.
..As you recount the image
of a thousand cinematic battles
and deep in water trench wait,
behind you
high above unknown gardens
rockets explode in the bold still sky,
the whizz bangs, whoops promoted
through the ranks
as other former angels die
with a bang, and dirty faces
from the powder that took their lives,
no time to scream, yell
out a warning, just a whispered
time’s up blink as they say good
bye to their mother, and all the while
behind first floor glass
Another zombie knocked on the door
in the early evening October
glow supplied
by moonlight and red rouged faces,
dipping into their mother’s
make-up bag
and the drool of fake blood
that gets wiped on the ghost’s
off-white bedroom sheet
because the taste of chocolate
isn’t as nice when your plastic Dracula
chops get in the way
of chewing and smiling stuffed face
dripping…
…expectation;
zombie, ghost and ghoulie,
growling wolf, a mistaken ballerina
swearing and threatening robbery
with violence, as only
He went hunting for squirrels
on a cold October day.
I remember my time
in Pittsburgh being one
in which I sat playing cards
till four in the morning,
the fine whisky
slowly adding to the occasion
of friendship, far removed
from the man with the gun
in his hand
and hate seeping out of his porous heart.
The incline railway overlooking
all of creation, the once former
Steeler’s ground lost
to history it seemed,
but below, stewing in his bile soup
It does not mean the end,
there is, after all,
more to life than
suddenly being quiet, reflect
on your thoughts if you must
but don’t let that full stop
dictate to you
the point of closer detail,
of thinking,
sweet consideration,
and then talk, shout, scream,
such vile words, such tempting
phrases and ponder a while
my friend, upon the point of
the end of the sentence,
don’t let a full stop
be the place where you
reside for the rest
So close
that I could drown
in The Tamar in the attempt
in trying to reach
a buried deep home…
Too close the brightness of the day
that started out by hanging
on my doorstep
as the four in the morning Blues
threatened to send my over
active mind
into the screaming landscape
of anxiety filled possession.
The cold of autumn
on the empty dance floor of Lime Street
is briefly ignited by the warm
good morning greeting to stony Ken,
Every Traffic -light has a Grand Prix start
For Boy racers in their testosterone fuelled cars
Every pedestrian is legitimate target to mow down
Score extra points for cyclists, dogs, and older people to
Students taking selfies glued to their mobile phones
Don’t hear you coming at them from front or behind
If I miss them, I’ll get them next time
Blood on asphalt Mad Max on the Redline
Auto erotic Car Crash TV
Vanishing point, Two lane Blacktop
John Carpenter’s Christine
Thelma and Louise drive over the precipice
It is the long day before,
the cruel winter of bare tree thought
has plagued me since
the start of September’s fallen
and I find my reasoning
has deserted me, the fear
of your constant rejection
moulding me into the man I am.
The soulless winter
in my life, you
couldn’t touch the spring in which
you rallied against,
you ignored me,
I found it was easier
to live without you
and I told you such
when my old Queen died.
Somehow, I managed
to take a picture
of horses snorting,
their hot breath turning into steam
as they charged down the field
and towards my camera lens,
the unblinking, the hot hoof beat
that I felt underneath,
locomotive driven, terrifying
and beautiful, an attack
on the front, be still, measured
I implored myself, hold the reins
of the camera tightly, snap
shot of a time
when I went racing with James.
Ian D. Hall 2018
I never thought
that I could ever be charged
with the crime
of being an Ol’ white man.
Despite having never once
seen myself as but
an ally, a willing supporter
and cheerleader of feminism,
an enthusiast of different cultures
and romantic scholar of other’s values
a devotee of equalism…
somehow,
I am just an Ol’ white dude
who cares nothing
for anything;
I wonder what my life was for
in such moments,
I stood for all,
now, none stand with me.
The deleted scenes
hidden away, far
in the recess
of the compartment marked
as pain, of abuse, of the neglectful reel
of shame, red-faced and embarrassment
caused, we skip over those moments
and turn our heads when
the obituary notice
at the end of the night of Oscar
winning performances
is revealed; the deleted scenes
erased, erased
erased,
but never on every machine
that recorded the moment…
somewhere your deleted scene
is still being viewed.
Ian D. Hall 2018