We were tasked
with designing 
a fruit picking machine
So I asked
For which kind of fruit?

Receiving no response
I asked again
in the interest of greater clarity
Would humans be involved
in any way
at any stage, say
as operators or collectors?

I was told
in no uncertain terms
to curb my insolence
and to just design
a ruddy fruit picking machine

Being insolent
I drew a picture of a hand
grasping a banana
with helpful arrows
and a scale ratio ruler
a monkey's hand
with obligatory labels

I remember the clever lads
the ones from the better houses
two steps up from ours
before they were famous
properly famous I mean
Very clever lads
The girls loved Pete and Paul
but especially Pete
I didn't like John
a foul mouthed know it all
But very clever lads

A Nissen hut
with a central stove
and all of us around it
spokes in a wheel

I remember the smell
of other people's laundry

I remember rag rugs
and a patchwork Lino floor

Mother told me
Keep clean
and keep a good table
and this has served me well

A half naked man sits on a horse
his torso tanned and hairless
He's wearing combat trousers

Behind him the mountains
spectacular in sunlight
stretch back to the horizon

The man is sitting upright
He seems to stare with purpose
at something in the distance

What is this photograph telling us?
What is its message?
What is the horse thinking?

See how he's shaking

holding on so tight
the tables are indented

The small one where he sits
with his confederates

The big one where
he stares the world down

It's 1962
give or take a year
somewhere Londonish

two brothers 
in cheap Italian suits
are laughing at the sun

tanned colonial feet
squeezed tight inside
sharp new Chelsea boots

The super yachts are drifting
adrift in loose flotillas
a broken necklace
crewless under false flags
            
               *

It's Krug and caviar again
Krug and caviar
and whatever they can trade
            
               *

At night they party hard
what else is there to do?
            
               *

The sound of music
Balkan disco
bright shatterings
occasional gunshots

Glued under crevices
globes of deepest red pulsate
a thousand liquid planets
willing back the tide

How high can you count?
How far beyond your fingers?
There must be a number
one that's not too showy
one that's just about enough

I keep a notebook by the bed
to catch smoots and limpets
slaters and sea stars
to name the little buggers
to bucket and bracket them
hold them to the light