By voting in or out
Britain could still be in the Eurovision
Song Contest, by voting out
or in, there might still
be an arsehole in Number 10, by voting
in or out, you could find
another arse waiting in the wings,
(or you might not), by
voting out, voting in
or even spoiling your paper,
one set of people will be happy,
(we didn’t vote for that)
and another will be spitting rags
(we didn’t vote for that either…did we?),
by voting in or out or even picking the fluff
I built a moat,
hammered down a sign, hand-written
biting scrawl, the legend “Ere Be Monsters”
screams at passers by
and just in case they think
of asking for the draw bridge
to be lowered, to come
inside and visit the land of the self siege,
they first have to negotiate the mine field,
to cover their noses from the smell
of plague that I pump into the air
as a warning, to cross their souls
and brace themselves for the sight
of scythes being sharpened
How is it there are not more accidents
upon Britain’s high streets
as we have found a way to truly
be at one, not with the universe,
but with a small selfish screen
which demands we lower our heads in silent
prayer and ignore
the passing footsteps of the careworn
and the sarcastic, that we must
bump into those surrounding us
and argue that they should
look out for our shadow dangling off us,
desperate to get away and seek
out other sun driven silhouettes
in humanity’s gloom;
I would love to know what made
each city burn so bright
and every town, village and enclave
burst with energy, the pulse,
is it manufactured, brought into existence
by the heartbeat of those
whose muscle desires it most;
desire in ache, desire in conquest,
the craving to be free
but pulled in one direction
to be a fragment of the whole…
I see the whole and kiss its pulse,
I hear the trumpet blown and the
car horn bluster with discontent,
the ravage of the road
I don’t want to see a nation
I love tear itself apart in some
circus game, where the acrobats tumble
and where the ringmaster is but an illusion
to the real owner and stand by creators of the game,
the clowns waiting for their time
in the sun, the hideous ghoulish and rabid
fiends whose smile is painted on with glee
and self loathing despair. I hate clowns,
I hate clowns, they’re creepy fuckers
and they stick in the mind in anarchy
and whilst revolution and change is good for the soul,
There’s a taste of rubble in the air,
of the brick dust that an old house
in decline, stooping towards memoriam
and grave side recollections, of times when
the happiness and tired old peculiar
went hand in hand, that the walls become sensitive
to the slightest knock and the whisper of the gradual
and inevitable to come; it is in that taste of rubble,
of brick dust, hanging wires and a couch past its best
but hugged in the dead of night when sleep
evades the would be dreamer,
The iron gates provided the back drop
to the sound of the saxophone
exploring its way up the hill towards
the rampant hostages of wine, women
and unlikely song birds hanging
in the explosion of Tuesday night
football and angry flash
points of possible danger and caress
driven anxiety; the odd yellow card
and scowl as the touch of thigh
through opaque stockings
was to some a thrill they were willing to chase
in the darkness of self deluded heroics.
The night air was blissful as the saxophone
It was never something new, something
that came out of the blue,
I was always an irrelevance to you;
I saw it in your eyes and felt it
strangle me when you would
go out of your way to hold
a smile for me despite knowing
full well you truly despised me.
It was in your handshake,
the “What’s your name again”,
you found such a laugh on that cold
winter’s night in church
and the silent accusations looking down
from self-imposed high and mighty position
I shouldn’t see the type of film where anger dwells,
where fury starts to rise in my guts and demands stoking,
where if left unchecked fire burns
and nettle stings my eyes and makes them
burn in their own private nasty Hell, no sanctuary,
no quarter given, no refuge, no safe haven;
instead all I end up thinking about is you
and how I was not able to save you,
how I let you down as you lay
on the cold Salisbury pavement,
the sound of an ambulance drawing near
The sound of Carol King’s Tapestry
fills the blue sweet room
and whilst I tell you that I am falling
asleep, that my eyes are feeling
the smarting torture of days
and the end of times,
you sit, cross-legged, but in readiness
for a career in psychotherapy on my
gnawed through and tender seat
and smile, the analyst is in, the twinge
of saying too much and being judged
in rocking horse silence… I ache
too much and I feel like I am being eaten,