Ninety-six hours I’m away from your smile.
A delicate touch displayed on an unspoiled face,
I count down the hours, fingers marking time
and try to keep myself amused
through this horrendous trial.
Each week we go through the same ritual dance,
a tear hidden behind a fond farewell.
A promise that whatever happens to us
we will call at the same hour, each separate day.
Wherever I am staying and wherever my thoughts dwell.
By Tuesday night I’m climbing the walls.
The multiple choice between Megadeth, Magnum, ‘Maiden or Metallica
T-shirts, crumpled to hell, beaten, seven shades of death
inside a second hand washing machine that dribbled
four star oil and council pop with regular ease
and threatened to catch fire whenever you weren’t looking,
locked horns with
the odd bit of your own valuable
spilled blood and redeemed soul,
imprinted forever, stained but unsullied and undefeated,
that always goes well with a great pair of jeans and trainers
that none of your well-meaning friends would be seen
dead in.
Not so long ago but half a life time to me,
a single snowflake would bring joy
to my innocent, eight year old eyes.
A snowdrift would have me jumping
feet in first to feel the suspense filled cold
travel up my body till my hair went limp with dampness
and only a warm bath and heated towel
would suffice to keep me from sneezing.
I would love the time
it gave me time to stay at home,
or play down the rec with school friends.
The sound of the Nordic God’s anger thunders in my ears
as Freya plays with seduction a song in which to entrap
My O.K. Internal Haze and give rise to the tricks of the mind.
The Nordic Gods play havoc with the landscape, the boundary
between my vision and the vast sea that was crossed by Freya in search
of someone to take notice of the gentle notes of joy, despair and anguish,
the dominant emotion of love for the guitar she wields with a shy smile.
Her weapon, simpler than the Ax favoured by more aggressive
The roses I always offered you were never meant to be red
but the prick of the dull knife against my skin stained
the delicate petals and clung tightly to the thorns in my side until
Gravity forced them loose and you watched them drop to the floor.
The roses made you feel alive, and yet the blade cut into me deeper
than any barbed carefully placed slash I could ever imagine presenting
and only sheer will stopping me from being a stain
more permanent than a drop of blood limply jumping from a thorn.
The wreck of a love lies unloved in my Mechanics bay,
The wheels, rimless, scuffed are at it’s best, its nicest feature.
The Mechanic sees nothing of value in this once sentimental creature.
A bygone relic who wishes it could express in any way,
What it was once capable of doing through its younger years,
Long rides in the country, a joy to move the gears into place.
Hear them grind perfectly in tune with its engine, the thrill of the chase,
Now stuck at the back of the workshop, brooding, dying, full of fears.
To our dear friend Sydney, an apology!
I once forgot the secrets and the magic you hold.
A million words on sociology,
A million words on history wanting to be re-told.
As first years you are a novelty…new,
Shining, fabled, to be only whispered in hallowed voice.
As second years, we think your time is through.
It is in third year, I regret we left you, a bad choice.
Now let the voice of a million books ring out
And throw off the dust jacket and let us dive in