The lack of oil on the wheels, the lack
of care taken in keeping the saddle polished
and cleaned, dust free, pollution cleansed at least,
not harbouring any germs in which to scurry
around and make the frame collapse
are nothing compared to the sorrow
I feel when I hear the words of the fallen,
Megaphone not needed and it wouldn’t
solve the sobbing down the phone,
“He’s only interested in me for the drugs I can supply.”
My own chariot is just as battered and bruised
The spotlight hits the Guinness jar hair
and the shadow of black denim hides a multitude
of other people’s sins as she holds the guitar
as if holding the heart ransom
and I feel mine break each time the dry ice swirls
around her fingers and the lesson of the moment
was not to fall in lust but to appreciate the gliding
searing heat of metal upon skin upon thought upon delivery.
Exhausted I sit up straight backed and erect
as blood, life, animated kicked in electric driven soul
The beans are picked,the garden dug,
No trace of weed or even slug.
About to plant and grow anew,
When there it was a Portaloo.
My throne is there for all to see,
I’m left with little dignity
The world will know when I’m inside
With little little light and nowhere to hide
With wellies on and armed with torch
I gingerly step across the porch.
Down 20 steps I boldly go
Oh how can I stoop so low.
Hopefully in 10 days or so
The horrid Portaloo will go
A brand new bathroom is our aim
No more to do the walk of shame…..
On any day worth celebrating,
not one filled with jingoistic pride
in which by virtue of having a bigger gun,
a more powerful machine, a more sturdier device
which you reached for the safety first and dangled
the instrument of possible torture around
threatening to put at least one load between the eyes
of the nearest person who dared open their mouths
in shock or disengaged amusement,
on any day worth celebrating I would rather take
the moment afforded to pause and wonder
if you would enjoy it too;
Seventy Two floors up,
we three watched as the Tsunami
tidal wave rode past
the concrete structure we were hiding in
and we wept for the humanity lost.
It was that buffeting of the concrete
or maybe the scream from the young
woman’s mouth, siren like, distilled, vodka alerted,
that woke me up with my nerves trembling
and laying down on the cold
end of days September sofa,
Tsunami sweat lodged in my thin, greying eyebrows.
No less disturbing than the time I was forced to watch
We have become the orphans of a broken promise.
The product of discarded point of view
that stopped being relevant the moment their mouths closed
and the hum of the ignored became louder.
We are the orphans of deceit, lies and digital tape,
of meaningless thought and the near dispiriting
words of gathered hope that dissipates and fades
into the wind at the breath of the merest gentle gust
that tussles with our hair, pats our shoulders with thunder
and yet is as invisible as the join between
Time passes,
the poet once wrote
but in amongst the autumn
thoughts and withered unseen tears
I dream of you,
I dream of you because my childhood
in amongst leafy Oxfordshire lanes
and burnt blue skies,
of winter depths in which a broken heart nestled
and turned to a poet’s words for comfort,
in spring when the fire in my stomach blossomed
and war and unimagined kiss wrestled
within the summer heat away,
I dream of you often for Time has not passed,
Time…
My mouth is shut yet the words flow
like crushed diamonds flowing
over the edge of a winter’s cascade,
the avalanche of all that you have sowed,
scattered to the winds in an attempt
to confound and confuse the issue
all dealt with a sneer, the face of a person
who believes themselves to be a God
to dictate to a lesser mortal
what they must say in praise magnificence…
You are not a God, a divine spirit of spoken word
and I am not your doll to do your bidding,
At two in the morning,
the chest lets you know that you’ve had enough
and that all that you accomplished so far,
the squiggles of indecisive word play foreplay,
the slight chuckle of flirtation with a new sexy
phrase dressed in glimmering ball gown
and the jealous, seething, rage of an old favourite
as it gets dropped in its favour
for a single novel line,
all that you written and fought for in the darkness
means nothing,
not a damn thing as all turns grey before your eyes
The wind picks up from the Mersey and races dog legged
and fancy free past sun bleached stones
and weathered time bitten
faces of the angels staring, unblinking and without humour
against the elements, and yet they feel remorse
for the quiet and solitude offered
amongst the grave stones.
The graveyard is unnatural in the lowering
of the September Sun, and the marking of a season,
unnerving as the youthful, over colour filled flowers
placed in the glass bubble shell wave with less vigour