Humid days in the country

a smell fills the kitchen: something

like shit but it's lively. a little

like mushrooms. the smell on the river 

when guinness is boiling up 

hops. you can tell it's been forced

into corners, I think – can tell it's compressed

in the pipes and released. character sits 

like a cat on a dustbin. like mushrooms

on half-rotten logs. the toilet backed up

on the weekend. we opened the lid

and saw shit-stains of toilet paper

like someone had shredded 

my favourite light-tan leather jacket. 

I flushed it away, but occasional smells 

fill the kitchen and errand

to the rest of downstairs in the house;

it's not actually foul, but they are living

smells. once in the portobello bedsit 

I woke in the morning 

to the landlord with chemicals

clearing the outlet outside. 

this is better than that; you could tell

it would kill an infection. this is just 

humid days in the countryside, driving

with a sudden mood for hot cabbage soup.

Once I could rattle

a machinegun – the keyboard. 

wrote long paths through london – 

through dublin and out to new york. 

I burned forests. burned fields.

drank my liver black matchstick. 

lived in wet bedsits and burned them

like cracking green wood. glasses 

and plates in my sink shattered 

sympathy. loud banging all night

with a lamp on. a table. I envy 

myself – my speed, the ability 

to aim without aiming; just guess

and take shots – there were always

more words – they're not

sacred. the words were 

a hammer, the papers

all slabs of shaped stone – 

hewn rough as old idols 

of gods found with moss on. 

they were me – I was god. 

as young as and as muscled – I was hungry.

was thirsty. I was god. 

I wonder – I type now with my wife

in the kitchen. she's making decaf

and the radio onto a talk-

show. I'll come out later on 

with six poems about her to show

and we'll talk about plans 

for a friend's daughter's christening. 

I don't make things up – and life

is much slower now. my rage

is anxiety – I tell on myself. 

Everyone knows everyone

and everyone’s business. 

a neighbour drinks whiskey, 

smokes and does amateur 

carpenting. knocks over

old chairs; curses

through cracks

on his windows. 

it's a village. I’m 10.

we go down the corner; 

the shopkeeper helps 

out some lady, the fool. 

we walk home with pockets

of gummies and gumballs,

planning to throw them

at cars on the seafront

full of people down

just for the day. 

outside of the pub

men are smoking with coats on.

I'm shy, but darren,

my holiday buddy,

snags a couple of ends

from the empties.