The once proud five lamps
that used to light the way
for the edge of a village
on the frayed hem
of the outskirts of Liverpool,
that trams would
sit idly by before returning
to the glamour on offer,
are now silent, forgotten
to all but the curious and the
mindful preservers of
the fabric of society with
chequered cloth waiting appeal
and the dinner time stamp of approval
as they raise their glasses
and whisper cheers in the dark.
The heaving Northern metropolis
torrential with the sound of expectant, excited feet
is but for a short while,
quiet, serene and calm on the Sunday morning
as actors and performers rest after the shows
of the week and the laughter
that has followed them to the silence
of their dressing room
and the chance encounter
with the fan captivated by the show
and to whom the acquiring of the photograph
with their
new next day idol
is something to look back upon in dusty years
Your towering beauty I wish I could see
up close and personal,
every imperfection, every slighted line,
and how I wish I could have known
you when I was younger
and with conceited youth know
I could have conquered you,
loved you and have every inch
of you mapped in my mind
forever.
You are older than I,
yet so very young,
and I find myself disgracefully suffering
from the illusion that you,
in some respects,
have a daily virginal quality to you
It distresses me just how the two of you
want to destroy the other’s image,
when the real enemy of the times
is the gods that founded your existence
and breathed fire in to your tiny souls.
You explode with ferocity,
like a thousand Hiroshimas
captured in the dazzling light of
single black and white photograph
on the day that the Sun became insignificant.
Yet you have not the wit or the temperament
of grace in which to walk away
from the fallout and put distance
It’s not that I’m mad,
surely that is beyond
the easiest of conversations,
for you have to be mad
to work with words here.
It’s more in the way that I cannot
find the Hamster
that flew off the wheel long ago
so that I can at least bury
its final remains and give the poor creature
the final shred of honour
befitting the way it held its own
in the company
of the down but not outs
and the sensationally fallen.
That poor Hamster
The Universe is dying,
the scream of the victim
and the whimpering quiet pleading
has been heard since it was born
against its will and left urgently
on the doorstep
of the nearest milkman
to deliver on his rounds.
Long since has it passed the anger and frustration
of youth and its quiet dogged resistance to Middle Age
in which it lost its maidenhead to Entropy
in a quick fumble beside the sea of forever
and the loss of the phone number hastily scribbled
For sale:
One fairly careful,
but sometimes under-valued owner
prone to breakdown on occasions
when the weather and temperament gets too hot,
has rust spots where lack of full thrust
and fifth gear has only ever been imagined
but never put in practice.
Right headlight needs work,
best not try on full beam as photophobia
may upset other users.
Stereo works well, too well, sometimes
only available on loud, especially when
the mood hits and the upbeat open road
seems clear of clutter, place objects in way,
The deal was struck one lazy January day
in the Winnie-Gate over an illegal pint
for all present . The pile of over salted chips costing
each less than a good night’s sleep
and the sound of pool balls smacking in time
off the green velvet stained with half chewed
cigarette smoke and twenty-pence bets
to the tunes of the day being played
with carefree abandon
from the cannibalised juke box,
cannibalised through our own choices
and 80s regalia and the only acknowledgment
to our deeds was the fashion for the rolled up
We haven’t spoken for a while,
the telephone more like an instrument
of sarcasm in your hands and the last time
I heard from you was for the voice of introspection
to try and take control of a person’s thoughts
and life that wasn’t yours to observe upon;
for the running commentary via the modern way
of stripping flesh from bone but with the crocodile
concern and false eye tear that suited your demeanour
as you laid into me, despite me having been
your only friend for a while and one who never
Can I exist without you?
For you, blasted devil, the persistent whining nag at my ear
and the dagger that sways slightly in the breeze
as it hovers without remorse or feeling
at the knotted black foul smelling lumps in my spine,
can I truly be who I am now without your whispered
torture, the sledge hammer attacks and small drill bit
sensation causing ripples up and down what is
no longer there, if you too also disappear without trace?
An old friend I hadn’t seen