrow.
 That was yesterday or yesterday, now
I don’t know what to do. All the colours of my heart
and the touches of her blue burnt eyes,
those yesterdays took from me.
I thought I saw her from a bus that took me far away.
She did not wave,
or smile that day, no,
she did not smile that first smile that gave my heart new rhyme.
Sometimes I see her in that mirror standing by my side
and she talks to me,
yes, she talks to me, ‘a demain’
she says though tomorrow is mine alone.
I left flowers there beside her stone
as rain kissed softly on the land
I told her ‘till tomorrow’, and it seemed as if I smiled
recalling that tomorrow was never far away.

Friday 14 April 2017

NOW


Now.  

Yesterday seems a moment away.
Tomorrow a stone flung away.
A bus journey and a bright blue sky
is all I need, dry eyes,
free of crust and rust around diminishing sight.
Yesterday reminds me of this moment
sleepless interludes of soft sound murmurs’
A rumpled body and an empty bed.
Tomorrows  is just a few more words away,
A swishing curtain , a cloudless light.
Yet inside I’m glad that, now, is neither today or tomorrow
Just a grimace of dry cheeks,
a blink away and only a light switch away I fall into bed.

Tuesday 4 April 2017

The law of Distraction by Adam Parry


The Law of Distraction.

I read Rhonda Byrne’s ‘The Secret’ all about the Law of Attraction every night for a week on the toilet. She writes about focusing your intentions and fulfilling even the wildest of dreams. Should I attract a million or a car?  No a thousand and shoes. Finally I had completed my ablutions and finished the book.  There was a Porsche outside my house for two days and I found a penny on the way down to the post-box.  My god, it works, I thought and sat down attracting as many things as I could think of.
Yet deep down I knew I needed someone to cook for me, make the bed in the morning and iron socks and all those things women apparently like to do.  Soon I was attracting nothing but women. Charity sales girls on the phone and a rather seductively voiced late night Radio 3 presenter but I never got that close to any flesh and bones women.
One day they moved the Porsche.  Despite trying to visualize myself having a minor production role in the new film version of The Hobbit the secrets of The Secret dissipated with each clatter of the Distraction of the letterbox. There are 3 Laws incorporated in the Art of Being Distracted by the Letterbox:
1.    Never expect to sleep close to election periods
2.    Don’t order six books on the Law of Attraction
3.    Wipe your bottom before opening the mail.
I went to work, bit of a change really as I’d had a bad case of e-coli poisoning and had been reading David Icke in bed for 2 weeks; it’d been a laugh a minute.
I decided to intend going to the bus-stop without any unintended mishaps like going home and back to bed, or being verbally abused by the local shopkeeper who wanted to know when I was going to pay off my tick.  I snuck passed the shop knowing no uncontrolled cars would dash me into a red smear on the whitewashed wall, as I had definitely intended that not to happen.  Unintentionally I did look at the sky and a tree or two and a bird was singing-not to my intent.
I made it in one piece to the bus-stop. We six, brave few by that windy, shadow vandalized hulk of a bus-stop, seemed to huddle together Eskimo-like.  One asked for a light for a cigarette, another for some change for his fare.  All of us at alternative intervals snatching looks of despair at the bus-less road.  We almost cheered when the bus inched round the bend and crawled passed the parked cars to where we waited breathless.
I enjoyed the ride to work, but for a moment completely forgot to intend things. 
a)    I intend to use the photocopy machine
b)    I intend not to look at the Receptionist’s breasts.
c)    I intend to blow my nose.
I got into the office and sat tiredly on my desk. People seemed pleased to see me and made the usual e-coli jokes.  I had no intention of laughing so I turned away and started the cold call numbers for several hours.
I had perfected The Art of Coping as a well seasoned telesales executive should.  I went and used the photocopier.  I photocopied several hundred copies of the list I had been making as people hung up on me.  I always like to photocopy things.  I suppose it’s an addiction.  I sometimes wonder when I’m an old man if I will spend glorious days photocopying old photocopies of photocopies, or scanning the newspapers for new copiers.  State of the art.  I dust it every day, every day and have a room full of A4 paper.
The Receptionist walked by and I stared at her breasts happily.  I got back home with a headache as I’d determined the day in advance and had hardly done any of the things that I had meant to do.
I sat and read the list I had made and pinned several photocopies in pleasing points about the house.  I thought tiredly that I would have to go back into my workplace, again, when I had all these other wonderful intentions that would make me far happier.  I scanned a book on the Law of Attraction and read a bit about being aware of how I was feeling.  Confused, tired. I went to bed. I began to wonder if the Receptionists Breasts at work made good lasagne.  About midnight I got up and made something to eat. I yawned; I would not be able to go in tomorrow, the thought of it made me so weary.  The Boss had been asking where all the photocopy paper had been going. A light bulb went on in my head and I frantically I went through my copious list and found on page 6, paragraph 4, sub-section 3a that one of my intentions was to get a new job.  Perhaps I could get myself sacked, maybe get a job in a DVD shop and I’d fall madly in love with the cousin of a Production Agent who was working on The Hobbit-The Movie.  So, I had to go to work so I would, by using the photocopier endlessly, get sacked.
Before I forgot them I added a few more intentions to the list and watched the moon outside the window.  I alphabeticalised my books until dawn, got the first bus into town and was three and a half hours early for work. And when everyone else came in I was photocopying anything I could lay my hands on. I happily stood there as The Boss came in.
I would be severely sacked, my intention is to be rid of this place, and I would be replaced by a keen and ever smiling telesales executive.  I would sever all ties with telesales.  I will be free, on a new path of joy, health and happiness.
I waited for The Boss to sack me, but he just smiled and nodded. Frustrated, exhausted I slumped to the floor.  Luckily they got me a taxi home and I decided to hide all the Law of Attraction books in a kitchen drawer and spent the rest of the day scoring through lines from the obviously impossible things I had intended. The phone went, work, saying I could take a couple more days off.
Suddenly it struck me.  Why not just quit.  I spent the rest of the time of my extended sick leave writing my resignation letter.  I darted down to the local shop and bought a couple of local papers.  Carefully I cut out those jobs that I was capable of doing and on a piece of cardboard glue-sticked them onto it. Then finally threaded a piece string through the cardboard and put it at a prominent place beside the telephone.
I called the first number and in my clearest, well enunciated voice told the woman who answered my name, where I’d seen the ad and how old I was, she cut me off and said she’d let me speak to the manager.
‘Can you come in today,’ was his blunt grunt of response.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s the Grosvenor Bar on Hailborn Street. We close at 12.’  He hung up. 
I had time to call a few more job ads, before a bus could take me into Town.  But, the first job sounded great, if I got it.  Apart from photocopying washing dishes is one the best kept secrets of The Art of Coping.  Therefore I could cope with having a job by applying The Art of Coping, absently I wondered if they had photocopier in the bar kitchen. Ha! I would be getting paid for coping.

When I got there, the Manager asked me sit down and fill out an application form. The emptiness of the bar was very conspicuous, an unlit fire and a one-armed bandit repeating itself endlessly in a fanfare of light.  Two or three men were sitting at the bar.  I scribbled across the page all the handy facts that were relevant.  I put down washing dishes as a hobby and put myself down as a referee. Though I doubted that I would have to write one, the landlord seemed to be resigned to the fact that he would give me the job.  He showed me through to the kitchen.
‘When can you start?’
‘Anytime.’  I said positively.
‘What about Thursday?’
‘Yes.’ I’d made other appointments for job interviews on Thursday and I was also due back at work to hand in my resignation. ‘Yes.’ I repeated.
He showed me around the kitchen, and then said as he led me out. ‘Meals start at 11 on Thursday. I’ll see you then.’
I got the bus straight home and went to my ablutions with gusto and unearthed a Law of Distraction book, written by someone who had obviously read The Secret. Spellbound I read about The Law of Gratitude and for awhile I wondered who I was grateful to. There must be someone. I pondered this until I went to bed. The post didn’t come that day. Thursday. D-Day.
I woke up at 12:15 and rushed out of the door without trying to dress in anyway coherently, down the road down to the post-box, posting an order for a new book- after a wee while, I wondered, why is it so dark during the day? It seemed to me that the darkness could signify a number of things.
1)    The Secret was the biggest rip-off in the known Galaxy and somehow I had slept in.
2)    That it was Friday and I’d missed the due date of my various Intentions or unIntentions.
3)    Some large factory had exploded and covered the city in a pall of smoke.
Obviously 3. I smiled inwardly and traipsed back up the hill. Exhausted and out of breath as I came in, I sat on the pile of my photocopied Intentions. I took off my shoes and socks- well sock. It was obviously Thursday. So I’d made, I could still turn up for dishwashing job in the pub. I’d be late but my boss wouldn’t mind the guy was about as laxidasical as a warm corpse. I decided to call a taxi.
I put on the radio for news of the factory explosion. I managed to get some Italian opera and a Gaelic station that seemed to talking about the factory explosion. I went looking for the Law of Attraction book that would guide me to intending an unsurly taxi driver on the eight mile stretch into Town and the ability to get from The Law of Attraction book to phone before I forgot what my Intentions were.
I ordered the taxi for as soon as possible. It arrived an hour later with the rain, blaring football. I struggled manfully, yet to no avail, to fasten in the seatbelt. He asked me where I was going. I thought that a rather stupid question as I’d told the lassie on the phone when I’d ordered him, but with a sigh I answered anyway. Yet, at least the road into Town was virtually uninhabited and we arrived at Hailburn Street in no time, but he did talk on a bit about the football all the way. I thought it strange, didn’t he know there was a law that the designated driver didn’t talk and shouldn’t be disturbed.
Politely I answered a few of his questions. Soon we were on Hailburn Street; thankfully I got out of the taxi relieved to get away from the grating noise of the football, the nonsense the driver had been talking about. There was a stench of alcohol and urine as I found myself alone on the street, then went to the strangely closed door of the bar. Maybe my clock had been wrong and undoubtedly I was too early. Despite the continuing smoke of the factory fire, he’d need a lot of help on my first day and want to chat and get to know me. What books I’d been reading, or if he’d read the review of Antigone at The South Bank Centre in The Guardian. There was so much energy in creating a dichotomy between like minds.
I banged repeatedly on the door. Then shuffled a lot. Nobody was coming; maybe I’d do some shopping and make some lists in a cafe. Surprisingly the shoppers were sparse on the street, probably all ghoulishly watching the blazing inferno on their television machines. A small shop was open, yet all the nearby shops were closed, but, all I needed was a pen and some paper for my lists.  I looked for a cafe, but they were all shut. What to do? Maybe food rationing had begun, oh dear, I thought distractedly. I walked until my feet were sore, then journeyed back to the bar and banged on the door a lot louder and longer. Still no answer, this is ridiculous. You turn up a little late, I muttered and began to turn away, go to work and do some photocopying. I sighed.  I had been so looking forward to washing dishes.
A window above opened. ‘We’re closed.’
‘Because of the explosion?’ I called up.
‘What explosion? You’re drunk.’
‘No, I’ve come for the dishwashing job.’ The window closed, abruptly. What a rude man, I thought and started resolutely to walk to work. As soon as I got in the door I started to make lists. I had not covered more than two pages intending to start a third when Cleaner with breasts came in.
‘Hello.’ I cried. ‘Has there been an all clear. Life has to go on. Dunkirk Spirit etc.’ She was Polish, I don’t think she understood. I wondered if she liked Italian food.  I was going to ask, but sometimes I have difficulty speaking to British people, so I smiled as the cleaner with breasts hoovered away. I spent some time there in the dark office - I considered cold-calling- aimlessly pondering my intentions.  I called several numbers. When one answered I went into robot.
‘Do you know what the bloody time is?’ And hung up, what a world I thought, everyone was getting so rude lately.
I must have fallen asleep; a hand on my shoulder woke me up. The Boss:
‘What the hell are you doing here looking like that?’ Boss without breasts was getting a red face. Why was he angry? ‘And the paper. I know that’s you.  Do you know what the electricity bill is; you’ve been using the photocopiers 24 hours a day.  You are sacked. You know that?’
‘But won’t you need people if some of the staff is hurt in the explosion?’
‘What explosion, there hasn’t been an explosion.  I’m sorry you’re not well...’
‘...but the people, the explosion, I can help...’
‘...there hasn’t been a bloody explosion just get out of here.’
I looked at him sheepishly, unable to stifle a yawn I asked him if he could get me taxi home, his face seemed to glow with rage and he walked away.  In my defence, I scribbled at the bottom of my resignation the wonderful health benefits of photocopying and a great asset to him should he consider anger management. I signed the letter with a flourish and walked for the last time through the Doors of Cold-Calling, into I bright new wonderful world ahead of me.
I had done it. It had finally worked. I intended to get sacked and I got sacked.
Outside it was still dark. I hadn’t been in Town this late for such a long time.  I was joyful though; maybe there would be a club open.  I wanted to dance.  I hadn’t danced, not even a tango, or a waltz since Aunt Teresa took to her chair. I thought wistfully that I may never see Receptionist Breasts again. I went in what seemed to be a bar on Brig Street, bought what also seemed to be a beer but didn’t taste like it and found a seat and sat down wearily.  I was shocked, the women, no, small adults with breast were barely dressed, and the noise like a couple of cluster bombs going off in a mental asylum.  I wanted to leave, but it was slightly mesmerizing.
I was startled back into wakefulness.  There was a centimetre of beer at the bottom of the glass that the red-faced man took as he told that it was time to go home.  Outside the last few days resurfaced in my mind. ‘I should have asked the bouncer if there were any jobs going.’ I said to myself.
Somehow it was Friday morning. I tried to ascertain the time.  If I wandered around a bit until the shops opened I could get a new set of clothes.  I hadn’t been enough out the office to go gallivanting in the centre of the town with all the happy weekend people. But now I was free and I could do what I liked. I went to an all night bakers and got a couple of curry pies.  On the wall clock I saw it was still far too early. 5am only.  I clutched my curry pies and went to stand on the pavement, I turned.  There was a card saying that the manager of the bakers was looking for new staff, at the bottom of the card it said:
‘Please come in and ask for details.’
The Currypie Breasts behind the counter was making a pizza.  I went to the counter and asked her if the vacancy for the job was still available.  She looked at me as I had just slaughtered her whole family.
‘I’m a bit busy just now,’ she snapped. ‘Come back about 7 tonight, the manager will be in then’
‘Yes. Yes. I’ll do that’ I said glowing with excitement. I may never have to buy food ever again.
 I bought two more curry-pies, just in case Currypie Breast would put in good word for me.  I hung about outside comforted by the light and warmth from the bakers.  Eventually I started walking and began being grateful.  The books had told me a hundred times The Law of Gratitude was the most important part of the Secret’s premise. I was so full of Gratitude for all the people I had seen today and thoughtfully wished them well. I gave a half-asleep beggar the remnants of my curry pies. I felt such a surge of gratitude towards him as he took the food. So I went forth and walked up and down the street, saying hello to some rather unhappy people yet wished them well.  Time was passing slowly and I reluctantly went to the empty bus shelter, wondering how long I’d have to wait.  I sat on the cold plastic, but I sent a surge of gratitude and the seat almost seemed to be much more comfortable to sit on.

When the birds began to wake up and a promise of a hot blue day seemed almost certain as the sun filled the world with filigrees of gold.  I, though, was alone on the street, as if all the actors in a play had gone home to sleep, until the performance the next night.  Alone except for the blasting wind, sending rattlesnakes of empty lager cans, discarded free newspapers were swept to the unknown place where newspapers go to die, some whirl pooled in the empty street, confused about what direction to go, no doubt. A blast of wind took the cans and papers and hamburger packaging en-mass into the darkness of the amber-lit road.
Positively I told myself that there’d be a bus along any minute. A warm bus that would take me home and, in the morning I would start out on my new life, finding out what I really wanted to do. Of course the inevitable feeling that the bus will never come dispelled my attempt at suspending belief and thinking the bus would be coming round the corner...right now...no...just wait...it’ll be here in a minute. I had been sitting there for what seemed to be an hour.  With my new-found lack of faith in the buses I remember the cross, disdainful face, almost savage, of the girl in the pie shop and when I thought about it the tramp didn’t looked very pleased when I woke him to give him the pies, he  had grumbled and spluttered. I wonder if I had awakened him from a dream of another place, so beautiful it could break your heart. Regret began to slough through me, dripping into my belly like a torrent of rain.
I had to get home as soon as possible and phone some more of the job ads. Or sleep. But, there was something different about the night, it seemed special despite the town centre looking as it normally did.  I wouldn’t sleep anyway. Oh what the hell, I’ll walk and turned towards the road that snaked eight miles down the way west to my home. Marching along the pavement I startled a flock of seagulls squabbling over the remnants of a KFC Family Bucket.  I once more felt a twang of regret that I’d spoiled the seagulls’ breakfast. Slowly as my long pace slowed the reality of the situation I was in slowly sank into me like the chill of the morning with the sun not yet risen.  I thought of going back to bus-stop and to just be patient, I turned back looking down the long road, and there, turning onto it was my bus.
The road was quiet, almost lonely, the road like giant snake, grey and ugly inching onwards to some precious reward that mattered not if it took a hundred lifetimes to reach. Half a mile to the left of the road, which was lined with closed hairdressers, bars and houses that no normal human could possibly afford to buy, lay the river.  Both road and river were forever near each other, yet never knowing either were there, passing by blindly beside each other, one to the sea, the other to the mountains, they would be unaware of each other, always.
I’d have a bath when I got home, watch David Ickes’s DVD about Princess Diana’s so called death, and make some hot chocolate.  Why worry, I’ll get a job in the morning.  Wake up and set foot upon the golden path to new health happiness and everything I could ever want. I had to get home first though, and the bus was going so slow it seemed it was being aided with a Zimmer frame.  A jogger with breasts sped past on the pavement.  Instinctively I thought about Lasagne.  The sun was not yet above the tops of the sycamore trees that obscured Tudor style mansions with their massive, beautifully coiffured lawns from the plebs. Daffodils were growing in my garden when I finally made it back to base, and the stray cat was waiting for me. I picked a few stems and ruffled the cat’s fur.  She followed behind me into the kitchen and I put down some milk and cat biscuits. I had the bath I had promised myself, but soon the clattering of the letter box shocked me out of the comforting massage of the water.
Dripping water everywhere I picked up the post. Oh happy day another advert for hearing aids.  Huh, a charity for underprivileged actors and another asking me if I wanted to sponsor a tree. Three letters from credit cards tempting me to be in debt for the rest of my existence and a flier telling me all the bargains in the local shop that I never set foot in.  All except one I recycled. In a way I felt sorry for the posties who had to walk up and down the hill everyday delivering junk mail nobody with any sense would look at.  I needed a credit card like I needed a hole in the head.  Yet the way I had been feeling lately I wonder if I wasn’t already encumbered with a hole in my head. Tentatively I opened the envelope, I gasped with surprise.  It was from my second cousin Janice who was a Production Assistant for a small film company, called Croatian Clapperboard Productions.  Absently, as I read the letter a second time, I wondered if I’d seen any of the company’s films.  I mean they put any old junk on the TV these days and if Janice works for them they must be OK.
The third time I read the letter, I had finally understood it completely.  She wants me to be a catering assistant for an outside film unit as two guys had fallen ill.
I rang Janice’s mobile, not until the twenty-fifth ring did she finally answer. ‘Yeah?’
‘Janice, it’s me.  I got your letter. Do you still need someone?’
‘Need someone; we’re almost at starvation levels.  Half the crew her doesn’t know how to burn toast and the other half brought enough apricot and almond vegan energy bars and are far too busy shouting at the others to do some work.  It’s nightmare.  Can you do it?’
‘Where abouts do I have to go.’
‘Wrexham.’
‘Wrexham? What’s the film about? Football?’
‘No, it’s a masterwork by a young Croatian director about two men on a road trip through Snowdonia, on Camels. In English it means something like ‘What do we do when we get to the top?’ So to find meaning in their life they go to the funfair at Llandudno and discover a reason for living, far more exciting than starving to death in some snow and wasting a lot of tax-payers money with all the search and rescue helicopters we’d have had to call in.  I can’t give away the ending as I don’t think they’ve written it yet.
‘So can you get here as soon as possible?’
‘It’s still early; I’ll get a train at Noon and be there to make scrambled eggs and bacon for everyone. Even the camels.’
‘Oh that’s so great of you. I’ll see you soon. Mmm Scrambled Eggs.’
I put down the phone and breathed deeply, the job sounded magic, but when it came down to it I was glad Janice had never actually tasted any of the meals I made.  I could sell anything to anybody especially if there was a free parker pen and a foot massager, but there was one thing I was never good at and avoided most of my life.  Cooking.  Usually people got a little sick, even if I just peeled a potato.

O well, they’ll have a cookbook, I justified to myself on the train to Wrexham I preened in the dark windows reciting as many Shakespearean soliloquies that I could remember, until people started looking at me.
I’m sorry; I thought sarcastically I won’t do Macbeth again. Miserable sod gets everything he wants and blows it, bet he didn’t know how to fry a bloody egg.  Another part of my brain was floating into some bizarre dimension and I saw myself winning an Oscar for best catering assistant in a foreign language film. Then I fell asleep.
When I woke I was in Glasgow.  Took me a tad to realise it was Glasgow.  I asked one of the station guards whether the Eisteddfod was going to start soon.  And that I was looking forward to going on the steam train to Llanfairpwllgwyngllgogerychwerndrobwllantisiliogo-go-goch. At first I thought he was laughing because I pronounced the name wrong, so I said it again, and that set to weeping with laughter.  I turned my back on him. Lugged my bags through the station and stood at the taxi rank, someone was selling papers calling out in some ancient mystical tongue that wasn’t taught at big school. A black cab pulled up beside me.
‘Where too, big man?’ he asked.  He didn’t at all sound Welsh, I looked down at my scrawny form, what did he mean? I wasn’t fat.
‘Well I was told there was a hotel in the centre of Wrexham, I have a room booked.’  I felt the need to boast. ‘Then I’m off to Snowdonia where the rest of my film crew are.’
‘So you want me to take you to Wrexham, all the way to Wrexham.’ The driver seemed incredulous as if I had revealed the secrets of alchemy.
‘Yes Wrexham centre, the Premier Inn.’
The driver pulled out from rank. ‘Whatever, Big Man. If you’ve the cash I’ve the gas.’ About half way to England I hummed and hawed until finally I half-heartedly demanded what was going on. 
‘Glasgow to Wrexham is a fair bit, sonny, its nae just round the corner you wanted me to take you.’ My eyes though were transfixed upon on the red digits of the rising fare. I don’t have that money, I thought, or at least I thought I thought, but in my shock I must have said it aloud. The taxi almost screeched to a halt and swerved onto the hard shoulder. ‘You’re a bam, a fucking bam. Get out the taxi but leave your wallet behind, wee man.’ I was humbled by the vehemence of voice and did as he commanded. Almost at once the taxi sped off.
Forty-eight days later I found myself at home as I unlocked the door there at once I was in an overpowering smell of woman, perfumes, flesh flower humidizers, an Avalonian aroma of food cooking.  I went to my seat and it was covered with bridal mags, and a plethora of women’s magazines. Soon after that I heard singing blasting from the bathroom, she, some diva sending out into the hall such a fine voice under the soft rain of the shower.  There was a woman in my home.  I had never had women in this house, not even a cleaner when the place became intolerable.  By the side of the telly was an ungainly construct, my slow mind realized it was an ironing board.  On the edge of the sofa some clothes were folded neatly, even socks and underpants, ironed and fresh.  Had Mary Poppins come round while I was away-but, why is she using the shower?  I called up to her from the bottom or the stairs. There was a shriek, punctuated with profanities. ‘It’s alright I’m not going to hurt you. You’re quite safe if you want to come down to talk.’ It wasn’t long when she appeared at the bottom of the stairs, unfortunately dressed, though on her face was a few threads and curling tendrils of wet hair stuck upon her pale skin.
‘Who the hell are you,’ she demanded.
‘I’m the man whose lived her for fifteen years, in this bunker, my castle perhaps. I feel safe in its absence of realty, safe from the malignancy beyond my windows and doors.  I’ve almost paid one tenth of the mortgage, I’m presently without a car and my favourite singer is Mama Cass. And who the hell are you?’ I mimicked her.
‘If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.’
I began to cry. She waited a bit witnessing my shame. She seemed to bore of it and I heard her making a coffee. She came back through, cup in hand waiting patiently for my shuddering, clutching of hands and tearfall to cease. Somehow I managed to speak. ‘Don’t call the police, please.’ I sat in a chair, the worst of it over though she allowed me another few sobs before she spoke.
‘I’ve been renting this place for a couple of weeks.’
‘Who did you rent it from?’
‘Just saw a card in the paper shop. Called the number as it was so cheap. Only met the guy for a minute or too when he showed me around. I’ve paid the money into a bank account.  For three months.’ The realization that she had been ripped off engulfed her, her shoulders slunk down and I felt an ember of empathy. ‘So this is your house,’ she said weakly.
I gave her a tissue from a box on the table and she sat down beside me. ‘I’ve been away for a long time.’ I told her of my adventures. ‘That’s why I smell like a midden. God, I need a shave.’
‘Yes you do. Why don’t you have a shower and I’ll start packing my stuff.’
‘Where will you go?’ She was silent. ‘If you’ve nowhere else you can stay here. Now I’m sorry I have to have a shave before the werewolf patrol take me to the pound.’ She laughed. I ran up to the bathroom realizing I hadn’t looked once at her breasts, and that I had made her laugh. I hadn’t made any one laugh since 1997.
She called up the stairs:

‘Do you like lasagne? There’s some cooking.’  

Saturday 25 March 2017


ARMCHAIR by Adam Parry

Beyond the Dee
horses run free.
An island shoal- there-
where they bunk off school.
Find a tree of peace, do I,
and waltz over the roof of tall trees.
Dogs, humans, all seven senses
yet hardly seeing the cyclist going by
as the dogs bark their unfettered glee.

Tuesday 21 March 2017

Peace Treaty


Peace Treaty by Adam Parry

There is now a peace between
my contradictions,
an armistice
unpoepled with any but
my own thoughts.
Once I fought alone
until discovering
my allies in the war
there, always there, raging beneath my hair, and I
allying myself to theirs in their own minor wars.
Now in the one minute radio silence, they go,
and I alive and alone fight the Evil fascist might, or I might’ve
if I had not signed the treaty long, long ago
and alone in no-man’s land I dance.

Monday 6 March 2017

Can we go to Clachna Ben again? by Adam Parry


Can we go to Clachna Ben again?

All the hills and mountains
I never climbed are still there
They cannot care if I am man,
woman or mouse.
They wait, still,
under this sun, the same sun
shining as we struggled up
Clachna Ben.
Virgin again
pages unwritten. Suddenly I know what I was missing-
all those hills and mountains  I never climbed
I climbed again and again.
Always climbing but when will we go again
to Clachna Ben?

Saturday 18 February 2017


THE WILLOW PASS

A straitening of subtle reflexes
lays the sun upon her eyes
spiralling centre circles she
traces with her fingers and toes.

So high, so mighty she sits so small
cross-legged as if she had it all.
Her head held in a loving way
while wandering I witness her as if
she were a prayer and cannot
look away.

Now the willow tree lifts her up
like fresh dew
 she is a child made new.
Yes the Willow Tree lifts her up
So gladly and the wanderers, them
and you,
pass beneath the willow tree
unable not to stare at someone so, so rare.

Monday 6 February 2017

No Time by Adam Parry

Quick! There's no time to be wasted.
Run fast for the train, get on the bus pulling the day.
All the cars full of people are racing away, but we'll all
go together as slow as can be.
All over the city, all over the land
the lame and the useless are all holding hands,
whilst the rich and the beautiful
follow along and pitifully say
they don't know the way.
The joggers are running
and the sprinters don't quit.
Now the old man on the corner
has run out of booze, but follows the people for
he has nothing to lose. So.
Quick! Put on your glad rags, while music is still
playing, say one last goodbye to the sun and the stars
nod to the morning, don't lock up your house lock up the home
forget all those sadnesses - and pick up your bags.

Thursday 19 January 2017

Genetic Engineering by Adam Parry

1.
Does it reduce within me?
Poor cousin from cold hill,
when trees made houses
and only birds and insects would fly then.
Cousin Peter, too many centuries ago,
sent his blood to me in a warm fire lit room
on a rug clutching Auntie someone in his arms.
Spermheads my egg-mother now unknown
lost where no grave marked her leaving.
But, baby brother conceived my have made her leave.
New brother, sibling stepping into the shoes of
Lucy and Mark's dead dog.
Cousin Peter loved the Lord
and put baby name in the Latin book,those
speechless litanies.
He wrote his name black as the ink.
Judah named, cos Father stereotype, long, long
before the nailing of the new God on
Worm's door, said Judah than he said 'hello'.
To Peter, Lucy, Mark and Judah one more blessing
in the ill conceived tilled over ground.
Planting comes and goes, then comes the gold comes
the Harvest comes the snow.
Then Judah died, left new Mum, single babe
abandoned by time and so soon the rains fell.
Little Thomas fell below Peter's name cos mama had no time
to leave her own.

2.

So passes time, tears pass, tears less numerable
than a single storm.
With judah gone, Mum gets conned
by Joe Zander, a blacksmith from the bad side of time where
the caravans rest, and was repaid for her Home and the
land she never owned with Minah, the girl she needed in her
nightly plea to good.
Little Minah got all tangled up and lost.
Too many wars, and revolutions, too many days circling the change.
A-leaving, a passing. A thousand, thousand past lives never told
forgot.
I lost my lineage.

3.

Now here in this place.
Still. Only rain music in my only ear.
I paint a sky - slap dash: too much blue, boo-hoo.
I have a drink too many and can't afford a whore
while Gauguin wanks upon a sunflower on my kitchen floor.
I painted peasants but they made me cry.
I loved and loved but she left me to die.
One day I'll break the colourless chain of pains.
There is a field I know...
At least Theo will not have to bail me out again.
I'll be as free as the sirocco and rage in the trees.

None will come from me, it is done.
The line is broken.
I will not have to burn these endlees seeds:
sketches of daydreams, bright blue as my eyes, wide as the rivers
and cloudless blue skies.

4.

It grows in me, grows somewhere in me.
Twisted ribo-nucleotides rushing spiral-like waves.
Guanine and cytosine. No chance of escape.
Adenine and the other one.
Mismatched and unciphered, a second-hand jigsaw waiting
to be remade and fitted back two by two.
But obliterated, by change, change, no change please we're British.
Until unfigured I fell, just another statistic cleaning Gound Zero
Watching old souls go, embacing clouds in the high air.
I watched too as I rise from the twisted wreck, there I died there.
I soar and soared above the Twin Towers
a garden shrine so far away.

Wednesday 4 January 2017

A Song upon The Flame by Adam Parry

The crippled Whirling Dervish
dances the dream of mourning in his head
spinning, the uncontrollable whizzbee,
chanting the incantations at the back of tongueless mouth.
Laughing with glee as God dances with him.

He watches the vultures take his soulmate away,
with crusty, blinded eyes;
yet they do not take her smile from his mind
or the chiming laughter of her eyes.
Or even, as if she were twirling him about on a potter's wheel,
the caress of her body and hands.

The vultures chew and peck her flesh to feed their kin,
and as he steps out of the weary circle of dance
and into the undying fire of his soul
he spins and never falls-
as uncontrollable as the lightening storm-
he washes in the flame of her touch.
She gluts the greedy birds.

When all the other dancers go
he dances on
moulded and reshaped
by her tender hands.
As the night dances about him until morning,
the others find him there.
whitewashed with death,
and they feed him to the crows.