A day out in Stratford,
the November day brutally sunny,
the thin air of satisfaction multiplied
and the low down Sun blinding the eyes
and warming the soul
as fish and chips are eaten in Rio open air
and the taste of Greasepaint and the ghost
of Hamlet fills the Time.
I imagine the small boy of eight,
the day trip taken from Moor Street
Station past the furthest reaches
of Acocks Green and my grandfather’s garage
with spinning top drivers and the forgotten clippie girl
Midnight calls and the terror begins,
the creeping agony of the task ahead,
to battle the Witch Queen
as she raps on the door, testing for your weakness
and the sliver of black octopus tentacles
reaches in like rubber smoke
to throttle your resolve.
Coral Mallor, an unearthly name,
strikes fear into all known men
and even the women that she professes to love
cross themselves in her company
and the Devil, shining red and with muscular sword
in hand looks at his companion and dreads
I wish I could grieve for you
but you are a fading memory,
a ghost that still breathes
and whose profligate, reckless heart
still beats somewhere…
still, against his ribcage and in such a way
that each time I hear it
deep down in my D.N.A. I experience
an anger unbecoming
for what you have done
and the dark seeds of despair find a way
to nestle and take root
uncontrolled and unregulated
as I remember all that is between us,
blood and soul,
I can have the most beautiful day,
I can find birds that sing in time
with the music that sleeps
inside my head
and I can find the soprano
whose heart beat resembles a muse
in which to write such words of praise
and yet..
again and again I know that life is fleeting,
that the bird of super thunder,
of golden reflection is the heaven
and whose joy is abundant…
makes me sad, brings a tear of damnation
scurrying down my cheek
and to whom, sends me hurtling towards
When bandages and plasters,
the tourniquet and the dressing
are used by both genders to stop
everything from a nicked finger
paper cut to full blown emergency
amputation, the blood that comes out,
that seeps, dribbles and flows,
perhaps gushes is funnily enough
the same in both men and women
and the intersexed,
so why are tampons considered
a luxury…
An item that belongs to one,
too many, should not find itself
adding to the coffers at Westminster,
unless of course they are used by the C word
The gas man cometh,
steely eyed and no laughter
in their ice cold veins
but a sense of duty abounds
to stop the whiff of pissing gas
blowing us to Kingdom come.
The new cooker gets installed,
not a monumental day in the life of all,
but the safety of normality is ensured
as being able to grill bacon,
which they say too much meat will murder you,
and ignite the hob
without having to use a faltering Bryant and May,
brings saliva rushing to the lips
The kiss from the long since dead
is not as hard to wipe away
as the one supplied by the Judas,
the one on the cheek, the one
that eats away like caustic soda
eating through the skin
until it tears at the soul…
the kiss from the long since dead,
whilst full of mental scaring,
is nonetheless acceptable
as the dead can remain dead…
unless you decide to resurrect them.
The kiss from the long since dead
can be left to rot upon the memory of the lips
In a different light,
I would set fire to the Angels
and I would watch them burn
and fall from their supposed grace
passing judgement in the Heavens,
their wings singed and blackening
as they recanted their sins upon the Earth;
for the Angels are only devils in disguise
and they fear being found out.
I would set them ablaze and like particles of
Mushroom Cloud dust they would soon
fall to Earth, silent, dazed and choking
on their own arrogance…
The hour should be filled,
far too easy the will of temptation
to wilfully neglect the extra granted Time
and yet the 25 hours that the day resides
within, that nests
like a brooding mare, nostrils flaring
and eyes wide, brown and expectant, is soon squandered,
soon relieved of its majesty
and wonder
and the time,
the precious awkward Time,
the moments between the tic and the tock…
…disappear in dream like slumber.
The cry of ages, I don’t have enough Time,
The T shirts, surrounded by age, my time in the pit,
the sweat of the Mosh dance, the testosterone mixed
with the one kiss of absolute passion
and her lingering
musk that smiles through the dead
and refused to become dust,
is still tangible in the air
as I think of the gigs
the trophies purchased,
the design catching my eye and the lack of money
for rent, earned the following week
and to become a crest of honour
to say I was there, before I found the right