You’re charming
because you have no idea
how much you are loved,
even now,
people look at your picture and remember
how much light you bought into their lives,
how respected
you were, and just how much you meant to them.
I know,
as only one
perhaps who has slept in your bed
when you were out all day,
placed there by considerate hands
as my life become mean and meaningless,
placed there
with kindness by hands
that knows much pain
I saw your words etched down in spray paint,
BOLD CAPITAL LETTERS, on a rising pavement
in St. Julian’s Bay as the sun would start to glisten
on the Valetta streets
and the isle of Comino would soon begin to heave
to the sound of vendors selling deckchairs and the sea would spoil
for a fight.
I saw your words and was puzzled by them, not by the words
for even the damaged can understand pain,
but by their placement, their specific duty in time by unknown hand
The teachers, the tutors,
the staff, the head, the unpaid support workers
all bend their head in silent prayer,
know that the God of school simply doesn’t care
about their plight
their lot in life,
their unsaid collective fear
that there will never be a person to emerge from any year
who will make the school stand out
give the badge and crest some polish and stout
who they can hold up as a shining example,
the one person for whom they can, with gushing pride, let new pupils sample
Oh dear God, we are back here again
on a Monday morning, the routine the same
put that fag out, get ready for gym
who’s kissing who, the chances of an A received so slim.
Dear God, the pupil’s friend
to whom unbreakable excuses you do send,
give us this day our daily bread
and let not the science teacher ruin our hard fought street cred,
let not our own personal bully, be it fellow pupil of sadistic teacher
see us today, let them not use us as a bottom feeding creature.
In all the adventures a man can have, surely
the last they can have in the modern age,
one devoid of dying in battle, sword carried high, noble steed
between his legs; the final brush with an opposition
much respected, perhaps in a way adored, the sweat and humidity
of the final swansong as the owner’s sword is impaled on himself
fully sheathed,
and the opposition goes on to conquer the next in line
like a domino pushed over, perhaps to enslave and terrify;
the last resting post of the humble shed, hiding away in the crevice afforded
We find ourselves with a very unique opportunity
to do the right thing but the British enjoyment of sticking
to the choice supposedly only offered between vanilla and raspberry
stops Mint Choc from ever being tasted on a Day in May afternoon.
It is a very British howl of complaint
that at the back of our minds, the thought that struggles to be free
and roam wild, perhaps by not going down the same old, same old
tired route and certainly keeping away from that foul
…And all you wanted more than life
was to say you had slept with Jim Morrison,
it didn’t matter where or how, you just wanted that infamy,
the fame and glory, the smile of pleasure
the ring of tears when the camera pointed at you dressed in black
at the poet’s graveside, grieving but with a story to tell…
lots of stories to tell and not all of them yours to share.
You brushed hair in a certain style before I came round
knocking on the red wooden door, the only thing that
We are gathered here today
to mourn the passing of yet another fallen hero
selfishly abandoned on Britain’s streets.
The carcass of the picked open raven coloured cover
that provides, at best mediocre shelter, but to whom so many
of us gathered round the pavement of our beloved city,
a natural habitat and environment for it to flourish
and thrive in,
are thankful to be seen with, to use as a weapon
as we hold it far too low and are able to pluck the eyes
The memories have come thick and fast in the past seven days.
A myriad of colours, sepia toned and black and white
finish, all once perfected
with the laminated breath of a forgotten set of gods winking
their approval and non conformist heads
and now shattered, a grieving taking place as I find
my once perfect clown breathing in the cold heart of
electrical impulses, the bed of nails too hard to ignore.
This Clown took me through every lined connection and sweet serenade of song
“Are you an Inspector, well are ya, you stink you do,
you nosy parking f**k”,
the woman of the Churchfield
gave out as verbal abuse and then in a flash of
inspiration added, “I bet you have a bus pass don’t ya.”
Her boyfriend joined in feeling brave at being able to use the word stink
without referring to his own life as it crumbled down around
his ankles, complicit in her actions as I was in my own.
You could hear her up the metal stairs, warmed by the sun on an April day,