It is being naked in front of you
that makes me worry that you will laugh,
that you will misinterpret my words,
to the point of agony
or worse, see them as a reflection
of a dusty one sided mirror, engraved ornately
but still something to raise an eyebrow over,
perhaps even mock the attempt
of a strange tongues to which a man
who embraces oddness is bound.
I would rather appear naked in front of you,
for laughter is good for the soul,
On nodding terms at the bus stop,
I saw the flowers in his hands,
fading quickly but revitalised in part
by the expensive looking
bottle of labelled perfume
stranded in agony, almost strangled
and choked back as he explained
he was returning them, having cancelled
the holiday,
the short trip away.
Straying off the subject
so not to cause to distress,
I asked him about his life
on the farm up in the North, surrounded by trees
and the fruits of summer, the cold chill
We forget
that whilst we are the hero
of our own particular story,
that we are also only bit players,
occasional extras,
unseen scene shifters
and barely existing wardrobe mistresses
and silent fancy dressers
in everybody else’s time in the spotlight,
that whilst they deliver the cutting line,
the well rehearsed, sometimes spontaneous
ad-lib or the images of abuse in human form,
we are the unspeaking audience,
looking in from afar
and with no right to have our say
on how we would like the play
There is so much in the shadows,
the photograph of abandoned things,
shuffling old men on once glory filled streets,
holding hand written placards, nothing changes,
now filled with the discarded everyday
that rots insidiously
like teeth on sugar high diet,
old decomposing trains stations, haunted
by the clatter of memories
and stolen lovers kisses
watched by steam
and the jealous porter,
now all gone;
I love shadows like this,
faded memories I can linger in,
it gives me a melancholic high.
Grace Kelly always looked so demure
when photographed in black and white,
in sepia too she looked so cool,
the perfect face to fall desperately in love with,
the woman into which dreams fall and fail.
Yet in colour, you are reminded of the fragility
of beauty worn, of timeless vulnerability
and the crumble down effect
of pancake dish upholstery
served up in glorious Technicolour
and stereo fitted sound.
The woman of the century, the great
unknown of the silver screen,
radiantly stares from lofty heights
A dead wasp’s carcass,
half chewed by wind,
half spat out with ferocious intent
by the earthbound ants
that plough tunnels underneath the street
which one day will cause the turn of the century
houses to cave in and be swallowed whole
by the teeming mass,
lays rotting in a puddle,
its wings now no more than show pieces
to a time when it lorded over all.
Do not mourn the wasp,
it is nothing more than the Luftwaffe
in insect form and the ants
The love inside will always burn brightly
even for the weed that has replaced the blooming flower
as it creeps up against the wall tightly,
for even the sickly green of knot weed has illuminating power.
The adoration of things turned sour,
the memory of the good that came before,
that hide in reflection as they cower
before the boom and bust of relationship law.
Yet I hold the memory of you dearly,
I cradle it like a child, in innocent wonder
and whisper, cajole it to stay alive, to breathe.
The circus is in town.
The ring leaders
for the next ten months
will provide the illusion that a two
way ring can bring the hero
of the hour, the usual suspect
who can reach the converted
and pull off cunning stunts
in the swinging trapeze
but to whom over thirty states
will always suggest that their clown
is always the guy they choose.
From Iowa to Texas to New York,
the circus only exists because
the land is so vast and the land is arid
I have had bad days, when my words
have been misinterpreted, my actions
mistaken, my shame and hatred
of my own self carried around for ever
after, pinned to my chest
like a gleaming medal sparkling
on parade, polished with pride
by some other shmuck in my skin
and specially made
for the stupid, crass,
ignorant and argumentatively
stubborn. I have been all that at times.
I have kicked downwards when pain
was bad but I have also kicked upwards
when the ache threatened to send me over,
The America I remember has been stolen,
it doesn’t seem to be the way
it was when I first laid
eyes on the French mistress
holding a light to the world’s
repossessed and charmed poetry fanatic.
The bars look uncomfortable now
and not welcoming to the stranger
at the door, clad in clothes
of home but willing to
change, to leave the will behind
and play the game, until it suits
to change the rules, one message at a time.
The America I loved, still love, for passion