There is a hint of madness in your eyes,

sallow, stinking of grievances mislaid;

a Kurt Cobain look but with none of the richness

or depth of consequence, a folly driven by a fool’s errand,

the unravelled strand of deserted rope decaying on the hot,

blistering jetty, no sign of a ship to save this sinking soul.

 

This madness, the musical abuse in which you crave

has lost its meaning

in your ears and all you hear now is the sound

of a ticking bomb, the explosion driven between the tick and the tock

as you slowly understand that you cannot have your way with me.

 

I will not let you take me down the same path, for mine

is a madness of reason, the knife, nor pill, nor shotgun

to the heart is as valuable to me as seeing your guts wretch

as I ignore your ever screaming pleas. Your pleas, fall on the deaf ears

of one who has ground out the canal and lets your agony

drive past, overhead, underground, through tunnels breached..,

for who truly lets the empty can whisper platitudes when they can

stamp on it, crush it slowly,

and throw it out for recycling on a wet Friday Morning, the trail of bean

juice mixing with the sound of empty, fat filled promises.

 

Your folly does you credit, you believe your own hype

and yet arrogance has doubled its load upon you

for that, you have my pity,

if

not my friendship.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.