The tattooed Crow
and I go way back,
longer than almost anybody I remember,
save for immediate family
and a girl I loved named Jo.
Tattooed Crow, tattooed crow,
once a skinny Birmingham boy
to whom the words of cars,
machines, 50s beat,
and Elvis were the product
of a life I could not imagine,
not giving a damn about how
an engine worked or the days
of music long since past,
or of Rugby, a game that wasn’t
mine to enjoy,
I want to talk to you,
just like
we did in old times
over a beer, over the background music
in which we catch ourselves smiling
at each other, shyly as children,
hormones unwilling to commit
as adults.
I want that beer to turn to three or four,
a session in a pub garden in the middle
of an Oxfordshire abyss or quiet literary desert;
let that beer sink, dregs drained
another one ready at the bar…
…I miss the gap in the silence
of comfortable reproach, when you
I need to hold your hand
when the pain hits, when
it comes in waves I need
you to mop my brow and tell me
that it will soon subside,
that it will eventually release
me from its iron grip and the clench
of anguish, the fascist dictator rising up
and telling me that the pain
will set me free, it will consume me
but it is for my own good;
I want nothing more
than to pull the trigger on that
son of a bitch, to make it disappear
Another day, another town,
and life goes on around
as they make you scared, bit by bit
to leave your home, to leave your room
and yet become expectant of another
atrocity, another killing in the name
of a faith, of a devotion to the word
of death, the ultimate cult,
the end justifying the means
of swift negotiation with a bullet,
bomb or sword;
another day, another town
and life goes on around
but it feels more sinister,
both sides want you to be afraid
Being in part a country boy,
raised with Cornish ideals
and my teenage years in a small
rural market town
deep in the Oxfordshire
countryside, summers in glorious
abandon on Guernsey country lanes,
I see no problem with tipping cows,
after all most work hard
in the sweaty conditions
of any restaurant and they get treated
like serfs by the chefs;
I see no problem with giving them
fifteen percent
on top of the bill, especially
if they give a courteous moo.
I am not clever enough
to understand your words
at times. The majority
I comprehend, I empathise with
and nod in appreciation, if not
in agreement of your dilemma,
the narrow view in which you have painted
yourself in, the corner of the room
in which paint has not met floor
or ceiling covered over with wallpaper,
is like your mind,
a career in trying to look good
but not achieving a half way decent result;
stuck between self interest
and poorly managed heartbeats,
If you only whisper one word today,
let it breathe in the wind,
let it ferment in the mind
of fools and the dangerously absurd,
let it be heard and rejoiced
in silent thoughtful prayer
and let it be remembered
as it echoes across time,
across our lives,
let that word be the last thing
on our minds
from the moment we whisper
it with childlike hope in the
glare of a new born sun
and the roar of a daughter’s gift,
let the bells ring with joy
She was so special,
no woman on Earth has ever compared
to the serenity in autumn, winter
or in the spring, as ice flows fall,
smash into the water beneath
and sail, bobbing, stealthy jogging onwards,
partially melting as I hope
they were able to and in the end
finding open sea water to repeat the thousand year cycle,
of wear and tear and heartbreaking beauty
that flutters by in the whisper
of conversation by the floral clock
and finger licked clean Wendy Burger
when you have not looked at anything
Rest in Peace,
dear old V.H.S video recorder,
your life was one given
in service of those to whom
staying in was an anathema
and the pause button,
for whatever their reason,
be it grainy, dirty or just
frequently needing the loo
during a good film
or quickly taped soap opera
as the promise
of a night out at the pub with no
strings attached became a modern
necessity.
Farewell and thank you
for being able to tape Doctor Who
Please take me back there
For my blood is cold without its warmth,
The feel of the fire
And the majestic stag heads fixed sight
High on the wall.
Please take me back there,
Through the mists and open rain,
The taste of a forgotten whisky,
In my mouth, let me feel the close heather
And the sound of a violin by the hearth.
Please take me back there,
For I am incomplete without her,
I am lost in the mountains