I need my next fix.
I need the needle to come gently down
and give me an escape route out of what could be
a boring existence,
if not for my not so-secret vice.
The odd burning cigar still lingers here.
Long gone is the bitter recrimination of a pint savoured and destroyed
and the gentle relaxation of something intangible
has not been taken for a while
as my friend in Oxford I haven’t seen.
I need my latest fix.
I first visited the dealer on my own far too young.
After all, it is my own stupid fault.
I certified you to live, breathe; fester like a germ in a blocked sink,
inside my head and was never surprised when you drew across the bolt
and tunnelled your way to where you grandstand at what I think.
Your expertise, I applauded, for who could not admire the sense
of purpose you showed in whispering in my ear,
of living with easy contempt with every pound, shilling and pence
worth of damned words at my chosen life and career.
I want God to weep
uncontrollably and with shame.
I want Her to lose sleep
for what we have done to Her planet and in Her unspoken name.
When put on trial, Her hands gripping the dock in fear
I want Her to realise that Her mistake,
Her complicit action, worthy of the arrogance of fabled Lear,
was to find us so spiteful, imaginative and on the take.
For when the sentence is passed down,
the gavel banging repeatedly with judgement almighty,
The legendary giant of heavy rock has his back turned away from me
as he stands guard and watches over all the other photographic memories
in the room.
There is no false great works of art upon the walls of the house,
aside from those I have chosen to place against the half decorated structure.
When I was younger I had posters that scattered the three walled sides in my Bicester
bedroom and I was told that eventually I would grow
to having just the one perfectly wooden framed piece of art to stare at and draw
Others might see you as the omen before the oncoming storm.
The loud-mouthed, certain and confident callous bellow
That comes full of wind and withered joy before the year weeps and grows old
And turns young at heart Old Father Time into a dour, disabled dying fellow!
They might see you and rage as you do, all piss and wind,
Shaking their fists in frightened fury at what you may have wrought
And the golden amber hue fading as they recount who against they have sinned
Their conceit in conflict now chastised in thought.
You are the modern example
of the Playboy whose morals took a long, lingering hike
one summer’s day in the Midlands
and you smiled at all as the cream sat proudly upon your lips
like a tomcat on heat and the hand
stayed shuffling and straightening, readjusting in your pocket.
Ah but you thrilled all with tales of money spurned
and like a poorly run casino you kindly splashed out
on things to keep the bloated creature named economy
happy, sated and desired as it kept you
Now that I’m older, still dying my hair
With many fears about why and how.
Will you still be sending me books on crime
Poirot, Marple, even Harry Lime?
If I’d not phoned till quarter to three
Would you have a search party at my door?
Will you still need me, no need to feed me
Now your 64?
I am older too
And because you brought me into the world
I will forever love you.
I was never that handy mending your clothes
The poisoner of the well is never
satisfied until he has
murdered the whole village.
If he could, he would add to the venom that seeps, multiplies,
grows in strength and adds to the imbalance of his impurity,
his lack of moral conviction and toxin fuelled hatred for others well being
by unzipping his fly and with great relish, untangling the so called beast
and piss in the drinking water.
The deep yellow nasty smell that he insists is not there,
the unnatural toxin
that runs through his own veins and makes his flesh burn
Middle Age I have found to be a painful reminder
of melancholy memory. I tell myself that I am not old,
nor scared of what is to come, the hurt of loss, the fragility of kindness,
that I have these greying bags under my blue eyes not because I am tired,
exhausted with continuous running and pulls on my time,
nor wish for a deep dreamless sleep every night
in which nightmares are also kept at bay without the aid
of a chain of garlic slices hung around my fattening neck,
Of all the things I wanted to be
when I was young boy,
the jobs I imagined being able to do with a
certain degree of satisfaction,
never mind at all
the wage
in which was not even a secondary factor
in my overwhelmed mind
as I never thought I would be married
and father children
of my own in which to foul up their lives,
the most appealing was the life of a Hobo,
or the tramp
when spoke in English tongue.