Gordon stepped low through the doorway, a little pot in each hand. He laid one on the table, his fingers gently nudging it so that the silver teaspoon handle pointed up at me, gleaming eagerly. Inside was a warm lump of pudding bathed in tendrils of melting ice cream.

We were sitting in the corner of his café after hours. He’d owned it for years and years, almost for the whole time I’d called him my friend. It was hard to remember the man who’d left high school burning with desire to be a private chef, to train across the world in different bars and restaurants and write a book of his culinary adventures.

“Don’t wait for me to start,” Gordon said, “Tuck in. We sold out but I made some more before you came because I know how much you like my sticky toffee.”

I smiled. It didn’t have the warmth that I intended it to, though.

Gordon stared at me, so I plucked up the spoon and scooped a mouthful. It was nice. Very nice. But I’d had it every Thursday evening since I could remember. And sometimes more often if we met up on other nights. Sometimes even perfection becomes tasteless.

“Did you have a hard time getting back today?” Gordon gazed at me across the table.

“No. It was alright.” I ate another mouthful.

“How’s the girlfriend?”

“She’s fine. She’s in a state of grief that we’re back from Ibiza but I think she’ll recover.” I tried a little laugh, but it came out short. I was very tired. Probably jetlagged, actually. I had no energy.

“Well, I’ve missed you, mate.” Gordon’s eyes were searching. “You were gone for weeks, I didn’t realise it was planned for so long.”

“Well - I bumped into an old friend and stayed longer.”

Gordon raised his eyebrows. “Older than me? Wow.” He grinned.

I snorted. “No, mate. No one’s older than you, Gordon grandpa.” I laughed, leaned forwards and slid my bowl back onto the table, finished.

“You’ve left some pud. No one leaves pud!” Gordon glared accusingly at me, only half joking.

“I wasn’t hungry, mate. I … I ate before.”

Gordon picked up the bowls with one quick hand movement and stood, apron flapping. He swept back to the kitchen counter, taking them with him without a word.

I glared at the black floor, guilt gnawing my insides. I should have remembered how important Gordon’s offerings of food were to him - to us, to our friendship. Back when my parents couldn’t buy me lunch and he would bring in cakes and breads and share them with me over the dinner hall benches. I’d forgotten these things while I was away.

Once,

One day,

The monkeys came into my garden,

One by one.

It was a wonder,

How they’d wandered in.

Perhaps through that one hole in the fence,

I should have patched it up long ago.

One wonders where they came from originally

From one zoo?

From another owner?

Were they all close to one another?

Twice, they visited.

The first time, I was too astounded to

Do anything to them.

All I could manage was to watch and to stare

At the two of them there

They had furs of black, and gold too,

Truly shining, in the sun.

The second time I had to do something.

They were too noisy, too strange, the two of them.

So I got my gun and shot

One.

Thrice, I fired at the tree,

But the monkey leapt free,

Darting across the sky into the eves

Of another free tree.

How I hate the

Thought of monkeys

Running wild, running free,

Three of them now, in my trees.

I reload and shoot to kill one

I shoot to kill two, too

But three evades me one too

Many times.

Rage bubbles in my belly.

Four monkeys appear for the fourth time,

Hands in hand, one by one, two by two,

Three by three and four by four.

An army of chimps for me to shoo away.

I groan for mercy, I groan for some better luck.

Why for the love of god are there four and more monkeys,

Wandering through my garden?

For the last time, I pick up my rifle. For once, I’m too tired to fire.

I feel free.

I hand the rifle, I hold it up in the air in one hand, for five monkeys to see.

“Fine, you five shoot me.” I say,

And the five fire away.

Twilight

At night

They came running in, one by one

The monkeys

Heading for

Fruits and feed

Left on my front lawn

I grabbed my gun

Go on! Leave!

I snapped and shot and

Shot spread across the garden

I am the guardian of my lawn

And the monkeys are not welcome

Any more.

My father, he loved them,

My mother, she loved him,

So the monkeys kept on coming

And coming

And coming

When my pair of parents ruled this house

But I’m not them.

I hate the monkeys.

Each time they come it reminds me

You are not here.

You can’t hear

And so without fear

I pick back up my gun

And fire another round,

And another round,

Again and

Again.

One monkey clambers up a tree

To look at me

I raise my gun

But I can’t shoot

It’s smiling eyes and

Its wet mouth

Dare me to take such a pretty thing

Out of life

I can’t.

I’m sorry.

It’s only a young one.

I lower my gun.

It’s not for fun.

Then what is it for?

I stare around my lawn.

There are bodies littered back and

Forth.

At least four are still alive,

Crawling, scrabbling,

Shot with shot in their back,

But still breathing somehow

My heart is hollow.

I’m sorry mother

I’m sorry father

I turn and shoot the struggling monkeys

To put them sound to sleep.

Four gun blasts

And a quiet yard.

So quiet.

I wish you were still here.

I cannot live with these monkeys

As your memories

One day they will all be dead

And I won’t remember you,

I’ll move on

Instead.

Out of the wreckage I lumber,

Wounded, and a wounder.

A fool. An ass. A flounder

Who hurt three best friends

In one foul swoop.

But still the cards are hidden from me.

I can't play this game any longer.

So I hold onto to my surest cards,

My oldest singers and my bards,

Hug them close to my chest and

Pray

to whatever governs the rules of happiness,

That even when the stack of cards come crumbling from my hands,

When my ace becomes a one,

When my queens become jackasses

And my knights ride away from me into the setting sun -

That

I will still be standing, with one last card.

There is always someone

Willing to play for you, to play with you.

They stand by you

Through the thick and thin.

And those that return,

Those that stay,

Those that can’t help but flutter

Back and forth, within your lines,

That's when you spy their ghost in the machine.

So hold on, if you can.

For the stronger you hold, the more ghost they become.

It's a light touch, it's a smooth current

Your hand is your one for a reason.

After everything, it’s still you.

But who are you? It's hard to tell.

Each day brings a new you,

A new face,

New ideas,

Other people,

Bubbling at the edges, ready to change your mindset.

And out go the old ideas,

Old identities,

Things you would prefer to forget

Discarded on the road behind.

The road is long and its confusing.

Sometimes there are accidents and the traffic stops -

And you have to wait to decide how best to carry

on

Sometimes you have to take a new route entirely.

As you grow taller, stronger, wiser,

You learn how to dodge the cars and cyclists and buses

Hurtling towards you, one day you even block them in their path

Raise them on your head

Throw them in a gulley beside the road

Smiling.

These dangers are no concern of yours.

You are new.

You is a new you.

But still, it makes you wonder sometimes

When you look back along the road

At all the parts that slipped from your back

Littered in your wake

Like the skins of a grass snake

Have you lost too much of yourself?

Are you no longer you? After everything?

But it is the road that makes a person

As well as the face and skin you walk in

At this very moment.

Roads cross and overlap and one day they all hit a dead end.

But in the litter left behind

In the person striding forwards

The you is there, after all.

It’s everything

That makes you

When the world sinks around me

When I feel I'm drowning

I turn to the things of the younger me

The happier me.

I dig up my cards

I boot up my xbox

I tune up the songs on my personal mobile radio

Getting

Lost all over again between the

Words and thoughts of my youth the

Channels of joy, the old tracts of passion

Lost

But still here. Still breathing.

The passage of time between then and now

It brings me back to safety.

For if I lived once, was happy even once

I shall one day lose myself in happiness once

More.

Little feet

Big old ears longer than your tail

Rolling in the snows

Drinking muddy ponds

He came from far away

But he's here to stay

Now

Our Jimbobby Dog

Its cold on the frosty pitch. You take up your position beside the other boys, the bigger boys. The colder boys. They don't like to look at you, standing in your red jersey while they wear green.

BANG

and the race is on. Blood and sweat and tears. Someone goes down just in front of you, slipping on the icy, slushy ground. But you forge on.

Another day, another time. The bigger boys are not so big any more. You are among them, still dressed in a jersey - the team jersey for your county. But somehow even in white vests, the glow of red and green still shines on through.

The greens stand apart from you, holding their heads high. And BANG

off goes the race again. This time its bigger. This time its colder, and more slippery with more ice than ever before. The battle is on. Bodies fly up and down hills, feet pumping, arms pumping. You have never run so fast in your life.

Someone goes down just in front of you. It's a green, dressed in mud-splattered white. You hold out a hand, and

stop. "Are you alright? Come on Merseyside!"

He grabs your outstretched arm and leaps back to his feet. He stares you in the eye. Not a word is said, but you feel the ice wall between you crack and fracture. As you run on, side by side, not leaving him behind, the day doesn't seem so cold anymore.

Winter always leads to springs in your steps eventually.

Talent

Inside the womb

Comb carefully and you might

See

Talent bloom

From the hairs of the mother

Grow

Taller

And taller and

Taller

Still

And thus talent

Is born

My opponents always go green eyed and complain about my luck. I'm a bit of a local legend at poker, always with a brew of herbal tea at my side, a blessing for my luck. People say its witch blood - all red and thick and tinted as red wine. But they're just your typical coach potato, never taking the time to study. They don't know that the rain is the luck and the practiced skill is the sun that makes the poker rainbow.

I smile, lay down my hand. A rainbow of black and red. A royal flush.

I pat them on the shoulder, I shake their hands. I know they are screaming red rage inside, but they just nod and smile. "You're one lucky clover, ain't ya," one guy says, shaking his head.

I scoop up my winnings and run to the bathroom. I dance a little victory jig and flush my royals that were hidden up my sleeve down the toilet.

There is skill in making it rain and shine, every day.