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Paul Hullah

of

Edinburgh, Scotland, UK

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pwh@cc.okayama-u.ac.jp (Paul Hullah)


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Your Guess Is As Good As Mine

by

Paul Hullah


Peruvian ex-
Soccer pros translate
This trite bright shite I write,
My frazzled scribbly hopes

Into a
Brand of Spanish I
Cannot pronounce. Theyíre going
Grey because of it and so am I.

They take my thoughts
Like penalties, convert my
Directest kicks. When we got
Fired from full-time crime
We took to boldly leafleting
On grand arcades, the shoppersí
Eyes on stalks beholding
What we tried to sell,
Our eyes half-mad with tears. Five takers
Every thousand sheets? We
Threw the bastards in the river,
Bought some beer and waited
For the girls that never came.


SOMETHINGS MADE YOURSELF MEAN MORE (for Alf Brooks)

by

Paul Hullah

So strange the things that people want
And waste their lifetimes looking for:
For all I want is love of yours,
To reach your door before I fall.

To reach your house remembering
Where we began, where we have been,
And come inside and stay and know,
Where we are now; where we will go.

GOWN AND TOWN (from "Age's Bullets" (2006))

by

Paul Hullah

Try guzzling
Seven pints before you
Watch Inspector Morse. You think
You know whodunit? No you donít.

And thatís what I feel
Like these days: without the
Seven pints itís even scarier
And worse. If you come

Home and find me strangling
Men or wearing drag,
Do not be shocked; this hovel
Needs a womanís touch, and

So do I, so be my guest,
And if you canít
Be that, then
Just pretend: predict

Some peace,
A scarless end.
Let all things heal
And mend.

BELLOWER

by

Paul Hullah

Loveís a blinder, all considered,
As these games go and their players.
It can make you make
Mistakes and not regret them.

It can put hairs on your chest
And make them stay
There, rug resplendent:
Whether youíre a John or a Joanne.

Itís the jug of wine you wait for
In the fag-end-strewn bus depot;
Itís the strangers from another town
You know you are someways related to,

Who cry when first you meet them
And weep when last you leave
Them. Kin to icicles in summer, we
Should hide our histories a little better.

Love can make you bet your money
On a horse that comes in last,
When all you want is photo-finishes
And memories of a past

Unedited but loosely censored
In advance; you still canít type the smut
Out fast enough for this minus mistakes
And all the racy bits worth saving.

Weíre in there. Thereís only
One way to be positive and no way
To be honest: analyse the droppings,
Typing, writing, quick downloading.

Like the big scene in Jurassic Park
Where dinosaurs turn up, itís the triple
Jump, first go, then off the highest
Board and airborne: another place Iíve never

Been and therefore want to go.
Whether itís a boring boardroom
Meeting or a secret chocolate eating
Session, a bloke from Barnsleyís

Passion wagon sticker reading
ĎMess with me and donít wake up
Tomorrowí, we are in there. We crave
The being there, and we are there.

Whether they be drizzly days
On sunbleached beaches, or the
Topmost cedar reaches skywards
Far beyond us, we are in there

In the helicopter, flying like a bee
Above the flower thatís a planet left but
Near enough to see: the friendly blades
And we, the engine purring; getaway.

We are in there when it rains
And when the sun shines, when
It pours with snow or when the dry
Winds blow. Another place Iíve never been

And therefore want to go.