You used to put me on a train
departing New Street Station,
headlong through the day to Plymouth’s safe harbour.
I was safe
because I had you fighting my young battles with me,
and whilst I was not always appreciative
at the time, I never
forgot, I never allowed myself to fail
in your eyes and fought longer and harder
than I should have, just to never see
you disappointed in me.
It didn’t always work,
sometimes
I dishonoured your memory, sometimes I let you down
Illusion,
always sold as patriotism,
worse still when packaged
and stamped
by the Vicar’s daughter,
caught with her knickers down
and prepared to engage
in necrophilia
with the ghostly offspring of the grocer
and who is on the side
in thought
of a bitch whose mouth betrays
the evil in her heart;
this illusion we engage with
because it suits us, we keep just
on the side on respectability
because to sink further would betray
the fact that we like our two cars,
The trouble with political pygmies…
I wish it was the start of an expansive joke,
the dig in the ribs,
the head back laughing,
the sly smile from a circumspect, normally
vigilant lady caught off guard,
the barman and the best friend slapping
you on the back till your spine hurts
and becomes bruised by morning
but it is all worth it as the laughter
sees the room united in contempt
for the butt of the joke
and in solidarity
to the one who supplied the punch line.
Tomorrow
I will not find myself wallowing in nostalgia,
I will not give in to seeing a sunshine bloom
where a dying rose sags
and slowly fades
away,
losing colour, curled up and closing in on confusion
of why it is no longer loved;
for tomorrow I will not disappear in melancholy,
why would I,
when I can do it beautifully
today.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Four A.M. Tuesday morning,
not a time for the weary and dead
to be awake, a pregnant
pause
on the step outside my stone palace,
my brick inflicted mortuary
and a drag of my small but fast burning cigar,
the smoke burning my throat, but the taste,
the flavour at four A.M. is a delight,
it conjures up images of battles won and victory
taken for a test ride, one not covered in the manual,
for my notebooks don’t have such validation,
I am not meant to win, I am not the kind of person
They promised us
when the Wall came down,
when the graffiti sprayed Berlin
and envious eyes stopped eyeing
what could have been, that that
would be the end of it;
there would be no more nightmares
as two suns fought for dominance
over European skies.
I believed you, I saluted the Greenham Common women,
I thanked in my mind the leaders
and whilst I knew there would always be war,
for after all Humanity is not humane
and as a species we are just dumb fucks
Never trust a man
who says
with arrogance or subtle manipulation
that his car is better than yours,
that it’s engine is more powerful
and full of the latest gadgets,
can go as quick as the Devil
collecting souls, or is a magnet for picking
up women; never trust a man like that.
Never trust a man who shakes your hand
and says with snide response,
and who are you again?
when they know your name,
who never once congratulated you
on doing something worthwhile,
The truth of it is,
that with his smug
insidious smile, his suits
that cost more than the Government
is trying to steal off the disabled,
off the poor, off anyone
but themselves,
his hatred, obvious and despicable,
his manner, rude, vulgar
and disrespectful to those
who call Liverpool their home,
their place of sanctuary,
and don’t forget if it was up to people like him,
none of you would be safe,
you would all feel his tarantula like offence
weave its web…the truth of it is,
It was a far cry from the wail that finished off
any love I felt for the town
that nestled between drowning rivers
and the place where the white hart died
centuries before, running out of steam
on pastured land and from where
a rotten borough took place;
gentle snoozing town,
I was out of place, despite having
the strongest of connections
in a cottage in Peter’s Finger.
This hamlet market town, the piper of county
thought and woe betide country way,
never step out of place,
Where is Hawkeye Pierce now when we need him?
How’s that global warming now
as a terrible storm of winter
looks to
follow the
damned and
the
final sunset over Korea…
Ian D. Hall 2017