There is a silence between us
that reflects the way I think of you,
the way that you easily slipped into the guise
of the creature in black, the despot with red
insignia cross who bellowed orders,
wishing to not be only obeyed
but to make me suffer with open wound
everywhere I went
and everywhere you wouldn’t take me.
I held out for so long, my resistance total, and yet
from the fist initial meeting, you tried to control me,
the detour you took me upon,
When I hear that nobody else will be by your side
on the day that you will feel at your most lonesome,
I try to hide my disappointment
but I know as I make my way
across town to the shaded autumn glade,
one shrouded in finery and the memories
of my own Grandfather’s ashes
I will do my best to remember the good
times we shared.
I’ve only ever been there once
I could not go on the day when they took
My hero away, I could not face the prospect
Wandering through the books piled high,
the lustful eye of sentence coming over me and the rigid
spines of non conformity, shrouded in sizes ranging from the obese
and the thin streaks of nothing,
to the over familiar that I catch glancing my way,
eye-less
but still able to wink at me in complete recognition of a fond
couple of days spent in bed together, peace in our time,
as well as in my head,
to the unobtainable, the ones that prize themselves too lofty
to be anything but out of reach, their beloved verdict
Saturday mornings held no fear
once I learned that young tigers’ anarchy could appear,
with The Beano read, Whizzer and Chips to come,
television primed and Tiswas beamed out to this Birmingham son.
Every young Midland’s child favourite kid
Lenny Henry in botanist impression, we followed all he did
O.K. and for some us the early intrigue in Sally James,
a woman who stoked the fires of early passion flames.
Our favourite uncle in Chris Tarrant, the leader of this anarchic day
whose exploits we cheered in every way
A poet dreams of the beauty that Spring lends
to the happiness of the heart, of sunken meadow
covered in wet, early morning dew and the sturdy Oak
stretching out beyond the low laying damp mist
that grips tightly to the birds sodden searching for respite
in the glow of the shadow haunted Sun
and smiles.
The poet, like the farmer, blissfully trades his future stock
for one roll in Summer’s golden lawn, the stray piece of straw
acting as inspiration for the longing of everlasting
I will lay flowers for the girl in room thirteen.
In my shame of playing armchair detective,
having trudged the streets
in which her story
was told, I, like countless others,
forgot there was a human being
and not a story, a puzzle to solve,
that sang such songs of haunting sorrow
in room thirteen.
The long since forgotten grave, unmarked
and without any ceremony
since the day she was blessed by the Earth
should hold testament to the despise we
should hold to the Victorian era
I opened the windows wide to let the squall,
the hurricane in waiting, rage through the house with
typical October Winds fashion, the bluster of a false
premised argument, the storm that fells trees
but cannot whip the coat from a cold woman
as she digs in deep with fingernails more lustful
than when she lingers in bed in lingerie long drawn
over her body.
The squall rages, it fires like a coughing dragon,
not with splutter, but with the wet hose
that feeds a Tsunami and the curtains rattle
I’m sorry I’m late
as I didn’t want to attend the party
held in my honour, not in my state
of mind, not whilst I could howl
and give regard to the disease that burrows
between each disc and nerve shattering split
decision. I didn’t want to get up on stage
and sing karaoke hits, of meaningless lyrics
or sample a raised finger
buffet that means nothing to me,
for there are days when I cannot play
when I want to howl, scream, wail in the moonlight
There are snipers on the roofs of Manchester,
Special Forces clad in black
to be seen awaiting orders
on which protest they should first attack.
There are snipers on the roofs of Manchester,
just how long before they appear in Birmingham,
Newcastle, Edinburgh, Brixton, Bicester, Bootle,
how many bullets down the throats should they cram?
There are snipers on the roofs of Manchester,
ready it seems to take apart a crowd
by fair means or foul, with orders given
and no heads in shame bowed.
What do we gain by standing here
and discussing, evaluating, testing,
controlling
what a four year old can do in the classroom,
I would rather know they were happy and stress free until
they were eleven and not forced into the world
like automatons; their individuality and their creativity nurtured
and not stunted by the rigidity of a system
based on supposition and baseless presumption.
At four, I could read more than well enough
and I could make up my own mind
on which football team to support,