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
I want to see the dawn approach
and the dead
of the night, in all its mundane glory
and sheltered sideways repose,
disappear into the distance
from the point where twilight begins
in earnest and the ghosts of memory
are caught in perpetual agony,
screaming for forgiveness
and let loose once penance is served.
I want to stand, shoulders back,
not hunched over like a carved and varnished stick,
worn by clutched hand and frightened
sentiment, I want to greet the dawn
with purpose and smile,
I wish I could escape to Lilliput
and see out my days knowing
the world of giants
is buried in dust, that
the path to my home,
glistening in small dew
on the verges of my lawn,
where the log fire burns
and snaps with occasional wet wood
that had escaped from undercover
and tea is permanently on the go,
where I can read a book
with my feet curling
their stately pedal like digits
and the soft breeze
that retires through a small hole
It never mattered to me until now,
because I knew he was wrong,
I half let it slide, I let it stew and fester,
I allowed it to simmer in the background,
but it has to be said
I paid it no attention, just like I paid no thought
to the Religious Education lesson I once attended
and to whom this day my knowledge
of the Bible still outranks
some of the supposed learned people
who have studied it, because my thoughts
are not blinded by tunnel vision, love who you love,
I let Insanity catch its breath
and allow Madness
the opportunity to walk off
its enflamed stitch,
I let Lunacy brag and boast
whilst I tie its shoe laces together
and folly I allow to run ahead,
stopping occasionally to pick
at buttercups it finds
beautiful at the side of the road.
Wisdom is far beyond me,
and Understanding its equal,
whilst judgement has gone out the window
in a hurry to win the win the race,
Reason perhaps catchable if I start again