SELECTED POETRY

by
Angela Readman

POSTCARD FROM ROUTE 66

The old house is a used stamp,
edges perforated where I tore it from
the sidewalk where Mom turned Raggedy-Anne.
Her blood has cleaned itself away to the gutter
and taken itself all the way to the sea.

Dunes may shift but I�ll comb the sands, as if I can find
broken chains, the small pearl, all of her that has been lost.
We will churn out of who we have been,
and onto Route 66 on a ticking bus
so silver it slices the sun.

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CALIFORNIA PARKING

Mom�s new friend walks the path in green socks
and sandals that do not make a sound.
Opens the door for Mom,
when there is nothing in her hands.
He looks into her face and waits,
the day he says �I�ve got a surprise.�

Some old book she holds in both hands,
runs them over and over the cover
and does not look inside. Just a dumb book,
but for a minute I think she�s going to cry.
Each time he comes he drops off groceries.
The counter is full when he collects Mom.

She says, �Thanks, this old thing�
and twirls in a new dress, smooth as cream
being poured on peaches from a can.
He holds out his arm, and she brings out that smile
I saw once, covered in everything,
at the bottom of her purse.

I fill up on Hershey�s kisses.
When the old dodge pulls in at ten on the dot
I look at my watch. The engine ticks over.
California Dreaming on the radio.
Her laughter evaporates churches
I see through the veins of leaves on a winter�s day.

His bald spot through steamed up car windows.
Her laughter on the breeze, and her hand
fiddling with the back of her hair
like a one-winged bird.
With my finger, I write in the dust on the table,
�I am angry, but I don�t know why.�

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HEAD FOR THE HILLS

The Latino kid�s eyes are a No Entry sign.
I show him my passport to downtown,
ten bucks, if he will tell me where to sleep.

Under the freeway runaways get high.
The youngest tells me he�s Tricky,
coz he turns more than anyone else.

We are snails finding shells
as my body curls to his
and his head finds my breast in sleep.
We dream, on a couch someone threw out.

Cigarette burns shine in the streetlight,
edges sharp as an eclipse.
His skin is homecoming, just for tonight.
Scars on his cheeks like snowflakes.

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BURLESQUE

Think of the pole as if it was a man, love it. Keep on his arm, never leave him too long. Dancing you learn, even style. Pay attention. Who looks best? Who takes home what? It�s the girls with a look who do well night after night, say a cowgirl or a cheerleader type. They pay attention to nail polish, toes, the lot, it�s not that they dance better, but what they sell is pure fantasy. Guys come for enchantment; a stray detail can break the spell.

I read about a Russian once, fell in love with a woman who never spoke to him. A showgirl with a way of making you think you were seeing everything, by the slow peel of the palest pink glove. The extension of her fan- revealing, concealing like an opening and closing wing. Burlesque: you couldn�t show the real thing, the trick was to make them think. This man went backstage and the dancer was gone, the trail of her skirt like the tail of a cat sliding out the door, her hand on an arm. He went into her dressing room, held her satin glove like an unheld hand. Slowly he unfolded her fan over his chest, looking in her mirror as he took out a gun and squeezed the trigger. That bullet passing through the feather that touched her skin right into him, turning the satin into a flower, bursting into bloom inside his chest. That�d be the last thing he felt, the stir of one glove. That�s how good you can be.

The dance is only part of it; some want to talk, flirt, go home feeling good about themselves. I�m a good conversationalist, a therapist in platforms and tan. Ask what they do, take an interest, then charge them for the chat. You can�t learn that, how to see in a minute their dreams that never took, and be the girl who stepped right out of one. I�ve been a girl paying for law school, pilot lessons, Mom�s hospital bills, all in one night. Sometimes I�m just a story you�ve heard a million times before, a girl with a baby at home, paying the bills as she looks for Mr Right. Each one thinks they might be him. It�s harmless. They go home to the wife, maybe for a few days they don�t mind taking out the trash, she gets flowers, I make rent. Everybody wins.

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POSTCARD TO THE PHOTOGRAPHER

I am your centrespread, unfolding
into woman, naked,
but wearing my own dress of days.

Beware, asphalt elbows that never tan,
bikini lines and uneven tones, parts
more felt-up than kissed by the sun.

Catch the curves, leave behind freckles
on my left shoulder, crumbled
from a golden baked day at Bridal Veil Falls,
where words blistered then peeled off my skin.

I curl, I bend, I turn in your light
as you unspool the lane of my back, walk down it
as if you can find the knee socks left by the lake,
the blackberry bruises on my tongue.

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HEAVY PETTING DORIS DAY

I slurred every letter with an eager finger,
reading between the lines in a Doris Day biography.
I couldn�t tell you why I wanted the words
to loop into whips and curl into chains,
at least spell a secret love beneath the bleachers,
when the sun hit the cheek of the girl next door.
The fine hairs there like peaches
she can see someone sink their teeth in.

Doris and a girl side by side,
keep a seashell of silence
in hands folded across their laps.
Hands that wait to be filled
with dog-eared prayer books,
pink plastic roses,
small boxes nestling engagement rings,
to peer into as if they were a mirror.

No music, but the girls waltz,
laugh like fine rain,
uncertain where to place their hands.
Doris looks down at both pairs of Mary Jane�s,
slotted into one another like porcelain dolls
she had when she was younger.
China ladies she dusted with caution,
lest a curse peck its way out from such pretty shells.

Not so much as a trace of crotchless panties,
even a black bra, but I almost saw Doris
and the girl next door dancing till they got it right,
laughter making wind chimes of the breeze.

Girls dancing under the bleachers.
A kiss unfolding between them
like narcissi, blooming from their lips
that say nothing as the sun looks away.

---

SEX WITH THE MOST ORDINARY MAN YOU EVER WANT TO MEET

I engaged the man who could appreciate
the different shades of beige.

A man who knew the difference
between lilac and lavender sheets,
and never unmade my bed by getting in.

We had sex in silence, serious
as taking vows for some holy order
we could not name. His body
smooth as a pebble I picked up
on the beach, white as death,
and rubbed flawless by the tides of hands.
And my electric taped nipples
like badly repaired punctures in a rubber boat.
The intake of breath, and my face
gave the instructions Do not remove.

The only man to say I was beautiful,
bought me purple razors
instead of flowers. Our twin pubic bones
like the half moons of newly born heads.
Sweat raining on me
on our journey with no destination.

Sex, with the most normal man
you ever want to meet, that if I had known
I�d have had more of, and squirreled away
for the days to come.

Like the shade of his face I want to take to Dulux,
and paint my walls with. The day I walked in,
and found him suddenly moaning.
The hard pearls of our silence spilled.
Pumped out with his left hand,
into a pigs face on a Manga T-shirt.

---

JACK

In 78 there wasn�t a guy in Sunderland
from twenty to fifty who could get a date
with a woman under thirty.

When you heard his voice it killed you.
The accent on a loop, thick with possibility
as you licked your lips, and said yes to the drink.
And you knew right then you�d leave
The Blue Monkey with a man called John,
completely aware of what could happen.

The glass blowers lips that know
just how much to give, before
everything cracks in his face.
The blisters with water underneath
You ran your thumb over, just the right pressure
to make feel without bursting a thing.
And his burnt hands pulling you in.

You took the kiss you saw coming.
as he worked at you, his breath mixing
with yours and the inflation in your chest
as the kiss swelled, forming a vessel
you can see the insides of, and out.
Arm in arm, you splinted each other
and swayed up the hill to water.

Standing on the bridge,
You made him say your name,
Just once to hear it and see the headline.
The photo they would use of you in your little pink top.
Looking down at the magnetic tape river,
peering in, and not thinking of jumping this time.
You caught your reflection, a dead ringer
for resuscitation Annie with Jack behind you.
Her yellow hair and rubber teeth,
her wax skinned lips,
waiting to be brought back to life.

---

FETISH ANGEL

I read about a man with a Fetish
that did not make me proud of my feet.
A man who buttered the hinges
on his little girls door, and crept in
to find her dolls. I imagined their unripe
strawberry pouts, and Poccahontis eyes
of three colours, watching
as he tore them up by the hair,
and planted the heads firmly in his mouth.
Worked himself whilst excreting them out.
I wondered how he anyone could know
themselves so well, how he found out
what he needed.

Ponytails he had to wash,
pretty skulls screwed back on by morning,
and so many tangles to sort
for his daughter�s wake.
And a position of number one on the chart
of strange things found in the human body.

Every heavy eyed December sky
morning with the angel back on the tree.
The deviant with foreign bodies
inside, and my own perversity
that he comes to me, what I think
when we talk about love.

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LIST OF NAMES FOR PENIS NEAR THE TOILET

The white rabbit with blue eyes
I let crap on the lino. Your bleating cat,
photography chemicals on kitchen Formica.
Parades of flapjacks I baked, your men ate.
The permanent tint of hair dye in the bath.
The shell wind-chime, lads bashed their heads on.

Wedding dresses coming at you, hung careful
as wallpaper in the hall. And a list of names
for penis by the toilet, a pen for guests to add theirs,
stars by your ink on the Powder Room door.
The prom dress of awful purple net curtains,
condensation on the hem. We played slow razorblades
on skin, tuned our tendons, careful as violins.

Every room looked like a bedroom.
Bobble hats above the duvet, yogurt raisins.
Endless lists, and days we never got out of bed.
And a sex without permission we never knew
what to with, in the flat we loved and hated.
It all seems unlikely. We�ll fall out about something.
Years later, I will still know you.
We will call these the best years of our lives.

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BABY

I want to be your baby doll
with eyes that close as you lay me down.
A gaze that won�t quite look at you
wherever you go, with lashes
so long they grow back into sockets,
sometimes clog into a wink.
Petal lips that nearly smile.
Plastic skin stretched tight over cheeks
you can�t help stroking
when I seem to be asleep
in that bed only made just to fit me.

I want to drink from a bottle
that never goes down, only cry
when you apply the water.
Have hitchhikers thumbs
that don�t quite reach parted lips,
you only imagine are meant to be sucked.
Hands always reaching for something,
and a string on my back that you pull
to hear again a sweet vocabulary,
that doesn�t include the word �sorry.�

I want stiff limbs that poke allover,
and legs that go wide as soon as I�m sat.
Plastic shoes and white knickers,
you only sometimes remember to put on.
I want to be your doll, only semi pose-able.
When you break my arms, legs bend off,
you�ll then twist them carefully back into their slots.
The doll you can�t help undressing
as soon as you get it home,
to finger the raised seam up the middle,
read the ass that says
Made in Taiwan.

I want to be the doll you just call baby,
a warning on the box
you�ll forget as soon as I�m open.
Unsuitable for children under 3.
May contain small breakable parts.

---

McCUNT

She�s taken a picture to the specialist.
A centrefold with a symmetrical vertical smile.
The sort that isn�t too big, too small,
but makes you feel just right.
Lips that never grin, or make you look
behind them, at her perfectly even,
but sharp enough teeth.
She�s just gotta have an order you can place
that matches the picture, that helps you decide.
That pale golden bun, and no extras,
ketchup and mayo you can�t see.
A hint of leaf that makes you think its good for you.
And a flash of just the right amount of meat.
She�s just gotta be that happy meal
that comes in its specially designed box,
with napkins provided for after,
and a plastic toy to entertain you while you eat.
She wants an offer as good as Two for the price of one,
that although you know you shouldn�t makes you stay.

She wants uniformity that tells her it�s ok,
with no McMuffins after eleven, no sausage wallets,
Dripping pan, hairy taco�s, honey pots or Finger pies.
She wants a furburger you ask for by the brand.
That only comes regular,
and is never offered supersized.
No, she wants to be just like this,
asks the man to make her 16 again,
a nice little surprise for her boyfriend.
What she wants is McCunt.
The kind Disney would approve of,
That if the little mermaid had one, would be just like that.
A sign you can see from the motorway
That guarantees a reasonably priced port in a storm,
With the kind of lighting that makes you never know the time.
And that promotional smile,
ingredients that can be revealed,
if you ask.

She wants a McCunt that looks the biz,
with no nutritional merits, that presses
the pre ordained buttons with pictures of,
what research shows, you want on.
A designer vagina golden archway, an indiscrete neon
You�ve seen so much you don�t notice anymore.
She wants a McCunt that has that script
That knows what to say and when,
That always smiles sweetly
when the customers halfway out the door,
that says how can I help you?
have a nice day,
Thankyou sir, please come again.

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� Angela Readman
Reproduced with permission

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PUBLICATIONS RECORD

'Colours/Colors' by Angela Readman, published by Diamond Twig (edited by Julia Darling and Ellen Pthetheon)

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'Unholy Trinity,' published by Iron Press, a book of 3 new female poets, with Angel Readman (I wanted to change my name but others refused to co operate!), Val Stanley and Heather Young.

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Angela has been involved with a poetry exchange in Finland, and has read her work there with other English and Finn poets. Her work from this was published in 'Flesh of the Bear'- a bi-ligual anthology by Ek Zuban Press, featuring work by 12 poets, both Finnish and English.

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Her work appeared in 'Smelter' by mudfog press, an anthology of Middlesbrough poets. She has also had poems in Envoi, Sand magazine, Still, Mslexia, and has had prose in London Magazine.

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In 2004 she edited 'Newcastle Stories' for Comma Press, and is currently editing a book of Newcastle stories for Comma.

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Last year she won the Biscuit Poetry Prize, and her full-length solo collection 'Sex with Elvis,' published by Biscuit, which is due out in July.

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