It is always forgotten in passing
that whilst December may hold the
shortest day it is also covets the longest night
in which to savour darkness
at its most beautiful,
to see the moon ride high
and the whispering clouds
race across the craggy, acne spilled face of the
sceptical celestial body.
To love seeing the moon
where the bright haze of summer should reside
at two in the afternoon,
is too observe the ghost of the year
fall into shadow,
fall from grace
I can still smell the cordite
as it lingers in the air,
as it fuses with the cheap
whisky of my youth and the perfume,
the beautiful perfume of a hundred women
I’ve kissed, I longed for…
and yet I still smell the cordite
as I see the blue smoke
clouding my fingers,
collecting ash,
collecting the death bit by bit
I deny myself.
The cordite, the aftermath
of a Hemmingway smile
is perhaps preferable
to the slice,
by slice of loose skin, of taut skin,
The choking smog, irritates
and catches fire at the back of throat
from five miles away and the blank
faces of acceptance is a far cry
from Tiananmen Square.
A world away, the air is only soiled
by the corruption that settles
on the skin, that digs deep
into the pores
and poisons the soul.
A world away still further,
the recoil of a shot in the
broad light of day, echoes around the
empty chamber
and dies unhappily, its purpose spent.
The door will close on the world,
the only vision
of what lays beyond the great beyond
will come through television’s
voyeuristic intent
and from the voices I hear
as they pass the gate,
unhindered and alone;
almost spectral, apparitions
in the dust of hopeful white
that will add fuel to the point
of staying put
safe in my own mind and memory.
I will hear no knocks,
no rapping with great urgency
upon the wooden door
but I will be startled from slumber,
To me, he was the original Man in Black,
not knowing
of Johnny Cash’s persona at that time,
and it still being a couple of years away before
I became truly aware of The Stranglers,
He was the Man in Black
who looked like a machine,
sleek, disturbing, powerful,
like a starving Panther
on the prowl,
circling the village,
and waiting, fur bristling in the wind,
patiently for the right moment to
attack.
Bryan and I, cousins of six and seven,
sat spellbound and watched him
You are the rabbit in my head,
the one that demands that Time
is always against me, that Time
is the ogre, the Fagin of the day, pinching
without being noticed and offering
the stolen seconds to
the procrastinator,
the bully boy side step
of borrowed minutes
in ragged top hat and
the pitbull of days,
snarling as it returns the wallet
full of I.O.U.s which
cannot be redeemed.
You are The Cheshire Cat
smiling at me as the Rabbit
taps his fob watch
It’s either this
or one of those embarrassing long messages
that gets thrown out to the world and might generate
a nod,
a look of bemusement,
a brief sigh
or even a single thumbs up,
proud and erect,
blue but well meaning,
blue but on its own;
it’s either this or worse.
It’s either this
or dark thoughts turn
on myself, they bite and snarl
and they infect, oh they infect
and turn poisonous pus towards
a final goal and I turn
It is the parasite
I fear
that gives you such a rust for life,
that yellow complexion
under the hollow, shell like eyes,
your youthful frame in which was adored
Goddess like,
Helen of Troy fought over breasts,
the sweet beautiful sparkle
in brown eye shadow hint
and ruby lips,
now plunged into darkness,
the lights removed
and those lips, once
so beautiful to think of kissing,
now dead, spore driven and infectious from
your rust for life
of giving in,
They sat round the café table, the taste of bacon
catching on the rind and the steam of tea closing in
as if a London smog had suddenly descended
upon the fixtures, fittings and discarded
silver spoons laced with Dudley refinement;
they sat, slightly fidgeting, adults now, not children,
not children that were disgracefully made
to sit in a Salisbury Station and open presents
carried a few hundred miles on the back
of a broken dream,
adults now
but still
my boys.
The five breakfasts ordered,
The blinding argumentative glare
of darkness rolls in
at around four in the morning
and it rolls
its tongue, it slavers
and slurs, it begs and it stains
with insult, it disdains and pours
scorn on the eyes, as the narrow focus
of mock slit readiness
is installed
like a sergeant on parade
who first gets a sense of deviant
gratification at the prospect of pissing
down someone’s ear, of making them squirm
for having the audacity of sleeping till four
in the morning when they should