Promise me, if you can
that you won’t go out blazing
like Hemmingway,
she whispered in the darkness
of my thoughts whilst
forever bathing with sweetness and
open minded serenity,
I can cope with you fighting the bear,
I see the sense in wandering off into the great
unknown and the untouchable
but you are no Hemmingway,
you are not that selfish.
I thought about it for a while,
In between the tolling of the clock
and agreed, I would never see the sense
They still come,
they still knock on the door ,
they will forever kick at the door
they come for the disabled
because now we are the softest target,
not realising that we are all the victims
of any sort of infirmity,
but soon they will come for you
and we will not be able to speak for you,
your crime, the worry in your head
and the flowering nagging and revelation
that all is not right, all is not well,
for they come for the Muslim woman next door,
I have sought you out for so long,
just the glimpse of you in the distance
I find, and over time I have echoed your song,
but you have kept away with terrible insistence.
How much longer will you keep me at arms subtle length
I mourn for you, I ache and I desire
what little resolve I have, that you will take my strength
for the blaze of damnation in your hands, in your forgiving fire.
Yet your black cloak, hood, sheer stockings allude me,
I could still see your eyes
as I searched through lost decades
in which Time was a peculiar beast;
beautiful as all forty somethings are
when they allow memories to flow,
sincere when they are told
of loved ones who declined
to make it this point,
charming with upturned smile
as Time for a brief while
allows the mystery to unfold
like a rose blooming in the twilight,
the sparkle of energy and questions
and revealing answers never once
thought of during a previous time
It’s the words of comfort
uttered by a voice from behind
as they slip their arms around your waist
and their head pressed deep
into the space between your shoulders,
that for a brief moment make you forget
the tension you feel as the corroded sense
of perspective explodes in your head
when you remember
that they are spoiling for fights around you,
that humanity loves a brawl,
that the battle is never won,
that we never, ever learn,
that the dark conflict rages
that nations will always clash,
If he was sixty then he didn’t show it
in his face or the handshake
that he offered me at the end
of the night,
the long arduous session
in which my curry sauce,
Newcastle fashion, served with Barbados
and Middlesborough grin
and Southport decay,
tasted oh so fine as the last vestige
of the night died in my horse driven
carriage, snorting wildly throat.
After a quarter of a century,
the odd excursion to the land
of History in the making,
still that beguiling man
I may not be able to climb a mountain,
if I could I would have given Chomolungma
my best shot, frost bitten toes and missing
nose perhaps worth the price
of seeing the world in peace,
I wouldn’t have minded sailing the Atlantic,
lonely solitude a gift that keeps giving,
the endless days and sleepless nights, no
different to what my life entails now,
just the dark of the Ocean
calling out, each wave hitting
the side of the boat like an S.O.S. message,
join us, join us and swim under the pressure;
It is the curse of the modern day
autograph hunter, not content
with waiting come rain or shine
or hanging around in the darkness
waiting for the object of their affection,
pen at the ready, checked twice,
ink bleeding in anticipation
and growing hot under the pulse
of the sweaty palm;
not content with this
or even the chance of a photograph
that will adorn their wall,
the bed side fondle of the Kodak
captured moment as they stroke
the thin memory
till it blurs and fades through exposure
It is from inside the cell
that I write to you,
as I do everyday,
on the off
chance
that someone will revoke
the charge and set me
free
or finally come to their sentences
and order the execution.
I write to you out of hope
for either
and not be trapped alone
for a minute more
than I can bear, sweat
driven and festering
in a half state of perpetual ghost
state at the hands of those who run my state;
If
I have held your hand
and told you that I love you,
then I have meant every damn letter
in that short sentence,
but don’t be misled
I have loved almost everybody
I have come into contact with;
for in their eyes I see possible and hopeless redemption,
I see a yearning to be understood
and I have tried my best to value that.
I have adored you like a eunuch lover,
I have told you in no uncertain terms
that I love you but I have not slept