I was there on the day that the Devil was kidnapped by God.
I wasn’t sure exactly which one it was
as they all look the same to me
but I know she had form as a hijacker and usurper of religions past
and now was after the biggest bruiser of the lot to aid in a deity war
that would confuse humanity.
Bundled into the back of a long black hearse,
I hid out of sight as the Devil kicked and cursed and bemoaned
I missed the knock
on the train’s dirty window as the young poet
frantically tried to catch my attention as I mooched past
in a reluctant poem of my own.
The blonde haired girl with glasses, wide-ever appreciating eyes,
skipping heartbeat,
who sat across the void of space and expanse of tables
in the café, missed the chance for true adoration as she fell head first
into the eyes of the wildly passionate and sincere man
with eyes only for her ignorantly blessed friend,
The river runs deep if it is allowed to flow freely
and the clutter and wreckage of the abandoned shopping trolley
covered in slime, the mess of one generation passed down
to another in shrink wrapped, tightly wrapped, always trapped;
is removed and placed far out of sight.
The free flowing river, the conscious of independent thought
should not be stunted, diverted and allowed to stagnate in some form
of pruning cultivation, the flower should be allowed to grow
and take over the muddy ground that lays along the bank,
The Rapper smiles at the free soap box he is given
and he uses it, controls it, manipulates and exploits it,
until the box irrevocably falls to pieces,
joist by rusted nail, plank by frayed duct tape…
yet even when his vitriol makes no sense, when the fans
take the shit he spouts to be gospel and they don’t even
question music history and the small cog in a connecting wheel
he plays, admittedly a hundred times bigger than the mechanism
I run at full speed upon and forever going backwards,
…and there is no grand gesture of acknowledging the audience’s applause
as the violinist stands perfectly still, watching,
waiting,
for the small, unseen blazing wink
that tells her to slowly, without mercy, break some hearts.
It matters not at all, what the violinist wears, for the assassin’s bow
gently pierces the skin and boils the blood of the victim
and she slowly places the breathe
in play in which the body can bear no longer, the beauty contained within.
The long drawn out note, the gentle scream that drives me mad
I have reached the age in which the first man who made me laugh out loud,
who gave blood, sweat and tears in an effort to defy the wind,
and who by the time I was 14, could quote line for line
in an effort to be allowed to study drama at school,
decided enough was enough,
and wrote, “Things just seemed to go wrong too many times.”,
and took the next boat out to the onward great adventure.
I have reached the age in which twin greats to music were lost
The minstrel, once wandering upon many high seas,
now happy in contentment, leans over to hear the pleas
and thank you’s for bringing Neil Sedaka to life
upon a Sunday afternoon for the city and its colourful wife.
It’s the richness of the voice, the sadness in the detail
and the desire to bring some freshness to what else the month makes stale.
The delicate sound of a raindrop pouring on silk is full of love,
tickles the ears and brings praise to the lord of the voicebox from up above.
Will they check the law courts and swab the dock for flour,
Come away happy, pose for pictures, wig arrested,
the lawyers all standing round being tested
and the chambers closed down in hours?
Will they go to go to the Golf course lunch for retired heads,
swab the tees for signs of powdered chalk
and entertain the local paper with absurdist talk
and have the private hospital closed for abuse of meds?
Will they roll up en masse at Parliament Hill
and with convenience in mind forget the hate crimes,
Who would be a poet, writer or scribe in the modern world?
How much more exciting and soul destroying
it must have been in days when Kerouac could slump over a typewriter
and bang his head in withdrawn frustration
on the polished and
d
e
n
t
e
d
desk.
The pile of A4 paper to his left , ever dwindling, never being pregnant with word
upon word, upon life sentence, instead cluttering up the floor
in a moon scarred landscape that defeats the purpose
As I watched the youthful sounding Yorkshire Poet
on stage in the furthest outpost that Lancashire once provided
but its self the gateway to boundless enthusiasm
and the cradle of civilisation in the wild, tempting lands,
I thought of you.
My stirred thoughts crammed with metaphor, with simile and symbolism,
the passion of friendship that flowed in the duck shaped earphones you
handed over with smiling mocking bow on my fortieth birthday
and the thank you that passes between us when needing
to crib from each other’s notes.