THESE WORDS HAVE TRAVELLEDPoems by David White

MOMENTS WHEN GOD WASN’T WATCHING

You checked my pulseTen times a dayMaking sure that somewhereA clock is still tickingInside meSlowly beating timeUntil nature gets the better of evolutionAnd sends me back to the wormsBut as your hand makes contactI will smile a secretAnd wish a dozen starsHappy for the years givenMoment when god wasn’t watchingFor I know I livedAnd when I have passed beyondThe floor of my footprintsMy tread will continueTo kick up dust thatWill fill your mouthWhen you start to speak.

–the last one for Anita

THOSE OF YOU WITH SOULS

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Listen,Those of you with soulsBetterGet to the back of the lineThey are notSelling ticketsTo the rest of your life yet.

PUSHING THE KARMA

The birthday card is a great way of marking ageThe cash card is a perfect way to enjoy lifeThe karma card is a good way to see whether You have any credit left with the banker upstairs.

SWEEP THE CARPET

The pace is slowLike the heatCreeping into poresCreating a creature of sweatThat clings to the cheap cut shirtThe information is deadIn the non-moving airSweep the carpet under itselfAnd allow the moment to live

BEEN COUNTING

Been counting the hairsOn the back of the hand in front of meSo close – I count twenty six.Twenty six individual hairsMark my journey on this busTo talk about domestic violenceWith a group of young people.Who said community filmmaking doesn’t Involve needing to think beyondThe hand of hair in front of you.

DANCING WITHIN

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Be stillLet the air inThen out againMake a smileOut of brown paperAnd wax lips

Be stillLet the sight inThen out againMake a laughOut of spaceAnd a Chaplin shaped moustache

Be stillLet the sound inThen out againMake a mistakeOut of loveAnd a need for validation

Be stillLet the past inThen out againMake a foolOut of the mirrorAnd the reflection dancing within

BEDTIME THOUGHT

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Hate is the quick way to find out whether or not your phone bill needs paying.Remember the baby hedgehog is not affectingly known as “hedge” nor “hog” but sweetie.

Woody Allen has a small gerbil powering his famous black rimmed glasses and his name is Andrew. He likes Stardust Memories and Woody’s earlier funny films like Take The Money and Run.

A catapult does not come with a free cat no matter how many you buy.Money is paper and metal but food is fruit, vegetable or animal – let’s cut out the middle man.

Children know the best secrets.Dinner parties are a concept made up by table makers.The tango is the dance of recyclable cans.The kangaroo keeps a small portable hairdryer in its pouch for those special moments.

Memories are your minds way of getting you to buy a camera and a photograph album.

The rumba-ba is the dance of drunken elephantsMy friend Edward is available for weddings, funerals and alien abductions, but not necessarily in that order.

Poetry is a dying art form with an itchy trigger finger.Cost effective space travel is standing inside a locked wardrobe.Life on Mars helps you work, rest and play with multi-million dollars of other people’s money.

Castrating cats in order to make them meow higher was common practice in Jesus’ day.

Computer Screen Savers equal lazy eye balls.List of absurd thought is my way of telling me I should go to bed.

Good Night.

FRACTURED SPEECH

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Thursday nightAnd fractured speechFrom the street of restaurants and hairdressersFilter through my rented curtainsDrowning the misery on the televisionWith misery from the road belowThe he said, she said generationEat pizza and discuss their impending Credit card purchases for the monthAs the laughter and well wishesSeem a little too hollow to be warm sentimentAnd as I shut my windows to their worldA sense of jealousy spreads through my bodyThere was a time I would be down thereLost in the inanity of nowBut as I slam the latch homeI remember all my speech, fractured or otherwiseComes from the pastLike ghosts through radio static

SKETCHES ON THE WALL

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I drawMy family who I love deeplyI drawMy nephews smileI drawEdward who smiles in imaginationI drawA movie by JarmanI drawThe poetry of BukowskiI drawThe painting of HopperI drawThe photography of MichaelsI drawMy head full of rainI drawMy heart full of rainbowsI drawMy soul chatting to GodI drawPotential through an open doorI drawA home with a warm centreI drawMoments in my passingAs sketches on the wall

ALL COSTINGS THE EARTH

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Shut offClimbing my wallsCalling my own bluff

The mask slipped on, and me rocking,warming to its pride

Padlocked all the obvious placesThat I could hideAnd hidden the key in plain sight

Empty snow globes looking for BognorBad hair cuts I have knownNothing fits

With money in my walletI have seen the right way to shop But found nothing in my size

I have emptied these pagesA thousand time beforeLike a soul shaped ashtray

I have a leaky pen that seeps into my eyesthat snaps over paragraphsAnd pencil sharpened rhymes

I have taken my fistsAnd beat glassTill the cracks turned to a paint by number portraits

Nothing answers the sameMaking the words I writeUnfeeling, emotionless a dirty rotten shame

Glass half fullWater half emptyAll costing the earth.

Shut offClimbing my wallsCalling my own bluff

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UNDERLINED

The heart of any welcomeIs the smile you get in the goodbye.

The eyes give away the meaningBut lips were meant to lie.

Steel embrace makes you a strangerCotton wool memories at play.

We list what is about to come afterWithin the walls of commerce we pray.

I was always told thatCourage favours the bold.

Clinical truth underlinedBy inner demons at play in the bank of the world.

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WHERE I SIT

Standing stillWhile the world movesThe sound seeps into the eyesBringing me waterFor the fire raging in my head

Thoughts clatter into each otherAnd mix with open wounds of wordsDrifting like smoke acrossThis place where I sit.

USED MOMENTS

Used momentsWrapped in brown paperAnd tied up with borrowed stringAre stacked gentlyIn the lost luggage of my mind

I will open them one dayWhen the sun has met the moonAnd I sleep with the ghostsOf my father.

VELCRO BELLY

I unzip my belly every night andTake it off its Velcro hooksAnd hang it on the back of my bedroom door.

I reach into my wardrobe and take my six packBrad Pitt replacement from its hangerAnd slide it gently on careful not to crease it

I strike a posePull on the rest of my clothesAnd wake up to the bathroom mirror

I shave and I brush my teethAnd once more I am forced to be me for just one more day

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DONE ON TIME

Slow comfortAt the expense of gettingIt done on timeFiddling with the grey momentsMake the dull ones shine likeLighthouses from the hazeOf impenetrable verse and blank pages.The ink looks clumsyLike a drunk spiderTaking a walk with an invalided lover.Got no time left between thought and formBecause like most beginningsMetaphysical or physicalThe point is soon lost toSlow comfortAt the expense of gettingIt done on time.

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SPEAK GENTLY

Bold day dreamNot in the day yetLife is but a thoughtIn the plans of a day shown the doorAs the shutters peelAnd the mind slowlySleeps away.

Cast in stone that legendsHave created in hasteMythical testimony givenBy gentle fools.They pretend that they’ve seen god in the snowSpeaking gently for themAnd claim that heSpeaks gently for me as well.That’s why I can’t hear him then.Maybe he should speak up.

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NEW LIFE

New life is a gift wrappedChristmas present at Easter.Unexpected but it sureResurrects you belief in creation.

HILLS AND HOME

The man with the grey hairFiddles with his bike lightBatteries deadHis red breaks failingEven before wheels touch roadAnd he plundersHead long down towards hills and home

WHAT GIVES

What I don’t understandIs how a thin man gets fatFrom living on a dietOf bullshit, coffee and cigarettes?Whilst as a fat man I don’t get thinFrom living on the same diet.What gives?

TIME LAPSE BABY

Time lapse babySpinning through my eyesRolling cigarettes on bronze thighsYou never stay stillClouds moving over fast hillsStreet life mergesLiving on the verges of nightMaybe, maybe tonightTonight we don’t fightTime lapse baby.

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A TO B WARRIOR

Travel cushionWell seasoned ticket holderNot scared to makeHer front roomThe carriage of this 14.29 from Lancing train.M and S lunchAnd the booker prize winnerHer inner dialogue travel companion As she speeds her wayTowards, Barnham, Cosham or Southampton town.She is a traveller with discountsAn A to B warriorWho has been fighting this war of public transport.A veteran who still cuts a valiant pathThrough England’s green and car conquered lands.

FOOT NOTES

I remember every timeWe were naked and lying to each other.Like truth mattered only as farAs the bedroom door.Beyond that,The streets, the heavens, the solar eclipseWere but foot notes to a storyWe told through jest in orderTo help the medicine of losing go down.

NICE PAPER HAT

It is not important.Shallow as a puddleCaught in the zip of the skyThe eyes blacken fromThe bruises given by ageThe face folds at the edgesAnd a nice paper hat emergesTo be rested on the head ofGod’s next promise.

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RING TONE

Soul Out:The street posterHome craftedUser of bill gates multi fontal approachColour splashed Epson printed proclaiming

Soul Out:Millions crawl toA light set by a manNamed Trevor and a crewOf roadies reading Ted Hughes poems.

Soul Out:The words are middleOf the road class definersMashed into spatially aware Sound systemsAnd cribbed Pink Floyd back beats

Soul Out:The praise is instantLike a pot noodle dream vomited After the night before.

Soul Out:Tomb stones and epitaphsPithy moments to decompose by

Soul Out:A t-shirt in a half price saleWorn by studentsWho never will understandThat when we said we felt itMeans we were thereAnd we had the moneyTo band wagon onto Someone else’s dream.

Soul out:Forgotten by Tuesday lunch timeAnd the delete of a polyphonic ring toneFor the new oneComing down the well worn line.

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SON CALLED THOM

What do I know?

As he lays there staring at shadows.As he lays there unable to explain his needsAs he lays there attempting to smile to disguise the windAs he lays there looking at meAs I stare in wonderWhat do I know?

I know

He is feed by his MummyLoved by his DaddyHe is feed by his DaddyLoved by his MummyBasic, raw, primal I know my friendsHave a wonderful sonCalled Thom that they feed and loveAnd that’s all I ever need to know.

- For Graeme, Rachel and Thomas Brunnel Scarfe

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THEY TELL ME

They tell me this should mean somethingThat my words should have the rightStops and commasAnd wider underpinned dramaThey tell me not to be personalBlunt, obviousLacking in vocabularyThey tell me the subject ofMy mind revolves around basic structuresThey tell me I must observe fish or treesAnd not my sphere of immediate influenceThey tell me that in order to poetryYou must suffer a thousand deathsAnd then some.They tell me honesty is not alwaysAppealing when written in rhyming coupletsThey tell meI’m not as good as I hope I am

And I what do I say in reply:

Fuck ‘em!

Is that being a punctuated, underpinned, personal, blunt, obvious, lacking, basic, observed and honest poet enough for you?

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POLITE GRUNTS MAKE ME FEARFUL

Polite grunts make me fearfulThat the speech that follows Is going to beLess than complementary

ButI sitCigarette poisedFor a lightAnd the passing of Olympian knowledge

And it comesIn disguiseDressed up and sweetly sickLike a sunset chocolate box

I have been here many times beforeOnce, when she left me(The day I realisedPromises meant nothing)

And onceWhen they promised I would returnTo finish what I startedAnd like her return, she didn’t, so I never did

So here I sit againIn the same moment – same feelingSmiling as my cigarette is lit Waiting for the polite grunt to pass

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INSTANT GUT REACTION

The vision they are all afterIs something that needs more thanA few seconds thought or instant gut reaction.Everyone needs it tomorrowAnd I have trouble thinking through today.

I admit

To seeing nothing beyond my four wallsAs dreams are not worth my effort anymoreNot since they were stolenAnd used by someone who didn’t need them.

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DIRTY RING

The water makes a dirty ringAnd I have yet to cleanse myselfIt is holy blessed by Madonna (during her Papa don’t Preach phase)Holding my soap on a rope aloftLike the grail found or lostAnd once againThis turns to blasphemyAnd abstractionMeaning nothing is in my soulTo give

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BITCH SLAP

She stands hands onChild bearing hipsSmoking a cigarette I gave herBreasts up highSo the curves suit her

She curses me outMea culpaMea culpaEven though I don’t knowWhat I’m responsible for

She bitch slaps meTaps right into whatMakes me tickWinds me like a clock dailyToo goddamn tight to play

And I’m helplessStruck dumb by it allLogic is storming out the doorThrowing a hissy kicking fitPleased to be leaving a place It feels it doesn’t fitLeaving me to fight alone

Now she turns awayTakes what little I savedFrom those “beautiful” moments beforeAnd makes sure I hear the doorAs she slams it shutOn my belief

Been dreamingLost in the days screamingRushing and pushingMaking my way throughGotta try and get over you

- okay so I lied, this is for Anita to (sue me)

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WINDOWS ON ENGLAND

Golden sunSetting on my travel throughGreen and brownA pallet I never bore ofNo matter where I call home

THE ONLY BLOND IN THE ROOM

The only blond in the roomWears pink and speaks softlyBattling the noise of the shopping centreShe has to tell him somethingThat he must understandAnd leans in all body languageAnd eye contactHoping the words willLay like concrete in the air between themAnd cement the days to come.

NEW YEARS DAY 2005

My silent fast food visionSees the family swap tea cupsAnd Danish like New Year’s resolutionsGenerations talking quickly though commoditiesHot until the steam evaporates.This is a temple,Almost as important as a churchWith more humour, life and commitment.Young, old and the indifferent fenced inBy the twinkle of shop lightsCommercial falling stars to be wished onAnd picked up but then paid for.Last night they celebrated the changingOf the old into the new.Today, like me, they sit and take teaStill in the old, but discounted by 50%And we smile to ourselvesKnowing for onceWe have a bargain in lifeThat didn’t cost us as much beforeChrist was born.

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STEPS TO HAPPINESS

10/1/05 – 6663 – Monday with no smile good morning11/1/05 – 05212 – Tuesday with rain on the way to work12/1/05 – 05946 – Wednesday with power cut lateness13/1/05 – 03347 – Thursday with puss eyed sight14/1/05 – 05616 – Friday with Quorn shaped lasagne15/1/05 – 11039 – Saturday while the film turns

IMPLODING SLOWLY UNTIL YOU STOP MOVING

This thing implodes in on itselfA scratching sensation A creeping illness that was never thereWhen the alcohol, fast food and cigarettes dominatedYou are convinced that the quacksAre bullshitting you becauseFor once you see the word obese writtenAs the major cause of your neurosisBut it has to be more than thatMore than soft lifeAnd indulgence at the teatMaybe I am bullshitting myselfFilling my days with excusesToo scared for chanceAnd a smile that means more than it really isI realise that I haven’t cried in nearly five yearsWhen I use to cry at the morning sunAnd god days in the parkImploding slowly until you stop movingAll the exercise I get these days

SCAR ON YOUR NOSE

Seeing theScar on your noseMeant that I was homeFor perfectionIs an unfinished face.

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14” LOVER

I constantly mistakeWatching televisionAs a meaningful way of interacting with lifeThe cathode-ray tube by my windowIs my 14 inch loverDeep as a puddleBut entertaining at two in the morningWhen I can’t sleepWe keep each other companyAnd sometimes this company is keptWith sign language for the deafTonight I will see celebrities detoxingIn the HimalayasAnd screaming at each other As they evacuate their bowels for my entertainmentI find myself wonderWhether Magenta DeVine takes off her sunglassesWhen she has sex?Now I have spurned my loverI have flicked the off buttonAnd for the first time in a whileThere is silence as I write thisI have put my fourteen inch lover to sleepAnd all I have for company in my headIs the noise from the streetIt scares meAs I try so hard to drown out lifeWith noise, noise, NOISE!When did I stop living and who can I blame?

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DRINK WITH ME

I missed somethingOn the way to somewhereA beauty that was deepBut told me very littleI held a mirror up to my noseTo check for my breathNot trusting my pulseNot trusting my heart beatRobbed a thousand times beforeAlong with my Tintin and Astrix comicsSomething and somewhereIs a sense in the back of my headWhich I can’t shake or defineI use to be a happy drunkAnd now I don’t even drink with me anymore.

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FALLEN NIGHTS MAKE WAY

I have been blessed TouchedBy the very soul of youCaught up in the time of youLeft in the wake of youAnd now I sit and sleep

Fallen nights make wayAs the sun yawns

Missed you at breakfastAnd the wet towels on the floorMissed the way you alwaysAsked for more

I have been blessedBecause I keep the fear of flying

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BITTER SWEET WALK TO….

Mirror sings me a songMakes me understandThe walls maybe whiteBut there seems to be bloodOn these handsDon’t abandon all hopeJust because the clouds show you noneCan’t you hear the breath between the raindrops?On a bitter sweet walk to…

I thought I saw you standing Next to me, just for a secondI could hear your heart beatThen like the rainbow cursed by the sunYou left my eyesOn a bitter sweet walk to….

And I knew sadnessLike a friend you don’t callAnd I knew painLike a friend you don’t callAnd I knew that I should open my heartBut the wall maybe whiteBut there is blood on my handsPlease let there be loveOn a bitter sweet walk to….

What do you know?So you have a penAnd the ability to writeThat doesn’t make you literateJust a monkeyWith opposable thumbsAble to make a markOr type linesGoing to a paper horizonOn a bitter sweet walk to…

Stretched out contemplatingFor the all the greats thatHave come beforeWrite the sameWrite the same linesHoly Buddha broo-ha-haWrite the same linesPlease let there be loveOn a bitter sweet walk to…

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FOR THE RECORD, THIS IS ME LAUGHING

For the record, I do laughFor the record, this is me laughing

I am a bag of gigglesI am a crate of guffaws I am a whole frigging dustbin of side splitting mirthI am a stand up comic waiting for his feed lineI am a syllable short of wetting myself

So when you tell methat I am not capable of producinganything that is not shrouded in sadnessI feel duty bound to point outfor the record, I do laughfor the record, this is me laughing

I am a cattle grid of merry makingI am a bucket of hysterical chucklesI am a deflating beach ball of tittersI am a cracked test tube of chortlesI am a car racing game of sniggers

So when you next feel likeplacing me in your worldremember you are a visitor in mineand while you sign my guest bookleave me a kind word or twobecause I like nothing betterthen a sitcom laugh trackto be a better human by

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