Birmingham, damp, soaking wet
And I feel the
Rain
Teem and rinsing at
My every pore
But welcoming me back with open arms
In greeting to a prodigal son
As I leave the bright modern station
Of New Street.
The autumn darkness shields me
Like an roughly made cloak and I remain invisible
To all who once played like I
In the Costermonger’s basement. The sound of an air guitar
Straining at the leash as the crash of a new beat
Hit our 14 year old minds.
I thought I’d get a job in Switzerland
waiting tables, taking orders and
existing in a hole the Swiss permit,
but Rousseau must not have had it writ.
I’d sit and watch the water of the earth
spring forth and counter this employment dearth.
Yet water on its own cannot contain
the evolution of this reductive train
of thought: avoiding England’s harm
by overreaching Empire’s furthest arm.
It’s taken 24 hours to sink in,
as would a swimmer, with his goggles perched
on plugged nose, expect the dive. Goosebumped skin –
the tell-tale silhouette of the millstone.
The bard is lost to us. Only thinking
of him on a train, or in a field.
There’s no buoyancy in this afterthought:
Sean can get the drinks in (he’s been waiting)
and there’s so many fish still to be caught.
Somewhere far off, a stranger departed
before the last train home. I’ll spend some time
browsing on the District and Circle line.
I’ll find my place (it’s marked) where sunners lay
and sleep in moss while Seamus speeds away.
I hold you in my arms, I cradle you like a proud dad handing out cigars
As I breathe in the cold talons of winter that approaches
The Wiltshire town. Overhead twinkling streetlights outshine the unseen stars
And the vermin of life, rats, bacteria and cockroaches
Of which I try to keep you away from.
I hear a sound of people gathering round, tears in their
Eyes. let the public come near, let the ghoulish come
And see what becomes when the dream of life turns to nightmare.
They took your life
Dearest Mother, though I took my brother’s place at the front of the line,
I became him, I took his name
To spare the family honour, I must admit I am scared
Of being in this insane and absurd battlefield game.
In my wisdom, I believed the words they said
When for home by Christmas I would be by your side
Now as mustard gas shines like some evil suitor dishing out charming lies
Across No Man’s Land
I feel for those women who will lose husbands, sons, lovers tonight
The sound of cheap laughter flowed across the bar of Harry’s Hula Hut.
The half-suppressed sneers, hilarity and piss taking at the English
Lad who said he could earn one of the shirts on the wall,
Only resolved my focus further to own the shirt that had entranced me
Since I first step foot in the door with Geoff and Carlos as they fought back
The crowds in search of the women they had chatted up
Earlier in the day.
I had spent my afternoon taking it easy, a visit to the Marvel Offices,
I tucked Kerouac into my back pocket, a set of pouches stitched together in jeans that already
Held thirty dollars in loose change, a bus ticket that was never checked
By the young black driver who just gave me a smile as he wished
Me a good evening and was amused when I answered back with an English accent.
A chocolate bar, half eaten, evidence of the journey I had taken to find you.
Kerouac groaned as he span in his grave to see his work becoming
Lost in the back of my trousers.
I always looked north, a force of habit I allowed myself
As I took shelter from the rain and driving incessant wind that hung over
The valley and clung like a finely woven tight spider’s web around my throat on the hill.
I never went to the other side of the town and looked south
Even though my oldest friend lived in that direction.
My heart was beyond the boundary of the city, a village in all but name
As the Cathedral grew even out of the densest mist coming off the rivers.
Jennifer missed her old life so much, that she decided
To go back home just once more.
She felt the twin emotions of clamour of excitement and regret flutter up
Like a trapped butterfly released from a keeper’s net
To enjoy the remains of a beautiful summer’s day.
She had stayed away, too frightened and too ashamed
Of her mistake, so small yet so blown up
Out of proportion that she was made to feel
Disgraced and bitter for a system that
Had let her be run out of town.
For me it’s a middle-aged death
Not become a bore, sore
At my own time and choosing death
At my books and music, gathering weird looks
At the end of the chapter, death
When I get into my mid-sixties
And before the winter of life starts
Keep me from vengeful doctors
Plotting to keep me alive and expecting thanks
In way of tax
For the their benefit
Save me from the worry of children
Leaving children leaving children
At my ever frail thoughts