To me, he was the original Man in Black,
not knowing
of Johnny Cash’s persona at that time,
and it still being a couple of years away before
I became truly aware of The Stranglers,
He was the Man in Black
who looked like a machine,
sleek, disturbing, powerful,
like a starving Panther
on the prowl,
circling the village,
and waiting, fur bristling in the wind,
patiently for the right moment to
attack.
Bryan and I, cousins of six and seven,
sat spellbound and watched him
You are the rabbit in my head,
the one that demands that Time
is always against me, that Time
is the ogre, the Fagin of the day, pinching
without being noticed and offering
the stolen seconds to
the procrastinator,
the bully boy side step
of borrowed minutes
in ragged top hat and
the pitbull of days,
snarling as it returns the wallet
full of I.O.U.s which
cannot be redeemed.
You are The Cheshire Cat
smiling at me as the Rabbit
taps his fob watch
It’s either this
or one of those embarrassing long messages
that gets thrown out to the world and might generate
a nod,
a look of bemusement,
a brief sigh
or even a single thumbs up,
proud and erect,
blue but well meaning,
blue but on its own;
it’s either this or worse.
It’s either this
or dark thoughts turn
on myself, they bite and snarl
and they infect, oh they infect
and turn poisonous pus towards
a final goal and I turn
It is the parasite
I fear
that gives you such a rust for life,
that yellow complexion
under the hollow, shell like eyes,
your youthful frame in which was adored
Goddess like,
Helen of Troy fought over breasts,
the sweet beautiful sparkle
in brown eye shadow hint
and ruby lips,
now plunged into darkness,
the lights removed
and those lips, once
so beautiful to think of kissing,
now dead, spore driven and infectious from
your rust for life
of giving in,
The blinding argumentative glare
of darkness rolls in
at around four in the morning
and it rolls
its tongue, it slavers
and slurs, it begs and it stains
with insult, it disdains and pours
scorn on the eyes, as the narrow focus
of mock slit readiness
is installed
like a sergeant on parade
who first gets a sense of deviant
gratification at the prospect of pissing
down someone’s ear, of making them squirm
for having the audacity of sleeping till four
in the morning when they should
The trouble with insomnia
is that you get so damn tired of it.
To me though she is a constant lover,
she fills my day and gives more and more
and more and more….ad infinitum.
I can’t miss this dark and brooding mistress
as she never leaves me alone, she caresses
with care and whilst my head feels fevered,
boiling to the touch on some days,
she whispers down my ear,
that it will be alright, she will see
me through the rain, she will be with
I fell in love
with celluloid before I could spell it
and perhaps even before I knew
how much a grip it would hold
on my soul.
A cold night in Birmingham,
my cousin and I out with an aunt
decked out against the billowing
droplet air, glacial toes riding
against warm pins and needles
and her stockings catching fire
breath as they rode
up and down
over her knees
and the static sparking life
on the nylon covered seats.
I think I will stay here in the darkness,
the ragged curtain closed
across, the light dimmed down
to the sight of a naked flame
waiting patiently
in a gas filled room
and the sheets
pulled over my eyes,
for in the darkness there is no fear,
I am not afraid…
I am not afraid
to whisper to myself
because should I shout in the light,
should I raise my fist in anger,
or see the world
in its blazing fire, in its white heat of explosion
Smile at me Hemmingway, give me the truth
of your demise, show me why it hurt
and I will oblige you with my tale,
you at least will go down in history,
for you my bearded friend, had reasons,
I seem to have excuses to keep living.
These excuses, some by name, some by deed
are wrapped in shrouded mist, hidden
even from my own pathetic pill popped brain
and I weep for myself, quietly, alone,
in plain sight so that nobody
sees anything but the smile.
Overweight,
slightly
bursting apart at the seams,
though once as slim
as an overworked rake,
and slender enough to be lean
and hungry.
Still got hair,
lots of it cascading down my back,
though thin from being dyed
since I was seventeen,
going grey early, a subsequence
of the disease remaining undiagnosed,
refusing to have it cut,
I never liked short hair on myself,
I always looked like a thug
when I looked in the mirror
that hung askew in the draught-filled hall.