One day these waves that toy with me,
their foam crested tops that hit me in the face
but refuse, for now, to drown me,
refuse to take me to a place where the quiet
seekers dwell, those that have finally
silenced the nagging sheer doubt live,
those crested waves will drag me down
with white pulsed fingers
and when it does,
don’t be surprised if you open the door
to me and I ask for help
and forgiveness
in a world that spits on such actions.
I like the shadows,
I find the solitude it offers to be at times
a comfort
from the glare of the sun that burns away
at the fog that envelops and creeps
stealthy into the lungs and grips the throat
with an icy fingerless grip…
I like the shadows
for from there I can whisper anarchy,
I can speak softly the words of revolution
and in my head these words make sense
the hint of paragraphs and passages yet to come…
the shadows hold the key to the stories
The Philadelphian Liberty Bell rang out silently
that the British are coming,
not in order to subdue or to raise terror
and burn down the White House, to smoke
out the tender uprising,
what would be the point when if I had lived
through such times I would have been in Boston
saving the tea but pointing out that coffee
would have been more of a statement
of future intent,
no
the bell rang out for a freedom of my own making
and I allowed my friend, my Philadelphia counsel
We spin through history
barely scraping the sides with our bitten,
skin wrecked
fingernails, barely clinging on to the future
and never once allowing
ourselves to make more than the simplest
footprint into the course, dusty sand that Time
plays in.
Yet I briefly touched Time once
as we all should, and as St. Agnes stood
motionless
I carefully traced the ripple of the destruction
running down her spine, the tsunami like waves
that Time and the Fat Man with his cigar
I am always in therapy,
the trouble is I am my own private physician
who prescribes too much medication
in the form of dropped words, social
exclusion and my own valueless fears
for which cannot be bought
for they have become too priceless.
The University taught me to analyse
the words of others and when I read them now
I wonder how much sub-text goes on
between the sheets, and then I pour scorn
like a never ending jug of milk
from the near sucked off teat
Take your beauty away,
for I cannot bear the thought of enslavement
in your hands let alone the loving
smile you show me, a mortal man.
A man of weakness, of flaws and frailties
all bound up in the heart of a selfish tyrant
who wishes that she was free to sample
a world in which the Gods despise
and in which this slave is bound by misfortune
and terror.
Stupid, forever cursing the insanity
of choice, the meanest thimble protecting
the pricking of the set out time
The sleeping Welsh town once rose like Olympus
in stature, the air that came off the Irish Sea
pure and blessed
and whilst the salt combination of a world’s ocean
rocked against its brick stone valley girthed
and holiday hiding hole for many a child
from the docks of Liverpool
and the might of the Midlands’ industry,
Olympus now lays dormant.
Or so it appears as you scratch the surface of the giant,
its splendour not sleeping,
just neglected by those whose tastes have changed
The digital clock doesn’t quite have the effect
when displacing time
as the oaken panel Grandfather clock
with gears and old fashioned Victorian
ethics that should have died at the same time
as the grieving widow…
tick, tick, tick,
all is silent elsewhere but for the slow build
up of pressure and for the briefest possible moment
the world continues spinning through the void
but then at twelve twenty and thirteen seconds
somewhere in the darkness a sun breathes
its last and goes out with the switch a light
The bumblebees danced their way
through the semi-alien landscape
of a town far from the pollen collecting
sites near their own loving hive and wondered
aloud in their own dramatic buzz-like,
black and yellow single stripe fashion
just how they had gotten so far-flung
in their quest.
There was no predator wasp of Time
to serve and yet Time still had mastery over their
flight path through the city streets
and in the male, Time preyed heavily,
Time had lost its charm
and a younger bee noticed
The caravan had looked as though
it had seen better times, possibly after the end of
World War Two and may have indeed been used
for target practice by some lonely, bored,
over fifty year old look out
on the Kent countryside
weary of the night ahead but too concerned
for the welfare of the desperate fox stalking the half
blind mole rooting
through the roots and undergrowth
to take a shot at the flash of red
and earn a couple of shillings
from a grateful farmer