You are so beautiful,
the memory of your life reaches deep
and we, your friends and family,
are poorer for not having you here
to talk to but so much richer
for having been taught grace and courage
by one so brave.
Your last phone call to me was held
between candlelight breaths and I grasped
at any floating straw that came my way,
I was not worthy,
I knew I was insignificant
but you truly saw me as a friend
What manner of man am I
that I love adventure
but to whom the day to day, the subtle whisper
of understanding how everything
outside books, music and sport
and the odd moment of anger
when a political fool stands up to face the nation
and who asks us with greasy thought
and hand over fist embarrassment
to trust them, a rant at the radio
always good for the soul;
how anything outside all of this
matters a jot.
What manner of man am I
“Every child should be able to understand how to make a profit”
and every Government should be able to reap its pound of flesh
every minister should ensure that every child
is gainfully employed by the age of seven,
tied to the system, tied to a moveable desk,
fused into the new modern chimneys,
working under the banner of better together
and sitting in their productive off hours having a second job
as informers to the State, for the reward of profit,
making sure that their parents never ask the question
The scrambler bike kept coming,
the noise of a jet plane flying along the Linacre Road
signals war at the one a.m. backfire
and the generals in the quivering boots
make sure that the troops on the ground
are then told to remove their helmets on the count of three
and let the special beat try and detain and interrogate
the fast moving squadron disturbing the peace.
The soft rubber tread grips the road and the black spot
where the light should blaze
is all too easy to imagine but it’s too late
The managed decline of London
should begin with a swift declaration
that it costs too much to be viable,
that the days of it being the nation’s capital
are over and that Big Ben, the Elizabeth Tower
should be allowed to fall into disrepair
and stop,
just one last hurrah on a New Year’s Eve
and let the chimes the following year
just be the recording of an icon
who stood firm against the winds of change.
Let London fall,
not the boroughs of course, just London,
Let us not be candid about such thing, the dress
of the euphemism a shrouded disaster
for it allows the generous thought of a smile
hidden beneath the anger,
the resentment of a lifetime’s search for the bitter truth
at the bitter end of a bitter and sometimes handful of bitter pills
to get the better of you and the snide, whispered remarks
urging you to just finish the job the once
and for all…
I tire of this pain.
I have spent a lifetime searching
I showed her the poem that damns me,
that I cannot and dare not
ever publish
because by doing so, I consign you to death.
Nothing as brutal of actually placing your head upon the block
and watching the sliver of finest steel slice
through what remains of your ego-driven soul,
nor fastening the knot close to your throat
and watch you dangle forever,
your toes sliding across the floor
in quick rapid movements,
refusing sleep, refusing to ever keep
still…
The long Bristol Road opens up before me like an exotic river,
one that as a child was out of bounds to the
future Oxfordshire estuary Selly Park boy,
living in the tributary that fed the equally
impressive cod feeding grounds of the Pershore Road mainstem
and yet one that became enticingly familiar
as I encroached down the affluence felt of Tiverton Road to go swimming,
or take up the football cause on the open space
of the wild and hauntingly beautiful ‘rec, daring myself
to venture into this other land plagued by family members
I’ve never been on the bus to Gannow,
but then I’ve also never been to Canterbury
or Durham or even slipped into Rio,
admittedly the last one a bit harder to do from
the bus stops outside of
New Street Station, at least in a day and without
stopping to look at the marvel of Christ,
stoney faced, eager and
ready to bungee jump.
I’ve never made my way to Gannow,
neither have I seen where the 50 goes beyond King’s Heath,
I have never made my way to California,
The black tarred hearse arrives at the crematorium,
going no faster that three miles per hour,
it glides to a stop, measured, composed,
running out of steam, the engine making a last growling sound
of torture
as it silently falls asleep.
I watch from the shaded part of the graveyard
having taken time out to enjoy
the tranquillity that other people’s passing secures
and in the bright brilliant sunshine, I think of the grandfather
I never had the will to bury as the coffin containing James Collins