I am not a man
who understands the big deal
of being able to travel from nought
to blow out
in under five seconds, nor the allure
of looking under the hood
and seeing an engine needing
complete overhaul when a sparkplug
splutters and groans at the thought
of an electrical impulse gone wrong.
I have no care for how far a drill bit can go
into a wall without the plaster cracking
and then requiring further work
to keep it level, I have no care at Do It
On the day a good man dies,
the memory of your worthless life
is brought into focus
as if the
eye test
you have been putting off
because you know how blind you
have become, confirms your worst fear
and the slow satisfying nod of the optician
as he tells you of the need for two sets
of new and expense ridden glasses, that
memory of the good man’s life is all
you can see…
and the memory burns shame and insignificance
into your eyes.
All I hear in far distant voices
is the complaint of Echo
as she strives to have Narcissus look
upon her tender loins and sigh
for one such as her, one such as her.
Echo, child of damnation
of her own accord, never one of
punished sound and fading rememberance
as the words splits and catches,
slowly disintegrating, integrating, grating, rating
and ever slowly decaying, just saying nothing
but I love you.
Echo, child of spirit,
I implore, do not play with the boy
Do not ask me,
for I wouldn’t give it up for roses.
Do not ask it of me
for I would not put my life
in your hands and I would not
let the lingering taste of over friendly perfume
seep into my pores and cloud my judgement,
do not ask it of me.
Do not ask it of me,
Do not sway my mind with temptation
for I am but a weak man,
like all men, once ensnared
by the thought of the price of Heaven
How can Time play tricks so vivid
that the man with a voice of golden hue
can suddenly transport you
with tears dancing on the edge of burning Efrafa
to the ABC and surrounded by school friends
laughing, joking, ice cream spilling delight
and the tale of an ultimately doomed rabbit
which makes you weep so passionately
and with despair…
that the first looks of being considered fabulously odd
are to be heard and seen.
Sensitive…
too sensitive but for the man with
My darkened room,
it was once the sanctuary in which music
sang out with fury and blasted
with intense and beguiling beauty,
a song for each occasion and with the speakers
encroaching as near as possible to my ears
and laying eggs
of a foundation to keep me sane,
in my darkened tomb.
Curtains never opened, they remain shut now,
closed to make sure the mole like sun
never peeks its snout through where dust clouds reign.
I like to see in the dark and let my eyes not
The constellations shine in the heavens, bright
and beautiful with the grace of powerful harmony
installed into them and the perfect stillness
as I sit and watch the glowing embers of the
three dozen blazing forty watt suns
in my view puts serenity and hope into my very being.
I wish you could see the five star domino,
Copper ringed Saturns I reflect upon,
the golden hue which is impossible to ignore
as they suspend themselves in the heavens
and give off meagre heat but to whom
Where did all the Yokos go?
The women who can tear apart a soul
and seamlessly and without
a second breath
stitch it back together
and create a new psyche,
not a monster created in a back street lab
with Guinness flowing in the bar next door
and the brutal sound of a Karaoke machine
ripping apart a classic tune,
but with the energy to change them for the better;
the muse dies quickly when there
are no more Yokos…
causing revolutions in the world
Quiet now,
for its hard to keep drowning
when you keep pulling me back
up and making me
gasp,
splut
ter and whee
ze for air,
to let the extra weight of water
cough through my teeth and spray into the void
to which I escape.
Quiet now,
lay back in the blistering sun
and let the seagulls perch on the stern,
puff in the heat, pant with overwhelming exhaustion
and save the strength
for as I falter, so too do you,
It raged around me and I refused to see the bullets race,
I declined the black invitation edged in guilt to see you suffer
and I purposely lost the war
so I could win the fight,
that I could see your enemy square in the eyes
and outline their own blood that they tasted
with bitterness, the sadness they had caused you.
I lost the war with rational intention…
I lost the war and abandoned territory, but by doing so
I won the fight and gained self-respect…