Just that little nudge,
the everyday elbow
that sends you ever closer
to the final straw snapping
somewhere in the darkness.
Today I have a headache,
formed by the blood not flowing
properly and the neurons
firing at everything I am,
taking me downhill
like being ignored socially;
today I have a headache,
I keep rubbing my forehead,
almost violently, with the intention
to harm as my spine harms me,
my own payback
on the spite, my revenge
if you will,
1900 voices
in my head
saying nothing,
quiet
but not gentle, their silence
damning as they talk to each other,
whispering away,
laughing away
in the tranquillity of no noise,
no reached hand
to include, only
to ignore; these
1900 voices
in my head,
a pay for view
no attention
and I feel the turning away.
Ian D. Hall 2017
The last day of anything
should be treated as though
it is a day for games, to emulate
the final day of term
in which the teacher, finally
acknowledging that she has exhausted
herself, gives up and lets the kids
run riot.
Parliament could play Buckeroo,
the appointed donkey
accounting for Government sins
as they try to explain
the difference
between a wheelchair, mental health,
a nurse’s salary and a nuclear bomb.
Athletic doping cheats,
at the moment of being banned
There are days I remember
how old I am
and all that has gone,
floated down stream
and now poisons the oceans,
I remember the punk
Eddie
waiting to jump Maggie
and take the self styled Iron
Lady down,
in picture form,
sometimes
those memories
are the ones that
make me smile the
most.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Their faces look down upon screens
as the 53 rattles to the touch
of two fingers of my right hand,
keeping tune with the song
rolling round my mind,
late night bus home, a few
stare my way and I allow the curl
of a semi smile to come to my aid,
lips spread wide and the fingers hit out
at the rhythm at hand,
it could be anything,
it might have been a local star
of beautiful seduction,
perhaps Thom Morecroft or dear sweet
People have weird dreams,
‘tis all I’m saying,
not making assumptions
but if my dreams are anything to go by,
that holiday home in the South
of France, sipping shelled grapes
and eating croissants for breakfast,
that expensive car, worth more
than the house they live in,
and still only capable of
listening to Classic F.M.
when the signal is weak;
they say, Living the dream,
I daren’t tell them mine,
having been seduced by glamour’s women
on my worn out sofa,
Hollywood starlet, fighting
You are paid too much,
money is too tight
for the public sector purse.
Only a politician with greed upon his mind
would suggest that a nurse, a firefighter,
a police officer or a teacher
is earning too much,
isn’t that a slap in the face,
perhaps it would have only been worse
for those devils who dare be public spirited
and do the jobs that others cannot do,
if Philip Hammond had bared his backside
to the news anchors
and the television cameras
The black stitched cherry
being tossed down the pitch
is turned away for the deft quick single,
the sly look of happiness
on the batsman face as he outwits the wicket
keeper is all too evident
through my binoculars, purchased by my wife
for days such as this,
not a ship sailing on the edge of the horizon,
but to witness the glorious catch
of the fielder on the other side of the ropes, down
in the Noir of Third Man, one inch from a six.
Always here, among the mad,
the uneducated of history
who put on a uniform, a white sheet
between them and the same air breathed,
the crew cut hair do, close read this,
they have an agenda and you are not paying
attention closely enough,
they weren’t banished or defeated
when the mad moustache took his own life,
they are still here,
in the shadows, dressed as corporate,
tidy suits, pin badges
with Hi, I’m here to help, but always that agenda;
they might not march down Cable Street now
You have no power not now,
veiled threats perhaps
sly digs in which my name
spits
off your tongue, the kind of fascist
remark, I expect from you
but only missing a number, tattooed
on my skin.
Would you prefer I sank to my knees,
saying
Oh lordy master, please
don’t torture me so, don’t serve up me up
as example of your impotent rage,
for I see you for the weak and pathetic boy
that you are, ineffective
capitalist front, happy
to screw a person over