Blow back,
a sliver of space between us
as you push the ghost,
the whispered phantom
between my teeth
and I chew down upon its non-corporeal ridges
and mull over the deep intensity to come.
Blow back,
I see your eyes my love,
I see your eyes, blazing fury,
“You bring out the best in me you know”,
you tell me, erotically spilling secrets
that you kept hidden from the darkness;
now over tinsel toned music, the waft
of a Tori Amos song, you divulge them,
The day Himmler came to Stoke,
to express his views and pull up a chair
in the centre of Hanley town centre,
was a day in which we should remember,
February 2017, ferret like face, swivelling eyes,
and ideas in his head that would
make his party, modern S.S.
clap and cheer and spread their venom with cheer,
some demurely suggesting that whilst he is extreme
he is speaking their language, that they believe in him;
now,
I’d expect it of the crew cut little islander, one race
He sweated in the dock,
rings of perspiration clouding his thoughts,
the shuffle board, the made up noises
that dominated his former life
as a Foley Artist.
As the Judge concluded his sentence
He noted
it was only due
to the former Foley artists
unblemished life
and non criminal activity
that the judge
let him off
with a warning,
saying it was down to his
previous sound character.
Ian D. Hall 2017
I took my nostalgia out for a walk
late in the evening, too tired
to pick a fight with certain
sepia filled memories, too ground down
by hopeful idealism
to brawl or come to bloodied nosed
defeat with reminiscence
in which I loved you;
I am just slightly homesick,
but the trouble with having
lived
is that at times I forget
where I have
died
as well.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Her arm is raised, the red
T-shirt proclaiming her beliefs
and that is just the start
of what this flame
that burns bright
within Liverpool
shows to the world.
There is a sense of magnificence
that resides under the cool music exterior,
always at the heart to show her town
as being the best, the finest, the indomitable,
this Liverpool, this keeper of the Red Flag,
hums along before a note is etched out
and when the music starts
she, with honour, knows that is the best
We had Country Dancing at school,
an endurance test for boys
who wanted no part of the pre-pubescent
courtly game
and for the girls,
though I cannot speak with firm authority,
they wanted no part of being involved with
the boys, pre-testosterone, pre hormones,
before manners, before holding hands
was an aspiration, before the scent
of something more by being renowned
for your dancing moves got you the smile
from the girl in the corner
as she shyly sucked on her Panda Pops
There is no such thing as a beautiful morning,
the hours, the minutes just click by
between light and dark,
both coloured a charcoal grey,
and I grow tired of them both
being the same, even
when there is a handsome sun
riding the clouds like a lover gasping for air
or the moon desperately seeking solace,
away from prying eyes, shrinking
in its magnificence;
I find them both worthy of the same attention
and that is why
my blue eyes are closed.
Thank you for your Time,
it was precious to you and for a while
it consumed me, it overwhelmed
me that you should choose
to place each minute in my company;
thank you
for not allowing me to waste it,
as much as I could have done.
Ian D. Hall 2017
It would never be just one last trip.
I would promise myself
that once I uttered, with tears in my throat
catching my breath and stalling the moment
in my final
goodbyes to the stone faced French lady
on the waters, no sword in hand, a now skewed vision
of what it was to be part of a less free world
in her dead expressionless eyes,
a monkey on her back, damned dirty
politics playing games with a woman I love,
it still would never be goodbye.
I am acting as if there is no hurricane
enveloping me,
sweeping skywards,
battering me with all the forces of nature
that life can control.
I am a bystander
in my own self written pantomime,
the star of the show somebody
once uncast and negligent
in their approach to physical theatre
and they dodge the cream puff pie
with ease; that
is not how it was ever supposed to be.
The hurricane, the wind inside ferocious
and tedious lands on the stage, the principal boy