I’m sorry I’m late

as I didn’t want to attend the party

held in my honour, not in my state

of mind, not whilst I could howl

and give regard to the disease that burrows

between each disc and nerve shattering split

decision. I didn’t want to get up on stage

and sing karaoke hits, of meaningless lyrics

or sample a raised finger

buffet that means nothing to me,

for there are days when I cannot play

when I want to howl, scream, wail in the moonlight

and bury my face into the pillow, sniff the damp decay,

taste the illusion of sleep and ignore

the party invitation in my bureau.

 

I will howl for it is my divine inspired right.

 

I will howl because the Victorians told me not to,

that being a man meant stiff upper lip,

that meant shoulders back, heart strained tokenism out,

that men must suffer in silence

unless they wish to appear weak,

well enough,

well enough, I howl at midnight

as I do at four when the seagulls

make their merry dance

on the slate roof of the church

and as I listen to the waves crash in memory

on the Cornish shore, I howl because I will

not suppress the emotion that keeps me alive

at midnight, when I write of the day

of the ever increasing amount of medication

I take and the party

I ignore.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015