We find ourselves with a very unique opportunity
to do the right thing but the British enjoyment of sticking
to the choice supposedly only offered between vanilla and raspberry
stops Mint Choc from ever being tasted on a Day in May afternoon.
It is a very British howl of complaint
that at the back of our minds, the thought that struggles to be free
and roam wild, perhaps by not going down the same old, same old
tired route and certainly keeping away from that foul
…And all you wanted more than life
was to say you had slept with Jim Morrison,
it didn’t matter where or how, you just wanted that infamy,
the fame and glory, the smile of pleasure
the ring of tears when the camera pointed at you dressed in black
at the poet’s graveside, grieving but with a story to tell…
lots of stories to tell and not all of them yours to share.
You brushed hair in a certain style before I came round
knocking on the red wooden door, the only thing that
We are gathered here today
to mourn the passing of yet another fallen hero
selfishly abandoned on Britain’s streets.
The carcass of the picked open raven coloured cover
that provides, at best mediocre shelter, but to whom so many
of us gathered round the pavement of our beloved city,
a natural habitat and environment for it to flourish
and thrive in,
are thankful to be seen with, to use as a weapon
as we hold it far too low and are able to pluck the eyes
The memories have come thick and fast in the past seven days.
A myriad of colours, sepia toned and black and white
finish, all once perfected
with the laminated breath of a forgotten set of gods winking
their approval and non conformist heads
and now shattered, a grieving taking place as I find
my once perfect clown breathing in the cold heart of
electrical impulses, the bed of nails too hard to ignore.
This Clown took me through every lined connection and sweet serenade of song
“Are you an Inspector, well are ya, you stink you do,
you nosy parking f**k”,
the woman of the Churchfield
gave out as verbal abuse and then in a flash of
inspiration added, “I bet you have a bus pass don’t ya.”
Her boyfriend joined in feeling brave at being able to use the word stink
without referring to his own life as it crumbled down around
his ankles, complicit in her actions as I was in my own.
You could hear her up the metal stairs, warmed by the sun on an April day,
You have been a constant, the charming warrior
championing a truth few want to see.
You have been at my side fair lady, causing a stir
in a heavenly pursuit which holds my heart in chains, locked with no key.
My dearest reason for living with nothing of monetary value,
for the price I paid in understanding your form, your beauty
in debt and indebted, in truth I have taken from you on cue
and the life I have led reflecting the sweet taste of irony.
On my second day in Bootle, an old man,
withered looking but comfortable in his stride
and his shoulders resolutely swaggering
towards recruitment, came up to me as I breathed in
a different town’s air and asked from underneath
his floating pencil gray moustache, which side
of the divide
did I belong?
“Divide”? I enquired, naturally thinking red or blue
or what was it she said, they also play up the road don’t they
in a different colour, or of course this could be a Wirral
I have spent the day with ghosts
and the twighlight
with spectres from a time I never wanted to let go.
I remember you all, I have felt like a bookkeeper in my heart
as each memory grows sepia with time
and the sadness I feel at the names of fallen,
hurt and punish my thoughts, deep
unyielding and untimely ends.
The pain of memory is such that in the light
offered by the shadow of a single forty watt sun
and the dim illumination of a progressive typewriter, begrudgingly
There’s a gig on tonight, do you fancy going?
Should be a sell out, you were lucky I got tickets really.
It’s in my friend’s room across the hall from me, it’s in his self contained flat,
you O.K. with sitting on a worktop and don’t forget if you need to smoke,
you will have to crowd surf across at least a three people sat down
and then watch out for the girl on the ground floor
who likes to catch leavers and ask for photographic evidence
of the set-list so she can write a review of the sound that
…If I had been born a girl,
would I put myself through the pain of later life
or given in to this drill like resonance that courses
through my spine, like a jack hammer gone mad
and which turns my sick to bile and my thoughts
to a looping insanity…
If I had been born a girl…
I would hope I would have even more compassion
than I hopefully am in possession of now,
and be able to forgive even those that are unforgivable in their actions