I have never accepted populism,
it doesn’t sit right with me,
the urging of the crowd hollering,
cajoling each other to stand and be seen
to stand, to whoop and proclaim
to the highest authority, I cheered,
see me applaud, see me take down those
whose smiles are not as wide as mine,
see me ridicule them, see me being authorative,
see me go down the route of guided fascism
when my trained and rehearsed words
in the ears of those who I quite obviously fancy,
She told me she was O.K.
and all I could do was believe her.
I could see the gentle alarm in her eyes
as she moved in
to give me a hug, she told me she was alright,
that this was a small thing, a simple job
for the Doctor to take of, that my worries
for her were, obviously,
quite natural but nevertheless
one born out of close bonds
and soldering on,
such is her way, such is the love
that I have for her
I long for the leather underneath my backside again,
the long distance,
who cares where,
who knew when I would be back,
from moped speed
to the caress of a slight touch of velvet
underneath her painted shell like
heaving bottomless metal breast,
I miss the cool, the sweat,
the breeze cutting through my scarf,
my mouth covered in hijab of
Manchester City Blue
and the looks, disgruntled venom
of those behind steering wheels
and my two fingers sliding up
to meet their gaze…
I remember with absolute clarity
the moment you were born,
pacing outside like a father
from an old Pathe newsreel
or Ealing Comedy,
my life in black and white
as I chewed on nails,
too old fashioned to be
in the delivery suite,
was not the man’s place really.
I saw you very quickly, a blur,
a near painful remainder
that life can be cruel, fleeting, obstinate,
downright mean and spiteful,
as you were rushed past me
not breathing, blue,
you were leaving me destroyed.
She offered me a trip,
a walking holiday through
Yorkshire and Durham,
as it was before they re-arranged the map,
following desolate moorland, and dead feathered friends
whose life had been cut short, and water stout
and fast.
I attribute the offer as folly now,
for we were to stray not far from the river
towards its inevitable end as it lolled
into the North Sea somewhere round Redcar,
Hartlepool and Middleborough,
I should have known that she would lie
to me,
a holiday walking the river,
You used to put me on a train
departing New Street Station,
headlong through the day to Plymouth’s safe harbour.
I was safe
because I had you fighting my young battles with me,
and whilst I was not always appreciative
at the time, I never
forgot, I never allowed myself to fail
in your eyes and fought longer and harder
than I should have, just to never see
you disappointed in me.
It didn’t always work,
sometimes
I dishonoured your memory, sometimes I let you down
Illusion,
always sold as patriotism,
worse still when packaged
and stamped
by the Vicar’s daughter,
caught with her knickers down
and prepared to engage
in necrophilia
with the ghostly offspring of the grocer
and who is on the side
in thought
of a bitch whose mouth betrays
the evil in her heart;
this illusion we engage with
because it suits us, we keep just
on the side on respectability
because to sink further would betray
the fact that we like our two cars,
The trouble with political pygmies…
I wish it was the start of an expansive joke,
the dig in the ribs,
the head back laughing,
the sly smile from a circumspect, normally
vigilant lady caught off guard,
the barman and the best friend slapping
you on the back till your spine hurts
and becomes bruised by morning
but it is all worth it as the laughter
sees the room united in contempt
for the butt of the joke
and in solidarity
to the one who supplied the punch line.
Tomorrow
I will not find myself wallowing in nostalgia,
I will not give in to seeing a sunshine bloom
where a dying rose sags
and slowly fades
away,
losing colour, curled up and closing in on confusion
of why it is no longer loved;
for tomorrow I will not disappear in melancholy,
why would I,
when I can do it beautifully
today.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Four A.M. Tuesday morning,
not a time for the weary and dead
to be awake, a pregnant
pause
on the step outside my stone palace,
my brick inflicted mortuary
and a drag of my small but fast burning cigar,
the smoke burning my throat, but the taste,
the flavour at four A.M. is a delight,
it conjures up images of battles won and victory
taken for a test ride, one not covered in the manual,
for my notebooks don’t have such validation,
I am not meant to win, I am not the kind of person