Every time, not just occasionally, but
every time I hear of a senseless death
at the hands of a lunatic,
the ones who believe they are
an avenging angel of death, of retribution,
of dark black clad mindfilled with hate
reckoning bathed in their own
self righteous haze,
I think of you.
It is bad enough you haunt my dreams
that I dare not sleep at times
because I know you will
come to me like a lover scorned,
Poe like finger shaking as the rotted corpse
…and all they wanted to do was kiss,
dance the night
away in some safe, secluded spot
and forget the world, forget the hate
and the day…
and the day
that should have driven by joy,
by finding a love, a sensual kiss
with someone so beautiful
instead turns red, turns violent
and where desire once filled the hall,
where attraction and solidarity
filled the air,
bullets now fly and tears, the sense of insanity
reigns in bitterness and recriminations
and the tears rue the day that Government decreed
At Bristol Temple Meads Station,
a place I had known well
since the days of travelling, sideswiped
by having my soul
trapped between south and middle of the road
middle of decisions of going back and forth
on rails, on tracks, keeping on track…
I set out to conquer a new world
with the help of Michael Palin standing
directly behind me as the August
sun sapped my strength.
My father, the man who got me into
the beautiful game along with a man
James rolled his eyes inside the Fly
as we pulled down our glasses,
just a notch, enough to make the sentence
that passed round the table
to loud cheers
as football fans took
great delight in the opening goal,
to live and breathe in the land of innuendo.
The girl in ginger had long passed
off to another pub and we were left,
bereft upon the sea of groovy insinuation
and tied to the mundane,
until James, his wonderful
malapropisms and habit of ordering rum
I often thought about running away from home
when I was a child,
not because I was unhappy or ill treated,
neglected or even abused
by those charged with caring for me,
but simply due to the map of the world
that graced the wall of my bedroom,
surrounded by torn out pictures
of Steve Heighway, Johan Cruyff,
Colin Bell on football styled 1978
World Cup designed wall paper
that was all the rage in Birmingham
during Argentina’s rise to prominence.
The map became torn and scuffed
Yes, there is a monster in you,
I can see it in your left eye,
its claws sharp, beckoning, dangerous
and demented as its scratches
along the iris, leaving lines that seep
out the pale red of humanity
that it affords you, that the monster,
cunning and deceitful allows you too feel.
I see the monster and hear it growl and laugh,
I experience suffering
as I try my damndest to pull away
from the stare, the fixated point of lascivious
longing that comes with natural ardour.
The real job,
the well turned phrase
of the unimaginative,
of the angry dull
and the unoriginal irate,
why don’t you get a real job…
instead of…
cause pulling numbers out of thin air,
of chairing a committee looking
into the habits of weasels,
or driving a lorry with firmly entrenched
political views is any more a real job
than performing on stage
with the prospect of thunderous applause…
I presume the fuming featureless words
are always said for effect,
Tired…
I never used to get like this.
I could happily go for weeks
and months on just
a couple of hours sleep a day,
especially if it kept the nightmares
at bay and the tightness in my chest
regulated, not so much at ease
but at least not aggravated
by missing dawn and dusk.
Tired…
of it all at times
and Time is winning, the curse
of mortality is that it tires you out.
Tired, bones crushing under the weight
and so little time…
Mine looked odd,
completely out of place.
Being kind you might have said unique,
the teacher called it a one off
and said it was in the nature
of a piece of work that was mine,
that it resembled me
not exceptional or exclusive
but something quite…
rare, unusual…go on I thought
daring the words out loud,
call me peculiar, after all my
Battenberg Angel was certainly that
in amongst the dazzling white fairies
constructed by the other members
of my class just before Christmas 1981.
Hold on to any dream you have,
even if what you carry it in
is corroded, oxidised and tarnished
beyond recognition
for even rusty buckets
held at a peculiar angle
can still carry water.
It might not be clean,
it perhaps won’t be seen as glimmering
or potent or even full,
the handle on its last hinge,
but the bucket does not know this,
all it feels is that in a small,
underlying physical way
that it is helping to dampen