Still they stand,
wedged hard and rusting in the glow of
sunrise… sunset
and the tides that cover them in between,
these men of unblinking perspective
and who show their contempt
for Humanity by turning their back
ever away from the shore line
and the gaze of seagulls,
punished for their insane chattering
and their dogged resistance to change.
Though blind from birth, they see all
and in the whispered delusions that reach
their ears from screams of children
and the agony of parenthood,
The once proud five lamps
that used to light the way
for the edge of a village
on the frayed hem
of the outskirts of Liverpool,
that trams would
sit idly by before returning
to the glamour on offer,
are now silent, forgotten
to all but the curious and the
mindful preservers of
the fabric of society with
chequered cloth waiting appeal
and the dinner time stamp of approval
as they raise their glasses
and whisper cheers in the dark.
The heaving Northern metropolis
torrential with the sound of expectant, excited feet
is but for a short while,
quiet, serene and calm on the Sunday morning
as actors and performers rest after the shows
of the week and the laughter
that has followed them to the silence
of their dressing room
and the chance encounter
with the fan captivated by the show
and to whom the acquiring of the photograph
with their
new next day idol
is something to look back upon in dusty years
Your towering beauty I wish I could see
up close and personal,
every imperfection, every slighted line,
and how I wish I could have known
you when I was younger
and with conceited youth know
I could have conquered you,
loved you and have every inch
of you mapped in my mind
forever.
You are older than I,
yet so very young,
and I find myself disgracefully suffering
from the illusion that you,
in some respects,
have a daily virginal quality to you
I feel blessed in the company you offer,
the simple acts of mercy, forgiveness
and to listen without judgement is
something I can only ever hope to emulate,
albeit in way that never steps on your toes,
for who am I
but a fool with clay feet
to hope that that I could match
your abiding, soaring
spirit that lights a beacon
far beyond the walls of Leith.
Calm assuredness,
a way with kind words
in which I feel that I am not being
It distresses me just how the two of you
want to destroy the other’s image,
when the real enemy of the times
is the gods that founded your existence
and breathed fire in to your tiny souls.
You explode with ferocity,
like a thousand Hiroshimas
captured in the dazzling light of
single black and white photograph
on the day that the Sun became insignificant.
Yet you have not the wit or the temperament
of grace in which to walk away
from the fallout and put distance
It’s not that I’m mad,
surely that is beyond
the easiest of conversations,
for you have to be mad
to work with words here.
It’s more in the way that I cannot
find the Hamster
that flew off the wheel long ago
so that I can at least bury
its final remains and give the poor creature
the final shred of honour
befitting the way it held its own
in the company
of the down but not outs
and the sensationally fallen.
That poor Hamster
The Universe is dying,
the scream of the victim
and the whimpering quiet pleading
has been heard since it was born
against its will and left urgently
on the doorstep
of the nearest milkman
to deliver on his rounds.
Long since has it passed the anger and frustration
of youth and its quiet dogged resistance to Middle Age
in which it lost its maidenhead to Entropy
in a quick fumble beside the sea of forever
and the loss of the phone number hastily scribbled
For sale:
One fairly careful,
but sometimes under-valued owner
prone to breakdown on occasions
when the weather and temperament gets too hot,
has rust spots where lack of full thrust
and fifth gear has only ever been imagined
but never put in practice.
Right headlight needs work,
best not try on full beam as photophobia
may upset other users.
Stereo works well, too well, sometimes
only available on loud, especially when
the mood hits and the upbeat open road
seems clear of clutter, place objects in way,
The deal was struck one lazy January day
in the Winnie-Gate over an illegal pint
for all present . The pile of over salted chips costing
each less than a good night’s sleep
and the sound of pool balls smacking in time
off the green velvet stained with half chewed
cigarette smoke and twenty-pence bets
to the tunes of the day being played
with carefree abandon
from the cannibalised juke box,
cannibalised through our own choices
and 80s regalia and the only acknowledgment
to our deeds was the fashion for the rolled up