Black Moon

For white he used toothpaste,
for red, blood – but only his own
that he hijacked just enough of each day.

For green he crushed basil in a little
olive oil. His yellow was egg yolk,
his black, coal dust dampened with water.

He tried several routes to blue
before stopping at the intersection
of bilberry juice and pounded bluebells.

His brown was his own, too, applied
last thing in the day before the first
Laphraoig, and the stone jug of ale.

He used no other colours, but his tone
was praised by Prince Haisal, no less,
which got him a rake of commissions

and a residency-offer in Kuwait
which he turned down. At home
the Royal Family was less generous

so he painted them all, in a series
that came to be called his brown period,
though this was strictly incorrect.

He never exhibited with other painters,
never drank with them, spoke of them –
never even spat at their work.

A cave in the Orkneys was his last dwelling
and he rode a horse to his studio.
There were no people in these paintings.

which were found piled up on one another
inside the cave, with no sign of him,
and on top was a depiction of a black moon.

Insomnia

Everywhere it’s raining except here
where the mosquitoes thrive
and the car alarms wail at each other
all through the dog-moaning night,
and just before dawn that smell
of onions frying brings the image
of a fat ghost chef whose insomnia
is dealt with like this, making me
rush to the kitchen to catch him
but he and the smell are always gone.
And sleep has no chance at all then,
so rather than ride the toss-&-turning
horse I go naked onto the balcony
to count the lights left on in the flats,
trying to imagine who is up early
and who is late to bed, and soon
the night train will arrive from the north
to rest and be fed, the woken crows
will start the feral cats, and I will add
my wolf howl, then wait for the shouts.

Opera

Over an espresso and slice of apple cake
he thought of his ending up again
in that hotel near the opera guarded by
two lions with women’s faces and breasts –
breasts like hers actually, that he’d uncovered
in possibly that same hotel room,
before accompanying her into the shower
to do things soap was not intended for.
Draining his coffee, and walking back
in a rain as light as mist, he asked
the stone men on the roof of the opera
if they remembered her. One pointed
down to the lion below, and he saw now
it had her face. Of course, she loved
the opera, how could he forget, how
could she not linger here, so he knew
she’d lope up to his room again that night,
and reclaim her woman’s body at the door.

The Snowy Owl

Over the heads of the firing squad
flew a snowy owl, who oohooed twice
just before they pulled their triggers
and as the woman slumped on her ropes,
blood splattering her white dress,
the owl landed on her shoulder,
oohooed again, and swivelled its big-
eyed gaze over all the uniformed men,
one of whom raised his rifle
but the captain knocked it away
while the owl pecked at some blood
on the woman’s breast, smearing
its own breast feathers, then glared,
it seemed, at the transfixed men,
before swooping off, barely missing
the head of one, making them all
turn to watch it glide away, and hear
one more oohoo echo through the sky.

At Dawn

Walking to the scaffold
he remembered:
the foyer of that hotel,
her smile hiding behind her hair;
the way he held her for ten minutes;
his suggestion they needed a drink
and her agreement;
her fear of the elevator;
his unbuttoning her dress,
then slipping off the rest;
her sudden vampiric eyes,
and everything that followed,
everything...;
so when the black hood went on
he was calm,
he wasn't there.

The Blue Flower

In the heart of the stone
is a flower - a blue flower
tinier than a butterfly's eye,
and the only way to capture it
is to swallow that stone,
then rescue it again
before throwing it at the wall,
the outside wall, while incanting
all the sacred names for cat
in every known language,
and dancing a tortured jig
to no music - only then
will the stone crack open,
so your fingers can enter
and pick the flower, carefully
as handling a cornea, then bring it
to your distant lover
who'll wear it on her forehead,
dead centre, like an extra eye,
one she'll see the future with.

Purple Roses

All she liked were purple roses,
no other colour would do,
and she'd her own black hen
whose eggs were only for her.
And in that magic garden
were two apple trees, one pear
and bushes of gooseberries,
and the sweetest of apricots -
so sweet she eats no apricots now.
And she'd run round that garden,
her hair frizzing behind her,
being closely observed by crows,
talking to any snail she saw,
giving herself commands -
till the voice of her mother
summoned her to the table
where everything tasted good,
and beside her plate, in a vase,
were always two purple roses.
Where can I buy them now?

The Transformed House

The turnips that grew on the roof
made a deal with the sun, and grew
so big that one of them won
first prize in the show. The vines
that went from the propped-up door
to the wrecked car made a wine
no one could afford, and the basil
that took the place of the window glass
made better pesto than any in Genoa.
The tomatoes in the onetime kitchen
needed 24 hours guarding, as did
the aubergines in the hall. The melons
that had colonised the sitting-room
sucked all the sugar from the moon.
The chillis in the upstairs toilet
curved towards the garlic in the bathroom,
while the lettuce in the bedroom furled.
And the potatoes in the basement
all had the same shape as the head of
the man who slept in the earth among them.

(© Matthew Sweeney)