jackdaws & witches.
jackdaws & witches tapping
watches, stripping you to the bone.
some still can’t say your name
without stretching all the wrong vowels.
i hear your voice.
I’m ankle-deep in bluebells.
my red penknife unfolds.
I’m scratching your initials.
trapdoors on monday morning.
cornflowers, my boots are soiled.
the grey birds, they are clapping
the peartree in the orchard.
there is no noise
beyond the kitchen window.
the water boils
my shadow on this table.
ghost ships in the bay, like playthings.
i’m on a hill in a faux-greek temple.
you’re in the cold clouds close to heaven.
and on this beach, the waves keep falling
down, so slowly.
©nickreeves2016
postcard from kreuzberg.
someone’s teasing out a tune
from a borrowed horn
in a rented room
in kreuzberg.
i breathe in the perfume
of the afternoon
i taste bottled beer
& oranges.
the shadows rise
as the sunlight falls.
the sparrows in the scaffold sing.
in 10962.
two punks sitting on a painted wall:
barutherstrasse cemetery.
they’re reading out the names on the gravestones
& the passages, they sound like poetry to me.
the bikes slide by
like silent film.
the ghosts are dancing in the trees
on johanniterstrasse.
i spent an hour in a bookshop in east berlin.
i just browsed through the boxes.
i bought a postcard & a novel that i couldn’t read.
and i wrote upon it.
i wrote
the shadows rise
as the sunlight falls.
i wrote
the sparrows in the scaffold sing.
i wrote
the bikes slide by like silent film.
i wrote
the ghosts are dancing in the trees.
and i sent it to you.
©nickreeves2018
sloe gin.
she sends sloe gin
bottled berries from stonebarrow.
it arrives in the mail.
she dresses, she blesses
christmas trees with handmade presents.
they arrive in the mail.
i’ve taken to wearing
my wedding ring on a finger on my right hand.
i guess we all have a tale to tell.
she ain’t asking twenty questions.
but if there are answers needed
then i know she will listen.
they arrive in the mail.
let’s sit outside on the doorstep tonight.
i’ll pour sloe gin & we can watch the satellites.
christmas lights, cool constellations.
draw a moon in the condensation
& fly away.
©nickreeves2018
piccolo knives.
when i saw you last
talking too fast
with your gaulois
& your cola –
well, it just made you
look older to me.
it was dark in there,
yes, i know.
but i swear it said
bay city rollers
on that scarf
wrapped round
your neck & shoulders.
were you feeling colder?
when bowie had the english teeth
he’d grin, he’d sing, he’d laugh, he’d bark.
diamanté dogs every night of the week.
and on these streets our boots spark.
no one’s as cool as you think they are
& i’ve yet to meet a lady
who i couldn’t send half crazy.
i’d give her all my greenshield stamps,
both my lava lamps,
lovehearts & spangles for her piccolo knives.
we all have habits
– hard to break them.
my soul to shake them.
but don’t mistake them
they’re just piccolo knives.
don’t mean to bore you
but i have to ask you, dollface,
have you heard the latest?
it’s by the piccolo knives.
and she said,
if corduroy is the cloth of kings,
throw away dirty denim jeans
& walk away.
cut up your favourite cheesecloth dress,
your silly ché guevara vest,
let’s call this a day.
©nickreeves2011
shades.
i won’t be meeting you
this coming sunday afternoon.
i won’t be holding hands
with strangers, friends or parents, families.
i don’t have no work arrangenments,
prior engagements, unforeseen circumstances.
it’s just,
i’ve seen the future.
the bruises will not suit you.
stop wrapping rocks in paper
& living in your shades.
stop bouncing off the lampshades.
i don’t want to read about
your sad departure
in the paper.
i just want to hear you laughing,
take you dancing
every evening.
i don’t have no work arrangements,
prior engagements, unforseen circumstances,
it’s just,
i’ve seen the future.
the bruises will not suture.
stop wrapping rocks in paper.
living in those shades.
stop bouncing off the ashtrays.
you tell me not to worry.
you ask me what’s my hurry.
girl, you’ve thrown him on the fire now.
so let’s pass the lighter round
& get this fire started.
©nickreeves2004
magic sam.
he started pulling these paperbacks
from a pocket at the back of his knapsack.
he started filling up the evening sky
with his magic.
we started pushing to the front of the crowd
to get a better look at him.
sammy came to woo this town.
he came home with some cuts to his dome
scratched & swollen in his stolen clothes.
he wipes his sleeve across his nose.
sammy says it’s so confusing now,
if no one’s listening how
do they expect to get back home?
your world is full of stories
old vinyl & ufo kids.
i heard him on the radio.
tiny little shiny sparks
explode into the dark
when he walks in a room.
there’s rows of exclamation marks
& lots of questions asked
& soon
the air is filled with tunes.
©nickreeves2004
hollow legs.
i felt alone at home
so i took off for the summer.
these hollow legs will carry me.
don’t worry, ma
i’ll write a letter later.
sitting on some beach
wearing cheap sunglasses.
i watch the waves unfolding
wish it was you i was holding.
i’m wondering when
will this summer end?
here is a joke.
i hope you like it second time around.
i’m licking stamps
to stick on postcards
homeward bound.
here is where i stand
pissing milk into the sand.
i’ll float awhile
but then i’ll drown.
©nickreeves2004
loose lips.
with his heart the size & shade of tangerine.
pale blue comb all caked in him,
in vaseline.
he’s on a field in agincourt
beneath the wooden rain.
sad to see the old man crying.
we went to a party late last night.
lots of faces there.
all my old girlfriends decay.
they decay.
we shake hands & everything.
hey, it’ll be alright.
we shake hands & everything
everything will be ok.
we failed in & out of love.
we found strength in things
we never even dreamed off.
i’m soaking up the morning sun.
i know your name
but your face i have forgotten.
she said to me
loose lips sink ships.
we sail through highs & lows
depise & discuss all we know.
avoid daily confrontations.
keep it easy, read the text.
©nickreeves2012
local lo-fi scene
on the road, on the same old circuit.
there’s no drum riser,
or backstage rider.
playing for a fiver
to a bunch of local boozers!
oh, she cried.
she went outside.
in the snow,
‘i’ve got your demo on my stereo.’
from bristol uni to bath ‘moles’.
from plymouth rock to westward ho!
is this the camden falcon?
i don’t think so.
oh, she cried,
as you signed
the sleeve of your limited first e.p.
‘don’t you know, you’re the kings of the local lo-fi scene!’
have you heard?
‘the top ten recording stars of the earth have just died
in their studio, in their studio.’
i just heard!
word!
don’t you know
you’re the kings of the local lo-fi scene.
don’t you know
you’re the queens of the local lo-fi scene.
©nickreeves2000
the directors cut.
do that thing that directors do
with their thumbs and fingers
oh, please do.
set me a scene,
feed me a line
cos i need direction.
on the southbank show this evening
(by the way, this is melvyn speaking)
i’m in conversation with
two of the best directors of their generation.
we’ve got sir david lean
in the studio,
you know,
this happy breed.
and, in a moment or two,
up there, on the screen,
that weirdo
david lynch.
we’ve got a satellite link
via l.a.
(david lynch appears on the screen)
it’s like some dream scene from twin peaks.
he opens his mouth and he speaks.
but i can’t understand.
what’s he saying?
there’s issue with what he’s relaying.
it’s delaying
it’s delaying
it delays!
now, melvyn’s nothing if not professional.
i heard somewhere
that he’s an intellectual.
the kind of guy who knows his elbow from his arts.
so he swivels round in his chair
and he glances at both directors
and he cups his chin in his hand
and he asks…
‘now, tell me, you two,
what’s with the haircut?
side-parting, 1950s fringe.
what do you ask for when you’re in the barber’s chair,
when you go for a trim.
and, tell me, you two,
what’s with the white shirts?
are they ironic?
buttoned up to the chin.
do you go to the same dry cleaner?
and discuss your latest scene or film?
but i can’t
understand
what they’re saying.
there’s some issue
with what they’re relaying.
it’s delaying.
it’s delaying.
it delays!
©nickreeves2007
nickreeves 