The crumbling well worn path has weeds
and cracks strewn through its disjointed route
and I find it difficult not to fall in, to step away from
the gaping, yawning holes and the urge
to attempt to smell the ugly flowers, attractive in
their resilience and keeping away,
shyly and with purpose from the roses that bloom
on the safe and preserved verges.
The path has not always been friendly,
on some occasions I have strayed too close
to the middle, where the traffic, the bikes, the skateboards,
Perhaps in the end
you have to wonder whether it was all worthwhile,
that perhaps somewhere the life you have
is not just the only one
you will ever see, but when the rewind
button is pressed by eternity’s clumsy fingers,
when it is paused by a calculating and obnoxious mind,
that the mistakes come flooding back
and the day slips into the crowded desire
to shoot the barking dog once and for all…
that sitting in the light is only a temporary respite,
To death of such things
I salute you.
I raise my glass high and see the chink
in its armour sparkle with the mystery of
pleasant false respect and in yours,
held down low, sneering in its deceived imprisonment,
the thumb print gripping tighter,
it growls like a hungry tiger, fur mottled and damp
with pain, your glass remains a silent predator.
I do not fear you,
however under your nightmare armour
you fear me,
why would you have not taken me yet,
A day out in Stratford,
the November day brutally sunny,
the thin air of satisfaction multiplied
and the low down Sun blinding the eyes
and warming the soul
as fish and chips are eaten in Rio open air
and the taste of Greasepaint and the ghost
of Hamlet fills the Time.
I imagine the small boy of eight,
the day trip taken from Moor Street
Station past the furthest reaches
of Acocks Green and my grandfather’s garage
with spinning top drivers and the forgotten clippie girl
Midnight calls and the terror begins,
the creeping agony of the task ahead,
to battle the Witch Queen
as she raps on the door, testing for your weakness
and the sliver of black octopus tentacles
reaches in like rubber smoke
to throttle your resolve.
Coral Mallor, an unearthly name,
strikes fear into all known men
and even the women that she professes to love
cross themselves in her company
and the Devil, shining red and with muscular sword
in hand looks at his companion and dreads
I can have the most beautiful day,
I can find birds that sing in time
with the music that sleeps
inside my head
and I can find the soprano
whose heart beat resembles a muse
in which to write such words of praise
and yet..
again and again I know that life is fleeting,
that the bird of super thunder,
of golden reflection is the heaven
and whose joy is abundant…
makes me sad, brings a tear of damnation
scurrying down my cheek
and to whom, sends me hurtling towards
When bandages and plasters,
the tourniquet and the dressing
are used by both genders to stop
everything from a nicked finger
paper cut to full blown emergency
amputation, the blood that comes out,
that seeps, dribbles and flows,
perhaps gushes is funnily enough
the same in both men and women
and the intersexed,
so why are tampons considered
a luxury…
An item that belongs to one,
too many, should not find itself
adding to the coffers at Westminster,
unless of course they are used by the C word
The gas man cometh,
steely eyed and no laughter
in their ice cold veins
but a sense of duty abounds
to stop the whiff of pissing gas
blowing us to Kingdom come.
The new cooker gets installed,
not a monumental day in the life of all,
but the safety of normality is ensured
as being able to grill bacon,
which they say too much meat will murder you,
and ignite the hob
without having to use a faltering Bryant and May,
brings saliva rushing to the lips
The kiss from the long since dead
is not as hard to wipe away
as the one supplied by the Judas,
the one on the cheek, the one
that eats away like caustic soda
eating through the skin
until it tears at the soul…
the kiss from the long since dead,
whilst full of mental scaring,
is nonetheless acceptable
as the dead can remain dead…
unless you decide to resurrect them.
The kiss from the long since dead
can be left to rot upon the memory of the lips
In a different light,
I would set fire to the Angels
and I would watch them burn
and fall from their supposed grace
passing judgement in the Heavens,
their wings singed and blackening
as they recanted their sins upon the Earth;
for the Angels are only devils in disguise
and they fear being found out.
I would set them ablaze and like particles of
Mushroom Cloud dust they would soon
fall to Earth, silent, dazed and choking
on their own arrogance…