5 Feb 2019

Late heavy bombardment

All it takes is a punch to the chest
A face squeezed into disdain
A cold shoulder
A blank stare

All it takes is a clever remark
A dripping sound on the windowsill
A grey Monday or blue Wednesday
A spilled cup of coffee
The presence of the foolish

Miniscule factors
Non-events of the everyday
All it takes to get here
To push blue ink
Or Black charcoal
Or Red blood cells into the grain of
The paper
To forget to breathe

And they grow
Like an avalanche of trifling insecurities
Until the building
The street
The city enfolds and crushes

Only the purest choices remain
Relinquish yourself
Or fight your way up and toward
Some glimmer of remaining hope

All it takes is a silent knife
Or the wrong song
For the least of them to win the day
Your surface may show the scars
But meanwhile the awareness of
Will keep you orbiting until the time comes
To rest and review and to
Accept that all the hits did not stop you
From reaching the end in one piece.

14 Dec 2018

Last of the Rock n Rollers

Man, he used to live a life
Known all over but still a
Mystery to them all

You could see his face in the
Corner of every bar
At every party
Even the ones he wasn’t invited to

Leather on
Holding court with
The select few
Straight bourbon rocks
All the clich├ęs at once
Like a goddamn fireball in the snow

He would duck in and out
And reappear elsewhere at the
11th hour

Too late for others
The exact right time for him
And they all followed his lead

Drums would sound
Drinks flowed once more
And morning after morning
Sunlight shone on his face which
Bar whisky red-eye
Remained unblemished

When you spoke to him you could
Sense he was mortal
Just like you and me
So with every raging night another piece
Of his soul would diminish
Gone forever

They would take it all
And give nothing back
But the booze fixed all that
And the bar lights and the women

Each morning frost
Washing his face clean
Of everything before

And then
Like all of them
He began to retreat into logic and
Into real life
Reading better books
The right books
With the screaming nights weakening
The evening became his home

In the mirror
He would consider himself for longer
Eyes looking back to scrutinise

As with the desperate and lost
Most of whom given time
Find their way eventually to religion
Steadily he began to fit in and
Steadily he began to die

At last even the sacred music began to fade
Until it was no more than a whisper in his ear
A memory of friends long gone
And nothing more than

22 Nov 2018

Too good, too sober too clean

The grey hairs in my amateur beard
Have finally outnumbered the black
It looks a complete mess
Not one thing or the
Other (I will shave it off tonight)

But thank god for these aches and pains
And lack of remaining melanin
Thank the deviant pagan gods
For 48 hour hangovers
For stigmatism and a delicate stomach

Because I look around me now
At the young people
Of which I am no longer one
And this I only recently acknowledged with any grace

They are turned on not
In the traditional sense
Tuned in not
In the classical manner

And my god do they all lack character
What has happened to our last hope  
When they all know
Exactly what line to follow
What job to get
How to get it
Exactly their direction home
What to wear how to eat
Who not to fuck

Adorned in the correct clothes
As though they fell out of their mothers like that
Blinkers on to any dangerous asides

How do you ever reach functioning adulthood
Without first joyfully running the gauntlet
Of a semi-professional degenerate?