By: Simon Heathcote

Catholic Cuts in the Schism

Thick black hair sashaying in clumps
like gold leaf bestowed on Toni’s
Small Heath shop — I was the grandson
of the local vicar who smiled and waved
down the High Street like reruns of a papal visit — 
and in the window startling photographs
of young Italian men immaculately coiffed
breeze blocks & triangular wedges
sitting like golden crowns atop peacocks
proudly defiant while I was too short
to touch ground — it didn’t matter.
As soon as the master touched my curls — 
barber or hypnotist counting down ?— I was gone
five years old high as any junkie
baptised by incoming jets of holy water
sliding anxious glances to mother
directing operations through the mirror
until the lollipop finale — but all I wanted was
lift off, spinning chairs & Toni’s
fingers running through my hair.

Pirates of the Backyard

Her laundry was sailing across the lawn
when we shot it, alabaster sheets hoisted on barrels
of wind & shaped like a schooner once seen
at Bristol Docks — a memory inviting mayhem
& air guns, a shot from the south to blur
directions, spread confusion & pose questions
about the shooter’s location.
We were just two teens having fun
but to the housewife preparing her whites
a scourge holed up in an upstairs room
wilting in the tectonic summer of ’76
restless as two young gods testing their power
knowing only mischief & first chokes
of cider under a railway bridge where
no fathers lived to rein us in as piracy turned
sour and our ship ran aground in the coming storm

Therapy Hour

They want to share their dreams
but memory means slippage & only slight
snatches appear from the mist — 
insanity to the layman.
Why don’t you keep a pad
by the bed? I keep saying
but the dreamer has no truck
with logic so the dreams keep getting away.
Common sense & unicorns &
limbs facing the wrong direction
don’t mesh in the land of the brave.
See if you can remember next time
but each week it’s the same.
A man is chasing me down a dark alley
in a fedora and no pants then runs into
a cloud and disappears. He looks up
forlorn and sweaty but the look
says hope and the clue is in the look.
Suddenly, he’s five again on a quest
smacked hard into the kerb
of un-love we all hit.
Time’s up, I say, time’s up.

The Pianist

The staggered walk & pale hands
reach out tenderly towards
the keys, blind eyes creasing
in residual hope of sight
the distinction of black from white
only touch can decree.
And seated at the stool
her hands pour out their lonely melody
a lifetime streaming through
slender fingers, human & instrument
fused into one lover creating
feelings she could not find alone
as if God himself had fallen
from a precipice & cupped her frail skin

How the World Goes
It’s the same in any city
analgesic sirens pour out
their warning
high-pitched waves screaming
Get out of the way, we’re coming!
And you imagine the poor
heart attack victim
or an old woman ashen-faced
following a stroke in the kitchen
the smashed vehicle of decadent youth
who imagined they could fly like Icarus
stunned into hard truth
Or, more cynically, a table in a station
where tea has gone tepid now cold
as if those we love to eulogise
are simply human after all

I heard all the stories during a night-time
ride-along beneath a sliding moon
as a young reporter on the back seat
of a cop car issued with brusque warning
What happens on tour stays on tour
politics of police and press relations
carved in stone yet unwritten
pushing a narrative, which is defined
as a story and therefore untrue