We haven’t spoken for a while,

the telephone more like an instrument

of sarcasm in your hands and the last time

I heard from you was for the voice of introspection

to try and take control of a person’s thoughts

and life that wasn’t yours to observe upon;

for the running commentary via the modern way

of stripping flesh from bone but with the crocodile

concern and false eye tear that suited your demeanour

as you laid into me, despite me having been

your only friend for a while and one who never

told you what to think.

 

We haven’t talked in years, a decade or more,

the last time we did, your accusing stare down the phone

from another country beyond England

but with an accent of the Tamar so thick

that your words enraged me as I realised you hadn’t

actually cared one jot about blood since the day

I was born and I had nothing in common

with the name that you bore…

in that time I have remembered more about

my childhood and that accusing, vice like stare

you so love to hand down with suspicion

and post Victorian glamour, is as false as the love

you once professed.

 

We haven’t spoken in weeks, yet last night

as I drifted off in search of a goodnight kiss

from Morpheus and the pressure of words

tied deeply up in my constant thoughts

of you, I dreamed you were still alive,

I dreamed that you were still with us

and whilst you are not dead, no worm

crawling from your skin in search of respite

from gorging on your soul,

the black beetle  with bulging belly

and the pregnant spider of your lies

has certainly sat comfortably in your mind

and yet I want to talk to you, to ask why,

why did you allow it take root?

 

We haven’t spoken for an hour

but that is only because you are sleeping

but as your rest your bones

from the day and I take refuge in the darkness

of the night, I am with you battling giants,

writing songs and hearing you sing gently,

an hour is nothing when the day

is not filled with sarcasm, blood like hatred

and the turning of a person’s mind from

curious to down-right diseased…

An hour is alright when stacked up

against the persistence of Time.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015