It is a freedom fought and worth
the small slow drag on a Cuban cigar,
the long drawn out
spiral of smoke
and the collection of brown
spit that chokes the air
off the Danube, only briefly
before it becomes invisible
but toxin rich, before it is joined
by the steaming coffee, stronger
than home, sending its aromatic
desire up the street in a kind of wanton
come hither eyes and stroke
of the silk stocking that I watch
of one woman on her young friend;
Her eyes match the Danube on this cloudy day,
yet look deeper, look beyond the casual
observance and see a person that is majestic,
that rises up beyond the groove
imposed by life at others behest,
see a woman,
as you should see all women,
as life itself, for without them
we are just lumps of useless clay, dressed in rags
and willing ourselves to self destruct;
The Danube meanders along with serenity,
as her eyes close to remember the scene forever,
it is a serenity that is matched and surpassed
I would love to know what made
each city burn so bright
and every town, village and enclave
burst with energy, the pulse,
is it manufactured, brought into existence
by the heartbeat of those
whose muscle desires it most;
desire in ache, desire in conquest,
the craving to be free
but pulled in one direction
to be a fragment of the whole…
I see the whole and kiss its pulse,
I hear the trumpet blown and the
car horn bluster with discontent,
the ravage of the road
Sheep Street never looked so good
as it did in the early May sun,
the spotlight from decades past
captured with almost boundless
enthusiasm from roof to roof
in which places from my childhood
have leaked away, have melted into nothing
more than history and tethered remains
of collective memory.
The record shop long gone,
Goble’s, along with Iain, vanished
into the ether, coffee shops by chain
replace the feel of something inward
and to be rejoiced
and as for the biggest killer
There are no flies on you,
for the moment,
just as there are no ties on me
no knot to choke me with
should that be your choice
in which to strangle, to suffocate,
to shift me from vision, no tie,
no fasten except the criss-cross
of emotions that we share, some that bond
with the same sensation of the first kiss
that two teenagers share in an open field
in secret but with all knowing
about it by the time
the final bell rings and clangs with rusty
I thought they were dead
as they slept in daylight hours,
vampire like with pale grim faces
and under stubble they lay.
Death would be a release
some might say, wrapped
in their own ivy, cheered by their own disease,
but as the underpass
feels the cool thunder of running traffic
and exhausts compassionately
spewing its own toxic hue
in the memories of those with eyes closed
and for us, those that walk on by
with either disgust in their eyes
or sadness under their taught cheekbones
I don’t want to see a nation
I love tear itself apart in some
circus game, where the acrobats tumble
and where the ringmaster is but an illusion
to the real owner and stand by creators of the game,
the clowns waiting for their time
in the sun, the hideous ghoulish and rabid
fiends whose smile is painted on with glee
and self loathing despair. I hate clowns,
I hate clowns, they’re creepy fuckers
and they stick in the mind in anarchy
and whilst revolution and change is good for the soul,
There’s a taste of rubble in the air,
of the brick dust that an old house
in decline, stooping towards memoriam
and grave side recollections, of times when
the happiness and tired old peculiar
went hand in hand, that the walls become sensitive
to the slightest knock and the whisper of the gradual
and inevitable to come; it is in that taste of rubble,
of brick dust, hanging wires and a couch past its best
but hugged in the dead of night when sleep
evades the would be dreamer,
The iron gates provided the back drop
to the sound of the saxophone
exploring its way up the hill towards
the rampant hostages of wine, women
and unlikely song birds hanging
in the explosion of Tuesday night
football and angry flash
points of possible danger and caress
driven anxiety; the odd yellow card
and scowl as the touch of thigh
through opaque stockings
was to some a thrill they were willing to chase
in the darkness of self deluded heroics.
The night air was blissful as the saxophone
It was never something new, something
that came out of the blue,
I was always an irrelevance to you;
I saw it in your eyes and felt it
strangle me when you would
go out of your way to hold
a smile for me despite knowing
full well you truly despised me.
It was in your handshake,
the “What’s your name again”,
you found such a laugh on that cold
winter’s night in church
and the silent accusations looking down
from self-imposed high and mighty position