I want to hold your hand today,
you made me far too independent
and I am so far away, a life time
perhaps, a sense of searching for identity
urging me on to be something more than
a boy of Cornwall and a son of the Midlands,
somewhere in between, always torn
between the two and with the honour
of both branded, indelibly tattooed,
deep into my sometimes angry,
always passionate heart.
As you wait at home for news
from the calling of the foundry,
It is funny how people will get offended
by the use of language, a single swear word
than by the actions of the state,
of the lies told and spread by Government,
that someone can be upset by the use
of God to drive a point
rather than a church that defends
the most indefensible;
I am no lover of certain words,
some, despite appearances, are useful,
they are the memories of truth
that we cannot bring ourselves to utter,
be proud in the use of them,
I was born with a pre existing condition,
passed down genetically and without selective behaviour,
I was born, hopefully like you,
with this specific snag
in my blood, in my genes,
not to want, to enjoy, to take any satisfaction
from pissing people off, to let them get on with life
and should they fall ill,
then not to be too blunt,
to not be a dick and hope that society cares enough
about all those born, to see them, to care for them,
to understand that the unseen ailment,
A chance of fresh air,
just for a while to escape the house
to soak in the residue
of life, this point of it all,
to sit and gaze up at an old god
and thank him for dancing
with the moon.
The moon, I used to fear her,
hanging there like an afterthought,
blood soaked in my dreams,
far too many nights watching
Hammer House of Horror when I was small boy,
the Saturday night ritual
I was allowed wonderfully to explore
from such a young age,
I imagine there will be no family there
at Ted’s graveside today,
as a single crow falls silent in respect
in Anfield Cemetery
the last of his line,
the last remaining soul.
I first encountered Ted some years earlier,
a man of smiles and intrigue
but now his days were spent
keeping warm in the taxi café
off Lime Street Station and drinking tea,
reading the paper
and occasionally telling a story
of his life…
now consigned to fading memory,
both he and the café alike.
I am in awe of you,
though you can only tell
by my voice
when I congratulate you
on your performance;
a woman of absolutes
and fingers on keyboards
playing as if guided by a rock
and roll angel,
you are magnificent.
I watch you burn the keys,
so nimble, so impressive,
I have to hold my breath as you play
and create images
that I could never offer
to a world,
though blind, you are not unsighted
as in my paused breathing,
Many complex reasons:
Yet one simple truth,
you
do
not
care,
blinded by a singular hate,
you believe what is written
above the Polish camp,
that work, the noble cause
sets you free, robotic, automaton,
death squad in suits not uniforms,
you do not care,
let me repeat,
you do not give a singular flying fuck
for those you deem
surplus
to your vision of one percent ownership,
you do not care about the old
nestling in filth and squalor,
No, sorry,
can you prove you are a politician?
I know you say you are,
but you look too well.
I realise that as we are sat here discussing your future
you might be concerned that you
are worried about your benefits,
that being struck off the list
to be eligible for a huge salary, expenses,
wined and dined, your opinion sought,
a lucrative second job perhaps,
not quite what you said at our last meeting,
you didn’t declare that outside interest
did you,
It is like a horror film franchise,
Ester of The Shires, The Crimes of Ester,
The prolonged Career of Ester,
Ester’s Revenge, The (Hopeful) Political Death of Ester,
The Rising of Ester, Ester Strikes Back,
Ester…Ester…Ester 8, 9.10…
how the fuck
does she stay in contention,
how does she get parachuted in
to a position of responsibility,
to whom does she appeal,
the blue rinse, the deniers of compassion,
oh dear Ester, I thought we had seen
the very last of you, yet there you are, scuttling
Am I scared
of the prospect of World War Three
breaking out
in my lifetime, of course I am,
it is even more worrying
when my children
have not had the chance to even be grown up,
take the first plunge into the lie we call existence,
servitude, being told to pay to be scared,
to feel insignificant
when placed next to the well oiled machine,
the wreck and the reckless of something
that was extraordinary, watch them grow
sick in old age as they once mourned