The curtains have begun to close
and through the dim light
afforded the scene, I see
in your eyes that it takes
a minute or two
for you to remember who I am,
the boy you raised in summer’s
warmth on an island and clotted cream
and to whom I revered as the fiercest
of storms, a one woman army
not dictated to by a single man,
in your eyes, it took a moment
and longer to remember me
and those eyes, frightened, lost
They called us nihilistic, we the latchkey
kids without supervision
as the post war post war children
dictated the every move
in the spirit of Victoria
and didn’t even leave us Jimmy Dean
to rebel alongside, we the latchkey
kids who were taught through the voice
of John Hurt, that sex could kill,
yet we held on to our latchkey
status in hope we could get someone home
to hold us for a while, we the latchkey
kids to whom Aids and the Crack
of dawn were but words to fear
As I sit,
down upon my leather chair
with a vacant look upon my face
after trying to live life to very max,
my wife will turn on the television
to watch a nature programme
or a compelling
feature on animals in the wild.
In my addled late night mind
and scowl driven perspective,
I swear I see a gorilla, an ape
or a chimpanzee hold up a sign
dripping in red ink
which reads,
Thanks for wasting evolution,
you bum.
I wish I had made more
of my unconventional life,
embraced more than I could
ever hope to have done,
kissed more than just the few
and the few extra more,
I wish I had not been at times
so damned English and polite
and told a few more people,
stuck up their own arse,
blinded by their own self importance
and governed by their right to believe
that their way is the only signposted route
to happiness,
to fuck off,
but I am so damned English
Would they still sound the same,
Sgt. Pepper’s lads,
no longer rehearsing near
the Band Stand on a Sunday morning,
the tuba and the clarinet
long since sold
to pay the debt incurred
whilst out of work from the Docks
and the stand against the tyrant witch,
but instead several members changed
and Sgt. Pepper long since dead.
They would carry his name
forth round Merseyside
and beyond, their own moustaches
as resplendent as their once noble leader
and two or three of the once young men
Be careful,
your bitch streak is showing
on your back,
it has been since you were neutered,
maimed and cut,
but then you were not that nice
before hand, so nothing really
has changed, you still are mean,
self centred and opinionated,
you still demand absolute loyalty
whilst not willing to give back
a semblance
of humanity,
of thought;
your bitch streak is showing
my once spayed friend,
but over time your cruelty
has become like sand,
one to thrown to the winds.
A policeman with a gun
patrolling the perimeter
of the Bull Ring
whilst I watch on,
a deep furrowed look
on my face
and the steam from the tea
wrestling with the open air
opens the memory
of seeing such a thing in New York.
Policed by consent, yet bullets on British streets,
a tag line for the latest West End Show,
doesn’t have the same ring as
Bullets over Broadway,
isn’t as deadly, as yet,
as bullets over Baghdad
and inside I feel fear,
A different dog,
not scary, not out to bite me,
panted as if the world had been spinning
at a million miles an hour
and he had been close
enough to chase his tail,
playful enough to grin
and make my sister’s home
the point of existence,
to put a smile on my face.
I had forgot just what a dog
could bring to your soul,
in praise
even when for the 50th time
they stick their nose
in your crotch
and leave you the slobbery ball,
Do you remember your old Cup Final days,
the only live match all season,
that you could watch on the television,
instead of wall to wall
blanket coverage,
the pull out special in the pages
of your newspaper of choice,
the pencil drawings
and the managers looking on
with pride having achieved mortality
for a few weeks and the songs
from the terraces as the day grew closer,
the interviews on the bus
and the poet, always one,
coming up with a piece that
It’s not you…
I look in the mirror
each time I feel this darkness
descend, I know it’s not you
but the mirror
sneers and lies to me,
my reflection
haunted, incapable of compassion,
scorns and sniggers
whilst all the time never letting me go,
the mirror it seems
is the victor
in this battle, it knows
how to bring me down,
cashing in on the fact
that I must stare into the abyss
again and again, to lose sight of the dead and the forgotten